Rooftop Bars in Sydney

SINK DRINKS

Summer is a time for rooftop drinking.

Hell, summer in Sydney is so fucking fabulous, that it becomes a time for day time drinking and night time sleeping – a mirror image of Winter’s owl-like living arrangements.

However, with Roof Bar out of commission until late 2010, we decided it was time to review this city’s other roof-top establishments and decide which will be the new, top floor point of call.

And as we’re nearing the end of our first year of professional stupidity, we hoisted the flag and hit the tenement tops of our Sydney, for our first team drinking expedition – and so went the invitation:

Friends, glow-worms, ombudsmen, lend me your beers,

Impeded by sobriety, I write to you today; and coerced by thirst, I extend you this invite:

Simon, Tom and I will be dust off the city maps, plot our course, hoist the sheets and embark on SINK’s maiden ‘Rooftop Review’ – next Saturday, the 12th of December.

Their goal is to visit as many of Sydney’s rooftop bars in one day, as is drunkenly possible, and from the top of our fine city’s many hats, assemble something like an article. And sporting Gunda Din grins and drug-crumbed chins; seems like a perfect opportunity to meet some of you sassy contributors and buy you a beer in the sun.

The aim was to hit TEN rooftop drinking holes in Central Sydney, in one day – and systematically review them to the best of our drunken ability.

And while booze and sleeplessness has distorted our collective memory of the day, this is how it feels:

ROOFTOP ONE: The Glenmore

On our way to our first bar, Cookie and I had to pick up Tom, our bitter photographer; who we found drinking with Belgian prostitutes at Lounge Bar… I’m still not sure if they were prostitutes, or if it was simply a language barrier… but Tom was abnormally angry for such a time in the morning, complaining about his lost shoes and lonely evenings.

We only managed to wrench him into a cab by promising him shoes and booze.

And after pulling over at a shitty souvenir store to get some thongs on his tipsy feet, we fell into the Glenmore and stole ourselves a sunny aspect on the astro-turfed roof.

I adore the Glenmore… it was once my local when I worked in the Rocks, and her fantastic rooftop holds the perfect amount of sunshine, fabulously frocked females and a view that even the blind can appreciate. The beer is cheap (as long as you stay away from Coronas), the crowd is unpretentious and the food is decent (though we only sampled food from other tables).

It also costs nothing to reserve yourself a table on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, but that involves the kind of forethought and planning that we are yet to accrue, so we had to settle for stealing other people’s stools.

And as our little group of misfits grew to a healthy team of five, we set off for the next destination.

ROOFTOP TWO: Sweeney’s

The problem with a pub run, is that you have to spend a large amount of time, walking between pubs, with no drink… but the weather was far too brutal for such a dry thought – so we loaded up on cheap takeaways as we stumbled to our next destination – Hotel Sweeney’s.

Now Sweeney’s is a brilliant, run down little shit hole, the kind of place you wouldn’t go for a date, but I’d be happy to raise a family.

As you walk in, you’re consistently greeted by 8, bearded barflys who’ll do their very best to either stare you down, or avoid you at all costs… but skip this gloom hall and head up the stairs (though you should buy your drinks at the first available bar).

The next level, is a bistro; where I have never seen people eating, or cooking…
Then there’s the empty pool room arena, kitted out with modern chairs and yellow felt tables, but avoid the temptation of quiet time, for the next flight of stairs takes to to a tasty, little rooftop.

It’s a brilliant little terracotta oasis on the top floor, usually empty, but always surrounded by music. The staff usually leave you alone and no one will annoy you, but today; there was quite a crowd.

Once again, it’s easy to reserve a table, and I’d suggest nabbing one of the lots at the edge of the roof, where to can look down to the roads below and really feel like you’re above it all.

We then found out that the sexy, white Canadian that one of our writers was bringing, was not in fact code for drugs, but a small, Canadian woman… this brought on a bout of mass panic and people started snorting crushed caffeine tablets and, eyes watering, winced at one another…

We lost all control at this point, our little crew had grown to ten people and the ten dollar jugs (oh yes, ten dollar jugs) were arriving at our table in a United Nations, sand bagging daisy chain of drunken desperation. In retrospect, we over did it at this point.

ROOFTOP THREE: Market City Tavern

Situated on the roof of the Market City Tavern, The Macau Bar (as it was once known) used to be a brilliant spot for a beer. You’re eye level with the rooftops of China town and the smells that fill your nostrils make it impossible to ignore your hunger, and the bustling intersection below is always filled with buskers, nut-bags and a preacher or two (one of which had his sign stolen by Cookie on the way through).

However, with the new smoking legislation forcing people away from their pokies, the Macau decided to move most of their machines outside, onto the roof.

Meaning that what was once an empty, peaceful little joint for a lager or two, is now a pinball cacophony of blips, blerps and amiga-esque music, coupled with angry, mobster looking gentlemen; who do not take kindly to young, dirty hipsters or anyone who disturbs their pre-jackpot prayertime.

Luckily, most of us were disallowed from the bar before we had a chance to stick around for too long… so it was on to the next bar.

ROOFTOP FOUR: The Edinburgh Castle Hotel

At this point, whether for prior appointments, drunken stupidity or angry annoyance, we lost just about everyone, weening our little gang of ten into a bitter crew of 5.

And this bar, while I’ll never get to properly know the inside, I can safely say this was the shittiest “roof terrace” I’ve ever been conned into drinking at.

The man on the end of the phone had promised us a rooftop area to drink in, a “quiet, sun-drenched plot of tiles” – but what we got was a tiny strip of shit with no roof.

This is where we (drunkenly) debated what makes a rooftop bar.

It takes much more than a top floor and and open area, these types of spots are rife thanks to the new smoking legislation and so on… but they are not rooftop bars, as they don’t make you feel like you’re above everything.

For example, the terrace at The Dolphin makes you feel good, and the sun will kiss you in all the right places, but it never feels as though you’re on a rooftop… The same goes for Darlo Bar, and even the Gaslight… but in saying that, it was onto the next bar.

ROOFTOP FIVE: Gaslight Inn

Right about now, I had lost everyone… Tom had gone missing, Cookie and the girls had gone to Newtown to hit up the rooftop at Zanzibar (a fucking fantastic rooftop), and the Jack had pissed off after hearing about a Santa Pub Run in Manly.

It was still early-ish, so the security at the Gaslight had nothing better to do than all congregate around one of their doors… which was sadly, the door I tried to enter though.

They took one look at me, a mess of a human with a filthy T-Shirt tan, a bag full of booze and an old map of Sydney (a pirate map purchased by Tom) and they ushered me back onto Crown Street.

So, alone and on my last $3… I found myself an empty stoop nearby and wrote some garbled notes, which predominately consisted of paranoid complaints.

But all a sudden, Tom arrived out of thin air, bringing along a crew of noisy creatures, ready to party and with wallets as big as the moon.

It was just what we needed, and the Security at Gaslight no longer recognised me, as the girls by my side seemed to render my reflection invisible.

However, there was no need for my attendance at this point… i was simply too drunk to commit to conversation, too tired to debate, to poor to drink.

ROOFTOP SIX:Zanzibar

While not at all within walking range of the city, and therefore originally vetoed from our pub-run plans, a large cohort of our crew left me for Zanzibar as the sun began to set.

This is Cookie’s retelling of the delicious sun-drenched rooftop at Zanzibar in Newtown:

“When the sun set, and there were only two men left standing, I found myself hustled into a taxi heading to Newtown. I was beginning to notice that I was becoming too intoxicated to be of use and was increasinglymaking less sense, as the three girls, one of whom was called Kayleigh but I have no idea which one, force fed me wine, cheese and Nena’s “Nanena sic luftballoon” at their house.

Around 11:00 I finally talked them into taking me to Zanzibar, pretending I was ready to party the night away when in fact I just wanted to find a landmark from which I could navigate my stumbling way home. The four of us walked in the front door together and they all went straight to the bar while I kept walking out the side, bought myself a chicken drum stick and went home to pass out on the lounge watching South Park.

That is the absolute sum of everything I remember after leaving. I wouldn’t call it a failure – but the ending was definitely a drunken letdown for all those of us who drank ourselves into a stupor.”

ROOFTOP SEVEN: Ching-a-Lings

Back to the story at hand…

After once again losing Tom (last seen at the Columbian), we (i.e. my magical girls) persuaded the Security Guards at Ching-a-lings to let me head on up before they closed the rooftop.

Now Ching-a-lings is a delicious little joint, a perfect mix of unpretentious management, pretentious clientele and unpretentious bar offerings. It’s a great night when the right crowd shows up, and the rooftop sections feels like a cubby house amongst the corrugated hats of Oxford Street.

However, after sucking back a frosty long neck or two, failing to spark a conversation or two and alienating one or two bartenders, we decided it was time for the next destination.

ROOFTOP EIGHT:Astral Bar

We found it hard enough to find a cabby to take us, so it should come as no shock that the fine management at Astral Bar (at the top of Star City Casino) were not going to let two, drunken males, with a combined total of three thongs, a ruck sack and a treasure map, into their classy establishment.

However, I can safely say that this is one of my favourite rooftops in Sydney.

As it’s on the top of the Casino, you can be assured the crowd will all be from out of town, and the only thing more gregarious than their suits will be their snakeskin shoes and everwet hair; but the cocktails are fucking fantastic and the roof section has an unparalleled view of the City’s Western face.

And if you get there on the right night, the piano player will have you feeling like Humphrey Bogart, as you suck back a martini to match your old-timey desire.

ROOFTOP NINE: Pyrmont Bridge Hotel

Having failed to get in to the Casino, but being in walking distance to another hotel rooftop, we decided to try our luck at one of the few, remaining 24 hour joints in town – The Pyrmont Bridge Hotel.

Once known as the Roughest Pub in Sydney, the Pyrmont Bridge Hotel has quietened down since a great deal of the dock work went South and took the wharfies with it.
These days, however, you’ll still find a brilliant collection of fuckwits, thanks largely to it’s all hours license and it’s distance to Cargo Bar (if you get kicked out of Cargo – you know where to go).

The rooftop is a brilliant bar, as are the myriad of tiny, private rooms which litter the pub – usually reserved for private functions. Luckily, however, if you posses the gift of the gab, you can usually blag your way in to a great night on the roof. Sadly, however, my usual “talk the knickers off the queen” abilities had been replaced by “can’t talk like a human being” abilities.

So this was another failure, but well worth the lesson: pub runs are fucking retarded.

ROOFTOP TEN:Zeta Bar

After not getting in to ASTRAL BAR… We didn’t bother trying Zeta, we’d been refused entry enough to know that we’d need at least $20 and a pair of shoes to get in.

So, here is Tom’s review form a previous night at Zeta Bar:

I hadn’t been working this particular job for long but my work colleagues seemed fun enough to have a few drinks with. Of course, livers being the unreliable filters they are, a few drinks quickly avalanched into five of the dirtiest Martinis imagined, and that’s why we were in Zeta.

Architecturally, Zeta bars biggest draw is a gaping opening which leads to a largish patio with a single tree, I don’t believe any seating was available but the unparallelled view of a well lit Queen Victoria Building will probably draw you to stand against the edge anyway.

Sitting was a chore in this joint and dancing could’ve led to an untenable Hilton Hotel bill and a jewel draped, fur caped problem so I stayed outside with several smiling Rose Bay blondes whose company was as pleasant as could be.

I’d certainly recommend going, but due to it’s lack of feasible beers and 5:00 opening time I’d wait till later in the evening, when you’ve forgotten about your overdue rent and any dependants you might have.

CONCLUSION: Fuck pub runs, they’re fucking retarded.

All our love for the silly season,

The Quivering Team at SINK.

Sydney’s Storeys

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