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The Graham, a renovated pub on the quiet end of one of Port Melbourne’s busiest streets

EARLY ON A SUNNY SATURDAY MORNING

The Tubby Two are jogging along the beachside track, Tubbymistress a nose ahead. Clad in black leggings and a long-sleeved jogging shirt – and completely into the zone thanks to Kelly Rowland’s ‘Work’ – she is moving with unexpected gazelle-like grace.

A short shirtless man looms up on the track, heading toward her. Shirtless Man isn’t dripping with sweat but overt jogging superiority, decked out with an iPod armband, silver earphones and a suspicious winter tan. He is also smack-bang in the middle of the track and not showing any sign of moving across.

As he approaches, Tubbymistress steps off the track to avoid a collision. He swooshes past like an express train hurtling through a station. She glances over her shoulder at Tubbymaster, and frowns. ‘Do you think he even saw me?’

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The Palace by Luke Mangan, perched on the corner of Pickles St and City Road, South Melbourne

SOMETIME ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The Batmobile is sitting at a busy intersection, waiting for the green light to continue its assault on Melbourne’s streets. In the front passenger seat, Tubbymistress is gazing outside as the sun dances on the window and the light turns to green.

A building catches her eye on the precipice of Port Melbourne. It looks like an old pub, one that has been dipped in a giant bucket of gunmetal grey paint.

TUBBYMASTER: What is that place?

TUBBYMISTRESS (shrugs): I don’t know. Some dodgy place, probably.

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Bird's eye view of a tapas and jamon restaurant called Portello Rosso

Once upon a time, in a winter wonderland called Melbourne, there was a lady called Tubbymistress and a tapas-slash-jamon restaurant called Portello Rosso. Their long-awaited rendezvous took place on an icy Saturday night in June – not so much a meeting of minds as a meeting of empty stomach with Spanish-inspired food …

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The pork belly (background) and eggplant (foreground): two dishes on offer at Izakaya Den

SOMETIME IN THE LATE 1980s

Little Tubbymistress is sitting on the carpet in her primary school classroom, cross-legged, petite and shy. Despite her small stature – and a brain that has never loved processing numbers – she has no hesitation belting out the 10 times table with three other children in her class, harmonising in the monotone, singsong way that primary school children do.

As she sang, Little Tubbymistress could not know that basis mathematics (and a lack of research) would be her undoing some twenty years later. In May 2010, a section of Russell St became a catwalk for the hungry and navigationally challenged, as three Melburnians searched in vain for one elusive number.

LITTLE TUBBYMISTRESS (sings earnestly): Fifteen 10s are … hun-dred and fiff-ty!

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Tulips blushing in the sun at Monet's Garden in Giverny, France

A SUN-DRENCHED SPRING MORNING IN FRANCE

Tubbymistress is standing in Monet’s Garden in Giverny, France, shoulder-to-shoulder with an American couple. It’s a warm morning but, despite the influx of tourists to this small, floral oasis, it’s surprisingly serene and calm.

Inspired by the works of impressionist painter Claude Monet, the gardens are immaculately conceived and maintained. Weeping willows lean casually over the pond; beds of tulips (vivid reds, yellows, pinks and mauves) stretch toward the sky as if competing for the attention of the sun; dainty roses climb and twirl around iron arches that frame the central walkway. It’s living artwork, enchanting fodder for the many camera lenses working hard for their money.

A world away, a restaurant called Bistro Vue springs to life, imbued with the kind of charm and appeal found by the tulip-bed in Giverny. This carefully constructed slither of old-world Paris immediately piques the curiosity and appetite of Tubbymistress, a twenty-something with an unfortunate penchant for killing plants.

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A tangle of shellfish: The impressive shellfish stirfry, featuring crabs, prawns, mussels and yabbies

I need to preface this blog post by saying, categorically, I am not a St Kilda girl. There’s something about this bayside hub that has always deterred me – except for the occasional summertime trip to Clamms or a gig at the Palais. It may have something to do with feeling like I could get mugged at any time, or that I’ll end up paying for parking. Or both. At the same time.

I do love how a plate of shellfish, so visually impressive it elicited a ‘Phwoar!’ from a neighbouring diner, could possible change all this …

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The first time I dined at Rockpool Bar and Grill was the year I started at my first full-time job. Cashed up, carefree and childlike, I strode into the restaurant with my two high school friends, past the open-plan kitchen and through to the equally grand dining room resplendent in plums and browns. I remember being seated at the table in one of those comfortable leather chairs and being greeted by the image of a proudly posing cow on the menu in front of me – all the while feeling as if I was crashing a party made for wealthy businessmen.

On this night, the proudly posing cow had the last laugh. My friends unwittingly chose ‘My steak tartare with chips’ and were stunned to find that it was a dish best served cold. As they alternated between gagging and giggling at the prospect of eating this uncooked delicacy, I couldn’t help but savour every bite of my delectable duck ragu. It was sublime.

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The 'swimming pool' bowl of latte at Seven:am, guaranteed to dezombify

7.00 AM ON A SATURDAY MORNING

Tubbymistress is sitting cross-legged on her bed, bleary-eyed, the morning light and a disobedient body clock ending all hope of a rare sleep-in. She sleepily pushes her Justin Bieber-esque fringe out of her eyes and stares at the bedroom door, fully aware that Tubbymaster and an early morning jog are lying in wait on the other side.

The door opens, and Tubbymaster steps into the room, looking as tired as Tubbymistress feels.

TUBBYMASTER: Coffee?

A SUNNY DECEMBER MORNING IN NADI, FIJI

Tubbymistress is sitting in the backseat of an old taxi, en route from Fiji’s international airport to the palm-tree lined paradise known as Denarau Island. The contrast between the streets of Nadi and the tourist hotspot is immense, as if a veil of instant paradise has been made to order, leaving the rest of Fiji shrouded in third-world darkness.

FRIENDLY TAXI DRIVER (glancing at Tubbymistress in the rear-view mirror): There is regular time, and there is ‘Fiji time’. Only the planes run to schedule, you know.

The taxi headed over the narrow bridge and into Paradise.

The dining room at the pretty La Petanque

La Petanque is more south of France than Fiji. Instead of palm trees, you’ll find a beautiful garden that winds down to an equally charming restaurant. Instead of wonderful but sometime forgetful ladies delivering pina coladas to bikini-clad Tubbymistresses reclining on poolside deck chairs, you’ll find polite and friendly staff who make a habit of greeting you at the door as you arrive. The one thing that La Petanque and Fiji have in common is that they both seem to run to ‘Fiji time’ – perhaps not a bad thing if you’re here for a leisurely Sunday lunch.

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

Tubbymistress is standing next to her car, opposite the food temple known as Pearl Restaurant. For once, she is early for a breakfast rendezvous with friend Cyril, although something is rotten in the state of Denmark.  She takes off her sunglasses and strides across the road for a closer look at the restaurant, which is cloaked in darkness on a sunny Saturday morning.

She picks up her phone and dials Cyril’s number.

TUBBYMISTRESS: Pearl is closed! Where are you?
CYRIL: About five minutes away. Are you sure it’s closed? Are you at the café?
TUBBYMISTRESS: The café? What, we’re not having breakfast in the restaurant?
CYRIL: No. The café is a couple of blocks down the road, toward Swan St.

Tubbymistress looks down at her sky-blue Leona Edmiston heels, and sighs.

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