It was destination Sydney Town one day last week to celebrate my child’s birthday. 

Off we trotted from Kiama to the Inner West, hitting frenetic suburbia and noting the many changes over the last umpteen years since we’d driven these particular roads. Definitely more traffic, more road additions, more chaos than last time, but then, as we’re told, that’s Progress.

Venue for our birthday brunch was a delightful Italian eatery in Abbotsford, and from the very Federation-looking entrance , eclectically adorned with cactus,  spring blooms and hanging pots of colour, we entered a spacious hall, timber floored, with high, exposed ceiling trusses and richly hued lead-light panels serving as windows. Long timber tables filled the vast indoor dining space, inviting shared dining, and outside, a balcony overlooking a rambling inner city garden was also buzzing with those enjoying a cappuccino, or a mimosa, along with their sourdough and assorted yummy breakfast choices. Ambient indeed.

The charm of this obviously old but grand building led us to ask a waitress what the building’s original purpose may have been. She immediately responded that it was part of the old Nestle  factory plant of Abbotsford, at one time the largest chocolate factory in the Southern Hemisphere. Originally built as a doctor’s residence in 1878, Nestle purchased the property on Canada Bay in 1917, producing chocolate there until 1991, when demolition of most of the property took place. Legend has it that in those years, the whole of the suburb of Abbotsford smelled of chocolate, which to my mind would not have been a bad thing. 

Abbotsford House and its pavilion, both heritage listed, were thankfully spared from demolition. While the house is now once again privately owned , and part of a larger housing development, the pavilion, originally renovated by Nestle as a staff recreation area, is now the cafe where we were currently enjoying our brunch.

I was floored. 

My first job after leaving University was for Nestle at their offices in Foveaux St Surry Hills, a stone’s throw from Sydney’s Central Station. I began my career as a Product Manager, and for two years gained the knowledge and the experience that ultimately prepared me for my future  as a small business owner. In all that time, I had never been taken to the chocolate factory at Abbotsford, had never seen firsthand the machinery or indeed the workings of what finally became a Chokito, or a Yogi Bear, or a Milky Bar Kid.  My job was all about  wrapper design, point of sale, and market share. Along with 

Gannt charts. Ah, the joys of Marketing.

I had to initially bumble my way  through the maze of figures and the terminology, after all I’d graduated with a degree in Drama and English, not Business,but  boy did I have fun in those first two years of actually earning a living, and it wasn’t all about the chocolate and Nescafé coffee and Maggi seasoning. 

It was predominantly about stirring the living daylights out of my immediate boss, the very loud and very New York native Hank F, who’d been brought to Australia by the company to expand the chocolate division and increase sales.

Twice my age, he and I nevertheless clicked immediately. He had hired me, presumably because he admired the fact I’d walked the streets of Sydney city trying to find employment, literally knocking on doors begging for a job. A degree in Arts, even with Honours,didn’t exactly open many doors for me at that time. 

Hank painstakingly taught me the day-to-days, sent me back to Uni part time to learn more, and promoted me in a very short space of time to travel to branches Australia wide, stirring up the sales force to get those profits rolling in. At last my dramatic skills were bearing fruit, I could put on a good power point display, whilst acting through the whole presentation.

The best part of our boss/employee relationship was that I taught Hank English. Or at least Aussie English. 

It was hilarious.

For quite a significant part of the time, I couldn’t understand much of what Hank said,his accent was so thick. And so I would come out with Aussie slang every so often, which completely threw him.  “Don’t come the raw prawn with me Hank “, I’d say, and he’d screw up his face. “Give me strength”, I’d wail, “I feel flat as a maggot”. He’d screw his face up even more and scratch his head. “I’ve been running around like a chook with its head cut off, Hank! So I’m going to shoot through like a Bondi tram,  because you’re a long time looking at the lid”.

He loved it. Oh how he laughed when I got going with my exclamations! I have to say I was pretty precocious as a mere employee, but I think it brought him comic relief in what was at the time a very difficult, stultified office. And he certainly learned Strine from me, which he lovingly and gratefully took back to White Plains New York at the end of his Aussie tenure. Best souvenir ever!

Do you remember that fabulous quote from Rick in Casablanca , “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine”? 

Well I see similarities. Of all the cafes in Abbotsford….. 

I hadn’t thought of Nestle, or Hank , for years. Mere, wonderful chance enabled these memories to flood back and turn into this story, and for that I am most grateful.