The Mean Fiddler

Editorial

Atop an arid hill, between McMansionville and the Land of the Second-Hand Subaru, lies a town of tin called The Mean Fiddler. Here be music venues and bars, restaurants, an ice-cream parlour, a merchandise shop, a gaming room, a kid's playground, a deli and fine wine store (home deliveries) and soon there will be an 85-room hotel. And somewhere in there is an Irish pub.

The pub proper, once located, is the oldest part of the complex, a beautiful sandstone building dating from 1826, but sadly invisible from all but the front which opens onto the main road. The newer buildings which hide it are Outback-themed, galvanized tin - not unsympathetic, nor ugly, just in the way. Inside, the pub is breathtaking: first the heaven-sent air conditioning, and then the interior; surely designed by some deranged Irish surrealist with a penchant for Louis XV and with unlimited access to the contents of his granny's attic. It has untold rooms, nooks, snuggeries and even its own dungeon beneath a church pulpit (really), plus a verandah sensibly overlooking the playground. Worth a visit just to look.

This is a huge place - on New Year's Eve they had five thousand people here - which can excuse the service fluctuating between the superb and the shambolic. The Guinness is well-kept and well-priced, but insist on a proper pint (some head = good; too much = rip-off), and the fine food by chef, Leigh Swan, is exceptionally good value, but ignore the pub grub which is much the same price and not really worth it.

Seriously family-friendly throughout the day, the little people are packed off to bed by 10pm when grown-ups from all over the Northern Beaches and beyond flock in for some grown-up fun. Not just a pub, more of an experience.
Austin Harrison, January 2008

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