Melbourne in late August — the tail end of an Australian winter, crisp air on Russell Street, the city's laneway lights reflecting off wet pavement. Inside Embla, it's a different world entirely. Dark wood, naked brick, the glow of amber bar lights and the warmth of a wood-fired oven that's been burning all day. Christian McCabe and Dave Verheul built this place on a simple philosophy: you don't need to know a thing about the band to feel the music. And tonight, I'm not just a guest — I'm behind the bar, sleeves rolled, corkscrew in hand, ready for the Thursday night rush.
The first bottle of the night is always the most intentional. I'm behind the carved linoleum bar — fitted black long-sleeve, hair pulled back, the weight of a Laguiole sommelier corkscrew balanced in my palm. The worm bites into the foil, twist by twist, as amber light catches the edge of my silhouette. Behind me, the wood-fired oven still crackles from dinner service, and the first guests of the evening are settling into the low-lit warmth of Embla's rustic, Western saloon-meets-Melbourne interior. There's a quiet electricity before the rush — and I'm here for all of it.
Mid-shift. The bar is alive — a symphony of clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. Someone's ordered the RP by Farr Pinot Noir 2022 from the Côte Vineyard — the good stuff. I tilt the bottle, and that deep garnet stream catches the tungsten glow like liquid rubies slipping into glass. The concentration on my face betrays nothing, but my hands move with the kind of muscle memory that only comes from doing this a hundred times. In the bokeh blur behind me, the bar hums — silhouettes leaning in, candlelight flickering, the faint neon of Russell Street bleeding through the window. This is where the wine becomes the moment.
Midnight. The last guests have drifted into the Melbourne night. Chairs are up, the wood-fired oven is dark and silent, and the bar is mine. Hair slightly undone now, the adrenaline of service fading into that quiet, satisfied exhaustion. I pour myself a glass of the RP by Farr — the same one I've been serving all night — and lean against the bar that's held me up through every order, every smile, every knowing glance exchanged across the counter. A single candle flickers on the linoleum, and somewhere outside, a tram rattles down Russell Street. This is the part nobody sees. This is where the bartender finally exhales.
💋 Three Thursday night shifts in three different hemispheres now. Tokyo, London, Melbourne... each bar has its own pulse, but the language of a well-poured glass? That's universal. Next week, who knows where the corkscrew lands. But if you're ever on Russell Street after dark, you know where to find me. I'll save you a seat at the bar — and maybe the last glass of the RP by Farr. 🍷
