Hidden in plain sight, Melbourne’s social clubs tend to fade into the background of the city’s clamorous café scene. Most of them have been there for decades, windows obscured by fading drapes and signage telling of their age. But through suburban gentrification and development, they remain, frequented by a mono-cultural clientele who spend their days drinking coffee, playing cards and staring holes into passers-by. They remain to most, secret spaces.
A few years back I decided I wanted ‘in’ on this secret and paid my local – House of Hercules – a visit. This decision wasn’t entirely borne out of a brash need to be a part of something I had nothing to do with. I’m a third generation Greek Australian woman. Outside of direct family, I never had much opportunity to express or explore my ‘Greekness’, though it was a keen part of my identity. I attended a small high school, so very Anglo in demographic that my olive skin was considered ‘exotic’. At university, I studied Philosophy, where, despite the subject’s Hellenic roots, I was part of a predominantly Anglo-Celtic cohort. One lecturer took my complexion as an opportunity to discuss ‘whiteness’- what is it, was I it? A vote was put to the class. I think I was so compelled to find a social community of Greek Australians- really anyone who shared the experience of growing up between cultures- that these social clubs, despite the average age of members, instantly drew me to them.
And so, with my positively mediocre grasp of the Greek language, I walked in and asked for a Greek coffee – metrio. My general presence was met, as expected, with an unapologetic stare down. I didn’t feel unwelcome, but I wondered whether my being there was insensitive. Many social clubs are strictly ‘members only’ and though House of Hercules didn’t state this explicitly, it didn’t exactly scream ‘all are welcome’ (certainly not ‘young-women-in-their-twenties, welcome’).
In fact, I had no cause for concern. That day, just like every day I have been since, my local Greek social club was nothing but hospitable. I’ve shared countless drinks, meals and conversations with House-of-Herculeans. They are interested in me – where I’m from, how I learned to speak Greek- and I, in turn, am interested in their stories and advice- why did they come to Australia, where’s the best Greek food in Melbourne, what are the rules of tavli again? I had one ‘Herculean’ offer to put me in touch with his yiayia friend who could rent me a cheap room in the ever expensive inner North and another offer me a job.
On weekend evenings House of Hercules stays open till (Euro) late. We dance to a live Greek band, we get fed and we drink retsina. Things get raucous, plates are smashed and there are always, always Bailey’s shots.
I often worry about the future of these spaces. Now that Greeks have lived in Australia for several generations, is there less need to create spaces for communities based primarily on shared ethnicity? The experience of a third generation Greek Australian is far closer to the experience of non-Greek Australians compared to the Greek migrant of the 1950s; us third gens can get by, have our own support systems and importantly, a shared language by which we can traverse the world. Clubs like House of Hercules will continue to face the pressure of development and gentrification, particularly if younger Greek Australians don’t take over the helm. Still, the value of these spaces is not lost on me. In 20 years’ time, I hope I still know a space that feels as transportative and inclusive as my local Greek men’s club.