In one of the more matter-of-fact paragraphs of that rare and sentient book, Celebration of the Senses, Eric Rolls reflects on how ‘until the nineteen-fifties eating was seldom an adventure in Australia’. The Greek community had taken over the country town cafes and ‘by serving food that was a parody of the worst Australian food they prospered astoundingly. Slabs of steak fried ten minutes too long came to the table with one or two eggs on top, and surrounded by potato chips, mashed potato, mashed pumpkin, sliced lettuce, tomato, canned carrots, pickled beetroot …

Sometimes I watched Greek proprietors sit down to their own meals at a back table. A waitress came from the kitchen with chunks of dark bread, blocks of white fetta or creamy broccio, black olives, grapes, broken lettuce leaves tossed in a garlicky oil. Not eating much garlic then, I could smell it from several tables away. Now I am as seasoned as they were.’