Melbourne Part 5 - Let the Record Show: I Did the Thing
Read Part 1 Here ➡️ Melbourne Part 1 : The First Sip is the Deepest
Read Part 2 Here ➡️ Melbourne Part 2 : Expresso Yourself before You Wreck Yourself
Read Part 3 Here ➡️ Melbourne Part 3: Lost & Grounded in Fitzroy
Read Part 4 Here ➡️ Melbourne Part 4: Too Many Beans, Not Enough Time
The end is near. The bag is heavier. The tolerance is dangerously high.
What began as a slightly manic itinerary has somehow evolved into an accidental legacy — one last stretch, three final stops, and a farewell cup that may or may not bring me to tears at the airport.
Part 5 is where it all settles — the heat, the memories, the sugar crashes, and the quiet pride of a goal actually completed.
Fifteen cafés.
No DNF.
Let’s land this.
☕ Shop 13: St. Ali & The Queen
A not-so-grand finale served with a side of bagel regret.
So here’s what happened.
I returned to Queen Victoria Market — not for coffee, not for ambiance, but for a very specific, previously-judged, gluten-free, dairy-free hot cross bun.
One I had scoffed at just days earlier. Dry. Unshiny. Sourdough-less. A bun that looked like it had never known the inside of a glaze brush.
But apparently, beggars can’t be choosers, and daughters can’t come home empty-handed.
When I casually mentioned to my mother that I found the bun and didn’t buy it, she looked at me like I’d betrayed both her and Easter.
So here I was. Back again. Bun in hand. Coffee rules? Broken. Pride? Compromised.
The Mood
I was hot. I was parched. I was mildly resentful of my own sense of duty.
St. Ali was supposed to be my Melbourne send-off — the grand finale. The final note in this caffeinated symphony. But now, it had been demoted to a hydration pit stop while I carried a lukewarm bun and a simmering sense of regret.
Yes, technically this was St. Ali & The Queen, a market variation of the OG.
Let’s pretend that makes it special.
Who are we, after all, without a little royal rebrand?
The Vibe
It calls itself a coffee shop, but let’s be honest — the bagels were the moment.
A full wall of them, stacked like edible trophies:
Jalapeño
Sesame
Classic cream cheese
Smoked salmon
Fried chicken
A ham-and-cheese situation that looked legally delicious
I scanned for a gluten-free option. There wasn’t one.
My gluten intolerance flared with psychological intensity.
I made a silent vow to find a GF DF bagel somewhere in this lifetime. I deserve it.
The place itself had casual energy — fast-moving, no fluff — and the staff wore blue-and-white pinstriped overalls, like they moonlight as baristas by day and fix espresso engines by night.
And honestly? Loved that for them.
The Ritual
In classic heat-brained fashion, I think I ordered in the wrong place.
There’s a takeaway window outside, but I had already wandered in and committed to the wrong counter.
To their credit, they didn’t shame me.
They took my order like it was the most normal thing in the world — no questions, no side-eyes, just straight-up caffeination. It was all I could’ve asked for.
The Sip
Let’s be honest — the coffee was fine.
A bit too acidic for my personal taste
Served in a no-logo takeaway cup
But cold, functional, and potentially hydrating (if you ignore science)
The red-and-white striped straw gave it a festive little flair — coordinated, playful, slightly circus-coded, but I respected the effort.
I sipped as I walked, bun in one hand, coffee in the other, as Melbourne’s sun fully committed to 30 degrees and I wondered how we got here.
The Bagel Regret
They haunted me.
Golden, glossy, perfect little bagel halos being handed out to people who had no dietary restrictions and no motherly guilt assignments.
And there I was — holding a bun I didn’t want, sipping a coffee I didn’t love, standing in the shadow of bagel greatness.
Bagel FOMO is real, and it is brutal.
Matcha Toast Memory
Mood: Sweaty, sun-kissed, emotionally gluten-deprived
Barista Energy: Efficient, nonjudgmental, mildly bemused by my lost-puppy ordering approach
Cup Vibe: Basic dome lid, but the matching straw gave it a personality boost
Main Character Moment: Not today. I was a side character in someone else’s bagel montage.
Unexpected Delight: The mechanics-core uniform. 10/10 style
Café Vibe: Quick, crowded, functional — not finale material
Matcha Leaves: 3/5 🍵
Final Sip
Would I come back? Honestly… probably not.
Not because it was bad — it just wasn’t the moment.
Not every café is meant to be a cinematic finale. Some are just midday intermissions, minor detours in the name of buns, bagels, and familial expectations.
And that’s okay.
Next time, I’ll plan my finale better. Or at least bring electrolytes.
Let’s sip. 🍵🥶
⟶ I was melting. Then I turned a corner and found a pocket of shade, sugar, and stillness.
☕ Shop 14: Bakemono Bakers
The secret alley café that turned coffee into art.
Let me be honest: I was wilting.
Wearing jeans in 30-degree Melbourne heat was an objectively terrible choice — the kind of decision you defend for the first hour, then suffer for the next five.
So there I was, hot, flushed, and slightly flammable, navigating laneways in search of shade, salvation, and maybe a baked good to justify the sweat.
I ended up at Bakemono Bakers.
And suddenly, the suffering felt... worth it.
The Mission
I didn’t come for coffee.
I came for the pastries — the ones I’d seen online, arranged like delicate trophies behind glass. Not in piles. Not in trays. But individually housed in their own little compartments, like edible heirlooms.
They were elegant. Golden. Architectural. The kind of pastry you don’t eat — you document.
But by the time I arrived? All gone.
Every last one.
The bakers were still there, hard at work — folding, torching, coaxing caramelisation into existence for tomorrow’s lineup.
So I stayed for the coffee.
Not to chase a buzz. Just to reset. To rehydrate. To mourn with dignity.
The Vibe
The second you step inside, it hits you: Japanese night market magic, dialled to ten.
Dark wooden beams overhead. Low, cozy ceilings. Compact counters that feel more like tucked-away food stalls than modern cafés. A subtle hum of activity behind the counter, wrapped in the scent of sugar and butter on vacation.
It felt hidden — not secretive, just selectively visible.
Like the kind of place you don’t find unless you’re meant to.
The Ritual
I wasn’t expecting much from the coffee.
Pastry shops, even the good ones, often treat coffee like a formality — a sidekick to the real stars.
But here? It was art.
My decaf Iced Long Black was:
Icy cold
Full-bodied
Deeply satisfying
The kind of coffee that makes you pause mid-sip and reassess your entire opinion on pastry-side brews.
Bonus points for the flat-top lid — my emotional support lid of choice. Easy to drink from. Hard to spill. Perfect for contemplative lane-wandering.
Main Character Moment?
Absolutely.
I wandered the alleys, coffee in hand, sugar still thick in the air, and suddenly it felt like I was in a Tokyo side quest. One of those quiet, cinematic discoveries where nothing explodes — but everything clicks.
It was a gentle shift. A recalibration.
One perfect sip at a time.
The Blend Wall
Then I saw it.
Along the back wall — instead of your usual sterile coffee descriptors — there was a row of watercolour paintings. Not landscapes. Not portraits. But flavour profiles.
Each blend rendered in soft, dreamy hues.
One, titled Blend 51, was a swirl of:
Passionfruit
Mango
Strawberry Calpis
Caramel
Pear
Chamomile
Chocolate ice cream
It was Willy Wonka energy, but restrained. Sophisticated. Coffee as aesthetic narrative.
I didn’t even taste that blend — but I left thinking in flavour notes.
Matcha Toast Memory
Mood: Sticky, slightly delusional, fully enchanted
Barista Energy: Cool, unfazed, quietly graceful
Cup Vibe: Matte, minimalist, flat-lidded — a sip-and-stroll dream
Main Character Moment: Stumbling into sugar-scented serenity like it was destiny
Unexpected Delight: The watercolour blend wall — flavour notes reimagined as art
Café Vibe: Cozy, curated, quietly magical — Tokyo alley meets Melbourne minimalism
Matcha Leaves: 4.5/5 🍵
Final Sip
Would I return?
In a heartbeat.
Even if I never manage to snag a pastry, I’ll keep coming back for what this place offers in spades: intention. Atmosphere. The kind of calm that arrives unexpectedly, like a soft breeze in summer heat.
Because sometimes, the best cafés aren’t loud.
They just wait to be found.
Let’s sip. 🍵🥶
⟶ One final café. One final sip. Time to end it where it all began — at the departure gate.
☕ Shop 15: Veneziano Coffee Roasters
One last sip, one soft landing.
It’s the end of the road.
The backpack is heavy. My shoulders are barely hanging on. My puffer jacket? A complete joke. Gone are the dreams of moody Melbourne layering and atmospheric trench coat strolls.
But this — this is the finale.
I found Veneziano while scrolling through airport café options the night before, and one look at those white arches and French bistro energy, and I knew:
This wasn’t just a coffee run.
This was the closing scene.
The Arrival
The second I stepped inside, I felt it — the shift.
No more trekking. No more errands. No more scanning Google Maps under full sun like I was on some urban treasure hunt.
Just… calm.
Air-conditioning. Warm lighting. A clean, curated interior that whispered, you made it.
The space was gorgeous — far too beautiful for an airport.
Minimalist white walls, soft black counters, display shelves lit like museum pieces, and those iconic arched wooden frames that made the whole café feel less like a terminal and more like a chapter from Kinfolk.
It wasn’t just a café.
It was a farewell letter.
The Ritual
The barista welcomed me with the exact energy I needed: warm, efficient, and not remotely fazed by the fact that I was visibly sunburnt, slightly frizzy, and clutching multiple tote bags like I was moving house.
I ordered my final decaf Iced Long Black. She made it without fuss. I watched her pour it over ice, the sound of espresso hitting the cup somehow more satisfying than a boarding call.
I sat at the bar. Unpacked my little fruit bowl. Nibbled. Sipped.
Okay — chugged.
I was parched. I was tired. I was emotionally and physically cracked open like a soft-boiled egg.
And that first icy sip?
Transcendent.
The Sip
This wasn’t just coffee.
It was a victory lap.
The last of fifteen Matcha Moments. The end of the spiral. A bookend brew.
I sat there, letting it all hit — the soreness in my legs, the caffeine in my veins, the quiet pride of someone who followed through on a self-imposed, slightly unhinged mission.
(And yes — Patricia still holds the crown. But this? This was closure.)
And the drink?
Gone in seconds.
Closure tastes a lot like good coffee.
Main Character Moment?
Undoubtedly.
There I was — sitting at the bar, watching the barista move like clockwork, while indie acoustic played softly in the background and I tried to chew a gummy with dignity.
Legs sore, soul satisfied.
This was the epilogue.
Matcha Toast Memory
Mood: Drained but glowing — in a “just survived the sun and a pilgrimage” way
Barista Energy: Calm, kind, and completely in sync with the moment
Cup Vibe: Unspecified — but the coffee was the moment
Main Character Moment: A hundred percent. This was the fade-to-black scene
Unexpected Delight: That the final café didn’t feel like a compromise — it felt like a choice
Café Vibe: French arches meet Melbourne minimalism meet airport serenity
Matcha Leaves: 4.5/5 🍵
Final Sip
Veneziano was the perfect closing chapter.
Not flashy. Not overcomplicated. Just right.
It reminded me that sometimes, the best endings are simple — a good seat, a great sip, and the quiet certainty that you actually did the thing.
Would I return?
Without question.
First stop. Last stop. Always Veneziano.
Let’s sip. 🍵🥶
🛬 The Ending — “Post-Veneziano, Pre-Reality”
2.5 days.
15 cafés.
More than 15 Iced Long Blacks consumed —
(Reader, I double-dipped. No regrets.)
I came. I sipped. I mildly dehydrated.
But as I sat on that plane home, still peeling off layers of Melbourne sun and café stickers from my tote bag, one question started humming in my mind like a coffee grinder powering up:
What now?
What does a girl do with herself when the pilgrimage is over, the punchline’s landed, and Brisbane’s café scene is waiting with open arms… and a 3pm closing time?
Honestly?
I don’t know.
But tomorrow’s another sip.
Let’s spiral. 🍵🥶
Update: I’m back in Brisbane. It’s 3:01pm. The café just closed. I miss Melbourne.
