We Begin With a Long Lunch
Not the weeknight dinner that the 'here, now' concept was built on, but I digress.
August sits in an old church in West End. Bright white timber, high ceilings, stained glass windows that scatter colour across the room. The walls are smattered with art. It’s calm, welcoming, and deeply considered without ever being showy. The kind of place that gently welcomes you in. A room that makes you want to eat properly and stay longer than you planned.
It began, as all good things should, with bread and butter. A crusty baguette, still warm, torn by hand and thick with salted butter that barely needed the knife. Just something simple and done well. We poured the wine. BYO on a Sunday is one of Brisbane's quiet luxuries, and a long lunch at August makes the most of it. We brought Agrapart to start. Sharp, mineral and full of tension in all the right ways. Then a 2015 Saint-Véran; round, deep, and generous. The wine, the bread, the butter -- it was at that moment that everything clicked into place.
The food rolled out steady and confident. Spring Bay mussels veiled with a rust-red rouille. Steak tartare, cold and clean, flecked with shallot and parsley. These are dishes from another time. No reinvention, no clever twist, just done right. Close your eyes and you’re in a bistro in the 11th, the kind with scuffed floors, linen on the tables, and a chef who has been cooking the same way for decades. A quiet nod to a bygone era, when food like this was the rule, not the exception.
Between courses, we eased into a golden lull. We made time for each other. We watched the stained glass throw colour across the table. Nobody looked at their phones. Well, with the exception of my request for everyone to contribute a few photos to this project.
The service moved with us, generous, unhurried, perfectly timed. It felt personal without ever being performative. The kind of care that comes from people who actually enjoy what they do. Nothing was rushed. Nothing was missed. And in that quiet, effortless way, they made the whole experience better.
Next, came the duck. Roasted on the bone, rich with prunes and chestnuts. Again, another dish from another time, but perfectly welcome in 2025. With it, the main events: a Ganevat chardonnay, and Occhipinti’s Vino di Contrada from Sicily. Two bottles with opinions. One lean, earthy, and taut. The other wild, fragrant, and ready to argue. They didn’t match so much as orbit each other, and somehow, that battle made the duck taste even better. On the side, Pomme écrasé (mashed potatoes to you and me) with fennel and olive, silky, savoury, and just restrained enough to stay on the right side of indulgent. A bitter salad dressed with Grand Marnier that sliced through the richness like a sharp knife.
The meringue arrived with a celebratory candle, and another Jura, a Pinot this time, was poured as we leaned back into our seats. We raised our glasses and toasted to lunch. A proper one. Slow, generous, and the kind of meal that makes the rest of the week feel far away. But if I’m being honest, it was more than just lunch. It was the pilot. The first swing at something I’ve been turning over for months, trying to give shape to an idea that has lived mostly in notes and half-finished thoughts. A reminder of what Here, Now could be. A reason to pause midweek. To open something decent. To eat slowly. And to share a table with people who understand that sometimes, that is enough.
And if this was the beginning, I can’t wait to see where it goes.
