4th of July, Prahran VIC (Misty's)

Five Independence Days into my Aussie occupation and I finally marked its importance with an act that recognises the heroism, wisdom and sacrifice of America's forefathers: Lunch at an 'American-themed' diner in Prahran with a young man from Arizona named Andrew.

Go ahead and scoff. The Fourth is a monotonous winter's day here in Melbourne, nothing more. It holds zero status. No parades, no cookouts, no fireworks, no superfluous TV news stories detailing how 'proud locals' celebrate their 'nation's birth'. If anything, celebrating the stubbornness and tenacity of America's patriots invites ostracisation from the Queen Cult, the majority of Aussies who in 1999 voted against severing colonial ties with Great Britain. Independence? Who can be bothered? Now be a good lad and fetch me a scone ... and be sure not to scrimp on the fresh cream and jam.

Catty, right? Tens of thousands of freedom fighters, mostly tradesmen and farmers, died for a democratic cause that, while far from perfect, has been a model for generations of humans striving for what Aussies call a 'fair go'. Twelve years ago the citizens of this fair land, meanwhile, shrugged their collective shoulders at the opportunity to become a free-standing nation without a single bullet fired. Raise the subject and you're swamped with tut-tutting about deficiencies in the republic plan, an effective gov't fear campaign, boganism ... it's all garbage. What it comes down to is a preference for stasis. Why change a good thing? Besides, the Queen is such a sweet old gal, we wouldn't want to hurt her feelings .....

Onto a more satisfying subject: American kitsch. Melbourne has a few 'American-themed' restaurants that I've never felt compelled to visit. There's enough culture in this town to fill the calendar of even the most over-caffeinated trend chaser. Several weeks ago Andrew, who's in Melbourne after interning for 6 months at a rainforest hotel in India, asked what I was doing for the Fourth. I had no answer because the question's never been asked. After poking around the interWebs I found Misty's Diner in Prahran, a 25-minute walk from my place or a 10-minute tram ride. Andrew met me at Gattica in Balaclava and we walked north up Melbourne's runway model-heavy Chapel Street for a star-spangled lunch.

Framed photos of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe on every wall. Shiny US license plates. Mirrors framed with miniature Chevy tail fins with glowing tail lights. Vinyl LPs and album sleeves from the '50s. Flourescent-coloured booths with old-diner-style table jukeboxes (topped with 21st-century mini-flat-screen TVs). American candy for sale inside a giant glass display. This was Misty's on the 4th of July. Same as it is every other day, I imagine, which is unfortunate for its wait and kitchen staff. The menu was lengthy and included such 'American' items as cheese sticks, bloomin' onions and at least a dozen versions of America's greatest export, the humble hamburger. A brief intro on the menu's cover by Misty's owner proclaiming his proud Arizona heritage made Andrew puff with Southwest pride and explained the many Mexican beers and foods listed within. I don't eat beef so I got the chicken burger shown here (yeah, they're called chicken burgers here, not chicken sandwiches) that included 3 cheese sticks inside. I ordered curly fries -- another Uncle Sam specialty, so it would seem -- but Andrew mistakenly asked our Scottish waitress what kinds of fries they had and was given a list of at least ten that I swear included something unimaginable called 'wet fries'.

As shown in the top photo hard-to-find American beers were also available. Andrew and I had our hearts set on a staple of informal US get-togethers, Budweiser, but were informed that Misty's was currently without the King of Beers. Samuel Adams on Independence Day was a logical consolation, though after putting away our baskets of fried tastiness another waitress -- she may have been the owner -- came by and said with a broad smile, "I've got cold Buds." We said yes please and drank them with a shared dessert: deep-fried Oreos (shown here on a white plate with ice cream, hot fudge and whipped cream). The Oreos could have been deep-fried anything -- I'd have guessed halved tennis ball -- but cold Budweiser washed away all deep-fried regret.

The mid-day beechwood-aged brew may have also played a role in my jubilation upon spotting a box of Cap'n Crunch cereal on a shelf while we waited to pay. It's true that a few weeks ago it occurred to me that Aradhna had grown up in a world withOUT Cap'n Crunch and that she was sitting beside me at the time, compelling me to share this observation and forcing her to once again question the sanity of her lawfully bound partner. I practically cartwheeled out of the restaurant, so tickled was I about holding a box of heavily processed and excessively sweetened childhood that I could introduce to my Indo-Fijian-Australian wife. Andrew and I zigzagged our way northward through one of Melbourne's trendiest neighborhoods, the Cap'n occasionally catching me eye from within a shopping bag. At South Yarra station Andrew and I went in separate directions, me jumping on a southbound train and he waiting on a northbound one to nearby Flinders Street station in the CBD. The Cap'n sat straight up in his seat (as shown in this photo) as we rolled towards Balaclava, my adopted home in a faraway land. What would Aradhna think when she returned from work and found an exorbitantly expensive box of children's breakfast cereal sitting in a place of pride in our apartment?

What she always thinks. "Crazy American."

For LIFE.