Pizzas are a problem, taxis are a problem, Devonshire teas are a problem. Welcome to WA!
If you are, as Mrs Henry is, into Devonshire teas, Western Australia is not the wisest choice in travel destinations. All through the Nullarbor and all through south WA, despite promises made in BP’s Explore Australia, the complete touring companion (first full colour edition) 1990 of “sumptuous” Devonshire teas in “traditional, historic homestead[s]”, Mrs Henry favorite indulgence proved elusive: they weren’t doing them anymore.
Perhaps the Institute should have invested in a more up to date “touring companion”, but, on the other hand, using out of date reference material does have a knack of showing up changing attitudes and mores, and social research is what the Institute is all about.
Now, Devonshire teas are one thing, pizzas are quite another.
Between Esperance and Perth decent pizza places are few and far between, or rather, there was only one worthy of that name. Esperance itself was bereft of pizza. It wasn’t until Albany that the Institute’s cravings could be satisfied and that took some doing.
Our first source of pizza intelligence was a taxi driver.
We had gone on what the Albany Visitor Centre had optimistically described as a three-kilometre walk from the Big Four Middleton Beach Caravan Park into town.
But this turned out to be a six-kilometre ordeal through Port Albany and the Caltex Petrol Depot, the AGL gas depot and various industrial scenes of great and awesome dereliction looking out over gorgeous King Georges Sound.
Once Albany had been reached, walking back was out of the question. We walked what seemed another six kilometres, before we finally found a taxi rank.
Apparently in Los Angeles every taxi driver is a film script writer waiting for their big break, and among New York cabbies avant-garde poets abound. The situation in Albany WA is markedly different. What was probably the entire fleet was lined up in front of Coles and drivers were conferring among themselves, one very tall skinny one, one very short fat one, and one with the vast majority of his teeth missing.
We got the one with the missing teeth.
“Can you take us to the Big Four Caravan Park, please?”, I asked.
A look of alarm appeared on the driver’s face. “Which one?”, he asked in a panicky tone of voice. “There’s two, you know. There’s one at Middleton Beach and one at Emu Point. Which one do you want to go to? If you don’t know, how I am supposed to know?”
Nothing wrong with that logic per se.
Luckily Mrs Henry pays attention to where the Institute encamps. “Middleton Beach”, she said.
“Are you sure, because there’s is two! There are two Big Fours in Albany. One …”
“Yep, sure”, confirmed Mrs Henry.
“Oh alright, then. I’ll take you to Middleton, and if that isn’t the one, I’ll take you to Emu Point. That’s a few kilometres up the road from Middleton, because there are two Big Fours, you know.”
With all bases thus covered, we climbed into his cab. The driver unhooked his CB radio mouthpiece.
“Car 3 to base.”
“Come in Car 3!”
“Picking up two passengers from the Coles rank for The Middleton Beach Big Four caravan park.”
“OK, car 3.”
“Confirming that it is the Middleton Beach Big Four, not the Emu Point Big Four. Repeat, Middleton Big Four.”
OK, car 3.”
We set off.
“Would you maybe know a good pizza place in Albany”, asked Mrs Henry, because that’s the sort of thing taxi drivers are supposed to know, and tourists supposed to ask.
“Yeah, yeah”, our driver said, obviously racking his brain. “Meself I go for Eagle Boys. Can’t go wrong with them, I reckon, but one of me mates, he reckons Domino’s the go, yeah.”
We eventually did find a pizza place in the main street of Albany and had easily the best pizza we had ever had. Go there if you find yourself in Albany, WA. It’s called the Venice or something with Venice in it, I think. Mrs Henry would know the exact address. Ask her.
