An investigation of poultry significance: the hospitality of 70-72 King Street Words and photos by Ariana Haghighi

The media has oft-warned people my age that we will never own property in our lifetime.

Fortunately for me, a home with my name emblazoned on it was thrust onto me one fine day. And with no deposit, or even knowledge that I purchased such a house — real estate agents hate her.

I was buzzing down the King Street beehive, heading in the direction of Eastern Avenue, when my eyes scanned over a familiar bouquet of letters. Ariana’s Place? I am Ariana. Is this my place? Was I a soldier late to report for duty? I marched closer to the window.

A seal-grey silhouette stared back at me, the light struggling in its task of reflection due to the windows’ newspaper lining. The time-stained papers covered up the majority of the glass panes. Mystery tugged me closer and my nose tip kissed the pane as I tried to look between the gaps of any newspaper pages that had unstuck. To my delight, I spied smashed-mirror segments of translucence. Verdict? None — no amount of squinting could record data more insightful than “a stack of flat boxes” and “empty space”.

All alone in my quest and ready to leave my post, I was suddenly joined by a phalanx of phantoms. “Hello Ariana”, they whispered. My stomach looped into pretzels. What did the ghouls of King Street want from me?

One spirit strode towards me and proclaimed, “I am the ghost of 70-72 King Street past.” Before I let out an Scrooge-scream, tales rolled off his tongue…

In front of the boarded-up borderland, the past poltergeist recounted the story of the institution that once inhabited these walls: Urbanbites.

70-72 King Street past

Urbanbites was a Newtown staple that served breakfast burgers and hangover-cure meals to uni students and inner-west locals alike. I spoke to a long-time Newtown denizen, who wishes to remain anonymous. They fondly recalled Urbanbites and its position as a “recovery brunches” bastion.

One day in 2020, Urbanbites showed its customers and employees the door, which took many King Street-ites by surprise. Its end was chalked up to lockdown-related financial strife. However, my Newtown confidente shared a rumoured story about the Urbanbites closure. Allegedly, Urbanbites management changed hands around five years ago, and began hiring backpackers and international students in droves. Then, word got around that Urbanbites was a site of rampant wage theft. Newtown dwellers did not stand for this, and banded together to boycott Urbanbites. Brought to its knees it was; a reminder that large meals do not guarantee the largesse of management!

The hearsay-loving ghost was finished, and the ghost of 70-72 King Street present took to the stage. Granted, he did not have much to add; he existed purely for consistency with this writing trope’s tripartite structure.

70-72 King Street present

The space of the present is one of interregnum, free from the shackles of restaurants past and not yet fully under the hold of another. Repeatedly emblazoned on white banners is the triplet, “JOBS JOBS JOBS”. There are comic sans-covered posters that are crystal balls, foretelling the future of the space in vague terms. But this writing on the wall is far from a harbinger of doom: its excited tone would energise the most lethargic. To see is to believe — to imbibe the something-big-iscoming atmosphere, I suggest you take a trip yourself!

Finally, the hotly-anticipated ghost of 70-72 King Street future arrived, decked in ethnically-ambiguous cultural garb, accompanied by whiffs of… roast chicken?

70-72 King Street future

Rotisserie rêveurs, broiler believers, and poultry partisans rejoice! I spoke to Michael Vale, the hospitality consultant in charge of dreaming up the “unique boutique chicken operation” that will soon fly over to 70-72 King Street. Sceptical Newtown denizens, do not cluck over the concept just yet.

Vale foresees a restaurant where “five chickens are served under one roof, each with a special stuffing.” Moroccan chicken. Mexican chicken. Thai chicken. Spanish chicken. Greek Island chicken. These plucky permanent five members of the Chicken Security Council will be cooked in an Italian-made steam oven, just to add another culture to the melting pot. “It’s going to be unusual,” Vale promises. The chicken-focused restaurant will occupy one half of this fated space. The other half will be a café reminiscent of Urbanbites, buzzing in the mornings and serving breakfast food to droopy university disciples.

The cultural chicken rotation is not Vale’s most peculiar proposition. Vale describes a number of “digital concepts” to complement the capon. Expect an “electronic musical tribute” where tribute to a famous artist bearing the same culture as the chicken cuisine will be played. Vale provides an example of playing Bob Marley’s London performance and serving Jamaican chicken, and promises that he is cooking up more ideas.

Ariana’s Place will see a deliciously big launch in the coming four to five weeks, where Vale plans to invite local Newtown shopkeepers and throw a fully-licensed boozy chicken party.

I thanked the three ghosts for their information and promised to cite them in my factual recount of this fateful day. Grateful I was to be offered such insights into a divine King Street presence and its evolution from monkey to man (or should I say, café to chicken restaurant).