The Olympia Files

The Olympia Files, part one.

Before its sad but inevitable demise in 2017, the Olympia Milk Bar in the Sydney suburb of Stanmore was a place of powerful magic. The spell it cast varied depending on who was experiencing it. Most commonly it had the effect of opening a portal to the past.

When I first experienced this enchantment, I wasn't sure if it was a benign force or a dark and disturbing spell. It was 1993, and my partner and I were going to see a movie at the neighbouring Stanmore Twin cinema. We decided to buy our snacks from the charming, old fashioned milk bar next door, which was strangely deserted.

Even then the decor and the atmosphere of the place was antiquated. The glass concertina doors were folded back, giving way to an impeccable mosaic floor, boldly declaring the name of the establishment: Olympia. A long counter on the left and rear sides of the venue guarded old-fashioned equipment and shelves crowded with boxes of well-known snacks and treats. There were posters and advertisements on the wall, some of them for products which were no longer available, or had long since fallen out of favour.

The antiquity of the place revived childhood memories of the 1960s and 70s, when establishments like the Olympia Milk Bar could be found in towns and suburbs across Australia.

Even more striking was the man behind the counter. His eyes glowered at us from dark, sunken sockets, and he barely grunted when I greeted him and complimented him on his marvelous establishment, a far better choice than the soulless snack bar inside the cinema next door.

Buying a movie snack was next, and it was also an unorthodox process. Further grunts communicated to us that many of the usual products were not in stock. The boxes were empty and just for show. We had to run through a range of choices before hitting on something he actually had on the shelves.

It was reminiscent of the Monty Python cheese shop sketch, except the proprietor was like an imposing Christopher Lee character from a Hammer horror film... or so we imagined at the time.

Over the years many others had similarly striking experiences, and the Olympia became the centre of a minor maelstrom of popular culture discourse. There were songs, articles and artworks. There were urban myths and personal anecdotes.

Later, when the internet transformed, enhanced and poisoned human communication, the Olympia's fame exploded into the online world. Patrons would obsessively photograph the decaying gem, to the irritation of the always gruff owner of the establishment. He gave no sign whatsoever that he cared about the internet fame he and his milk bar were accruing. It was always 1965 in that world.

The pinnacle of the online culture surrounding the Olympia was the facebook group “Olympia Milk Bar Fan Club”. It became a source of information about this extraordinary venue. We learned that the owner was Nicholas Fotiou, but for a while there was confusion about his given name, so he was usually referred to as Mr Fotiou. He was nearly always taciturn, implacably reticent when people asked him about his background and the story of his milk bar.

The exceptions came from the Greek community, one of the bright jewels in the crown of Australia's diverse society. Through Greek contacts with Mr Fotiou, details filtered through to the “fans”, and we pieced together his story, which, while unconfirmed and based on anecdotes, seemed to make sense.

Nicholas Fotiou and his brother John had experienced the nightmare of the Second World War and the subsequent trauma of the Greek Civil War, which extended the disruption and chaos until 1949. John was reportedly injured in that later conflict, resulting in impaired mobility. Like so many Greek immigrants, when they arrived in Australia the Fotious found work and opportunities with the businesses established by Greeks who had arrived earlier. Greek-run Milk bars and small general stores were a mainstay of suburbs and towns.

In 1959, the Fotious bought the Olympia, complete with the shop fittings which had been installed 20 years earlier. One of the participants in the facebook group reminisced about being three years old and having his first taste of ice cream, bought from the Olympia in the 1950s. Like so many cultural phenomena from the epic decade of the 1960s, the Olympia Milk Bar had its genesis in the decade before.

I haven't researched the precise timeline of the Fotious' tenure at the Olympia. At some stage the spouse of one of the brothers established a hairdressing salon above the milk bar. And John Fotiou died many decades before his brother, who doggedly kept the family business going in a uniquely preserved state.

For the aficionados living in Sydney, the online experience wasn't enough. We had a strong sense that the time-warp Milk Bar and its ageing owner could fade away at any time. We arranged multiple meetups there for tea and a milkshake, to enjoy it while it lasted, and help promote its longevity with our patronage.

While the atmosphere and spirit of the milk bar were remarkably intact, by this time the ravages of time were starting to show in its physical traits. One of the windows had been broken, and rather than have it repaired, Mr Fotiou had patched it up with a piece of plywood. The interior was also decaying. While the tile floor was of high quality and might last for a thousand years, peeling paint and worn linoleum in other parts of the venue were starting to spread. The pressed metal ceiling was also in dire need of maintenance.

Had the Olympia been a museum, all these features would have been renovated, polished and maybe put under glass. But the Olympia was nothing like a museum, and for all the decay, the experience was superior to any museum display. The powerful feeling of nostalgia, the desire to bring back lost times, is accompanied with a bittersweet sense of loss. But visiting the Olympia was a tangible way of reviving those memories, and for half an hour or so, we could grasp a real, living fragment of our youths.

The viability of the business was also strained. There were so few customers, it was impossible for Mr Fotiou to stock any product with a short or even medium shelf life. He would only be able to sell a fraction of the chocolates or snacks before the rest expired. Instead, he maintained a stripped-down menu: tea, milkshakes, and cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches were always on offer, but not much else.

Soon we developed a respect for Mr Fotiou which grew into genuine affection. The seemingly stern and remote octogenarian returned the camaraderie in his own modest way. Usually it was with prompt and excellent service. Anything more personal than that was greatly appreciated by us milkshake sipping customers. The most colourful member of our group, Cassie, summed it up: “I love to see him smile”, she quipped.

Around this time another online fan recounted her experiences of the Olympia in the 1960s. The lovely Janice had moved to Queensland, and from there she gave glowing accounts of the roller skating rink which had existed next door to the milk bar. It had been a vital social hub for the kids of Sydney's inner west. In honour of this revelation, at our next meetup Cassie wore her skates into the milk bar. That definitely cracked a smile from Mr Fotiou, and it stayed on his face even as he reverted to type and ordered the skates be removed. Only then could the acceptable business of purchasing and consuming a milkshake proceed.

Janice mentioned that the manager of the roller skating rink was, like Mt Fotiou, a bit of a legend of the 1960s, who had plenty of stories of his own to tell.

Our thirst for more detailed knowledge about our beloved milk bar was never quenched. The urge to chronicle the history of the place was strong. Everyone wanted to post it to their social media feeds, often in defiance of Mr Fotiou's known dislike for photos to be taken in the milk bar. I wanted to make a video documentary, and wondered if there would ever be a way to win Mr Fotiou's confidence and convince him to tell his story on camera. Even with the charms of Cassie and our other group members, I feared it would never happen. But maybe the roller skating man from the 1960s would provide a different opportunity to inhale some more of that heady nostalgic air wafting through the portal of the Olympia.

Continues in part two

The Olympia files, by Jon Flynn: @AvonVilla@aus.social Please keep this post in the fediverse or similar free platforms. Don't allow it to be used for engagement algorithms, advertising, money-making, and surveillance capitalism.