Society Royale – Surry Hills
Surry Hills. That glorious, over-caffeinated strip of Sydney where every second door is a café and the air itself smells of single-origin beans. You can’t walk twenty paces without tripping over a sourdough crust or someone’s carefully curated brand identity. Opening a café here isn’t business; it’s bloodsport. Being merely good is the culinary equivalent of turning up to a knife fight with a polite smile. Being average? That’ll get you remembered for all the wrong reasons.
We rocked up on a sunny day, the sort that makes you feel optimistic about life and carbohydrates. Strolled past the usual suspects: Bourke Street Bakery (still the reliable old uncle of the neighbourhood), Bills (the place that made avocado toast a personality), and Four Ate Five, which continues to pull the sort of crowds that suggest people would queue for oxygen if it came with a side of fermented chilli. Right next door sits Society Royal. Quieter. Calmer. Almost suspiciously so. There’s a sheet for your name, which feels very “we’re busy and important,” except we wrote our names down and were seated approximately thirty seconds later. The theatrical waiting list had all the tension of a damp firework.
The chap who showed us to the table had the unmistakable air of management: the kind who hovers with the intensity of a man who once read a book about leadership and has been recovering ever since. He spent the entire service doing a convincing impression of a decorative plant while the actual staff worked like they were being timed by a particularly unforgiving Swiss watch. I’ve done those shifts. Minimum wage, maximum graft, while the boss practices his thoughtful staring. It’s a special kind of workplace poetry.
Our server, thankfully, was a gem. We ordered the usual: a flat white with skim milk (yes, I know, the purists are already sharpening their pitchforks) and two plates that sounded like they might have opinions.
The coffee arrived first and, credit where it’s due, it was excellent. Smooth, deep, properly hot, with that gentle edge that stops it tipping into bitterness. The sort of cup that makes you briefly believe in the people who source the beans. Society Royal has clearly thought about the liquid side of the ledger. The vibe, the intention, the little details, they care. You can taste it.
Then the food arrived and the romance cooled slightly.
The spaghetti bolognese was… a bowl of sauce that had vaguely heard of pasta. Generous to the point of sloppiness, the ratio more “swimming lesson” than “proper plate of ragu.” It wasn’t bad. It just sat there being inoffensive in the way a beige wall is inoffensive. No depth, no slow-cooked swagger, no sense that anyone in the kitchen had lost sleep over it. In a suburb that treats brunch like a competitive sport, bland is a bold choice.
The salad did what salads do when they’re trying hard to be virtuous: spinach, dried cranberries, walnuts, a proper snowfall of parmesan, goat’s curd, and a dressing that knew its job. Fresh, green, healthy, and about as surprising as rain in November. Perfectly pleasant. Perfectly forgettable. The culinary equivalent of a well-behaved Labrador.
And that, really, is the whole story. Society Royal is good enough. The coffee is genuinely strong. The room is fine. The staff on the floor are working their arses off. But in Surry Hills, this loud, competitive, slightly unhinged cathedral of café culture, good enough is a quiet way of disappearing. You don’t come here for the safe option. You come because somewhere nearby someone is doing something that makes you raise an eyebrow, lean in, and say, “Right then. What’s this all about?”
Society Royal doesn’t quite manage that. It’s the reliable friend who always shows up on time and never offends anyone. Admirable. Necessary, even. But when the neighbourhood is full of places trying to seduce you with personality, reliability starts to look a bit like beige wallpaper.
We’ll be back for the coffee. The rest of the menu can keep practicing.
