Economics and Sloth

Dining alone today, and suffering the after effects of an expensive weekend, I endeavoured to seek out a thrifty solution to my lunchtime conundrum. There is really only one choice for the truly insolvent in these parts – the famous Lucky Coq. A clever concept, LC was formerly a quite unpleasant pub* which has been completely renovated and re-fitted and now dishes up ‘gourmet’ pizzas for a ludicrously paltry sum. The menu prices range from $7 to $8, but in reality this only applies at weekends, with the weekday lunch price set at $3, rising to a heady $4 in the evening. These beggarly fees appears to defy all logic and ones natural suspicion is that they the must achieve it by supplying an inferior product, made of cheap and nasty ingredients, to keep their costs to a minimum. Thankfully, this does not seem to be the case. Pizzas on the menu include Gorgonzola with Prosciutto, Salmon, Taleggio with Potato and Rosemary, Spiced Lamb… the list goes on. Hardly cheap ingredients! The waiters and kitchen staff appear to be of working age, so they have not resorted to child-slavery to maintain their margins either. Instead, the secret seems to be in the primary clientele… Students. Yes, these appalling buffoons are ten a penny at Lucky Coq, lured like moths to a flame by the promise of cheap pizzas, pool tables and booze. While they munch on their pizza, no doubt congratulating themselves on their parsimonious ways, they swill down flagons of beer, which is never less than full price. Being students, and hence having nothing of worth to do with their afternoons, they don’t stop at one beer like contributing members of society might; instead they glug down one after another until their idle belly’s are full of pizza and ale. The genius of Lucky Coq is luring these dolts with the promise of cheap food, then trapping them and swiftly emptying their loan-swollen wallets into the waiting till. Their system works brilliantly: The place is packed every afternoon and most evenings with these impudent halfwits, blandly imbibing while they endlessly witter on about indie music and limited-edition Nike trainers, read Vice magazine and paw their greasy fringes in unison.
I’m jealous, or course. I too have known the boundless joy of frittering away a Tuesday afternoon in the pub, playing endless games of pool and guzzling pint after pint of European lager. But those days are long gone, and I have no time for this new generation of layabouts. Nontheless, they have subsidised my lunch in a roundabout sort of way, so for that at least, I thank them.

*Note that I often mourn the passing of old boozers, and their subsequent gentrification. But the ‘old boy’ pubs in Prahran are generally lacking in any redeeming features, unless you have a perverse fascination for studying mid-1980’s carpet patterns, or avoiding the penetrating gaze of drunken sociopaths and their snaggle-toothed crones.