I’m seated at a long row of tables with about thirty of my relatives, my plate stacked high with roast ham, potatoes, spring rolls and gravy. To my left is a large bowl with fresh prawns spilling out (“We need to get our money’s worth!” I hear Ma say) and a jug of ice-cold coke. My youngest cousins run riot around the tables as their fathers give chase with exasperated joy and my aunties giggle and seethe and lecture and grin.
“They’ve got a new sushi train here – have you tried it?” my brother asks as he takes his seat next to me. “It’s actually pretty good.”
Today is his birthday and my family have gathered at our local RSL club to celebrate. I scan the room and see a mixture of brown and white faces all over the restaurant, no one group overwhelming the other. There’s a constant clinking of cutlery and hum of laughter as everyone shares in meals ranging from honey chicken to lasagne. Everything sharing that distinct, over-salted yet somehow under-seasoned taste of a buffet.
Growing up, my friends would often respond quizzingly when I said I was going to the RSL. They couldn’t understand why my family or I enjoyed eating there. To them, the food was kind of gross, the place a bit trashy and full of bogans. Yet for nearly every birthday and milestone, whether it was a graduation or confirmation, there we were – posted up by the seafood section waiting for staff to restock on mussels.
Yet for nearly every birthday and milestone, whether it was a graduation or confirmation, there we were – posted up by the seafood section waiting for staff to restock on mussels.
Ask my parents why they like going there so much and you’re likely to only hear about two things: the food and the pokies.
But after more than 20 years of dining with my extended family – and boy do I mean ‘extended’ – I started to form my own theories about why RSL clubs had become our spot.
Picture dozens of people of all ages arriving at a restaurant, each with their own interpretation of punctuality. Picture them all trying to figure out what they wanted to order and struggling to communicate that to a waiter. Then picture the awkwardness of splitting that bill.
At an RSL’s all-you-can-eat buffet, there’s no need to negotiate. We just pull up a plate and pile on whatever looks good.
There’s also something to be said about that familiar, home-style of eating. As Filipinos we’re used to huge pots of adobo and sinigang with rice and little plates of bagoong or patis laid out all over the kitchen. We’re used to picking out what we wanted from the week’s leftovers and everybody contributing a dish or three at family gatherings. We want options and we want volume damnit, and RSL clubs give us both in abundance.
Photo by Janice Bautista Camua. Source: Supplied
But there’s more to it than just convenience and gluttony. For me, going to the RSL was something I grew up with; that’s just what we did. But something had to draw my family – and countless other immigrant families – to those shiny bain-maries in the first place.
“Filipinos go to RSL clubs in Australia because it’s exciting, even though most of the time people lose, throw away and waste their money there,” my Pa says.
“Filipinos go to RSL clubs in Australia because it’s exciting, even though most of the time people lose, throw away and waste their money there,” my Pa says.
“There’s no other place where we go and spend the nighttime – unlike in the Philippines where there’s a lot of nightlife.”
By the time they arrived in Australia my parents felt like they were too old for nightclubs and bars, and the Yet they yearned for something that looked like the social life they left behind. It was within this super traditional, almost conservative institution of Australiana that my parents first found the comfort of remembering home.
“In the Philippines, after work we talk with our neighbours, relatives and friends ‘til the wee hours of the night – here we have the club,” Pa says.
For all the familiarity the RSL provides, it also served as my family’s first taste of the new culture they were in, literally and figuratively. “Almost all of the food served there – it was my first time to see and taste them,” Ma says.
The RSL club was also the first place in Australia where they could call themselves a member – a part of a community. RSL clubs might be a trashy venue for the majority of inner-city slickers, but for my family it was like having their name on the door.
“As a migrant newly arrived in Australia, going to this place helped me in meeting new friends,” Ma says. “I feel comfortable going to the RSL club.”
Joseph's family at Penrith RSL. Source: Janice Bautista
There’s a social theory from the early 90s that’s gained a resurgence in modern community building. It explains that outside of home (the first place) and work (the second place), people also need a to spend time and build important social relationships.
My social circles tend to have their favourite bar or cafe as their third place, but my family weren’t privy to that. We had the RSL.
Looked at through the lens of the migrant experience, RSL clubs are also a kind of third place between home and Australia. They connected the two together and helped my parents feel welcome in their new country by simultaneously reminding them of long nights playing tong-its with their neighbours and introducing them to pavlova.
Looked at through the lens of the migrant experience, RSL clubs are also a kind of third place between home and Australia.
And it’s all thanks to the same things that put my friends off from going there. The RSL club is big and booming and loud. There’s room for dozens of relatives to come and go as they please, to scream with laughter and to shout with joy. There are definite flaws, but it’s one of the few places where we don’t feel pressure to leave as quickly as possible or to shrink our personalities to fit somebody else’s stereotype.
Most importantly, we were doing all this in the presence of other Australian families doing the same damn thing. We were part of the same crowd. For us this was communion and we were all bonded by the sacred act of eating together, laughing with family and enjoying the same hobbies – even if that was having a slap on the pokies after dinner.
