Footscray’s Plough Hotel didn’t always have this much gloss and polish. Until last year it was filled with sticky carpets, questionable couches and Western Bulldogs tat. Now it’s a clean-cut gastropub, with hardwood floors, gleaming white tiles, a million bare bulbs and white anchovy pizze. The razz up hasn’t scared off the locals. Even on a Tuesday it’s packed – and loud. Bluegrass tracks mix with the babble of big groups working on a hump day hangover with bottles of local Riesling. At the long bar you might see solo diners bashing out work on their laptop and picking at a ploughman’s board loaded with stripy capicola, big chunks of cheddar and a whole quarter onion, pickled. But there are also under-fives chewing a sausage pizza in their pyjamas. It’s nice here, but not so formal you’ll have to gag the kids or leave them at home. They even do mini versions of fish and chips and parmas. The Plough loves its locals in the broader sense too. Every soft drink, coffee bean and beer on tap is Victorian. You’re looking at Brunswick Bitter, Coldsteam Cider and Two Birds Sunset Ale. The same goes for the compact list of wines. There are no pool tables or pokies, but we could spend all night just watching Tyron Bremner command the floor like a nippy blue heeler. It's impressive. The whole package is.
