About Harborside
I grew up watching my mother set a table like it meant something. Platters carried in from the kitchen, linen pressed, everything arranged before anyone sat down. She learned that from her mother, who brought it from Lebanon when she arrived in Melbourne in 1974 with two suitcases and a habit of making a meal feel like an occasion. I didn't think about any of that for a long time. I was too busy billing hours at a corporate advisory firm in Sydney's CBD, commuting from Pyrmont, and telling myself the work would start to feel worth it soon.
It didn't. By 2019 I was ten years into financial services consulting, earning well, and genuinely dreading Mondays in a way I couldn't explain to anyone around me without sounding ungrateful. I wasn't burned out dramatically. It was quieter than that. I just noticed one afternoon that I couldn't remember the last time I'd made something with my hands. That same week I drove down to the Mornington Peninsula for a long weekend, walked through the Red Hill Market on a Saturday morning, and bought a handmade ceramic bowl from a woman who'd fired it herself in a kiln behind her house in Merricks. I drove home thinking about that bowl the whole way.
— Good things for the table and the house. — Charbel, Charbel Chalouhi