THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE AUSTRALIAN Labor Party, NSW Branch, stand at 377 Sussex St, above a bland marble and carpet lobby and, at the time of writing, no outward signage. Unions NSW—which used to go by the nineteenth-century name of “Labor Council”—occupies the back part of the building and parades its workerist murals, its flags, badges and colours, with all the ceremony they deserve, but the political wing goes incognito.

When people say “Sussex Street” with contempt, fear, incomprehension, loathing, or (more rarely) admiration, they don’t mean the street. Neither the mobile phone shops, the jewellers, the Asian hairdressers, grocers, internet cafes and bars, nor even Paddy’s Markets or the ugliest gold tree sculpture in the world, are part of popular consciousness in the same way as L9, no. 377. The street is famous throughout the country and denominates, in two words, NSW Labor’s hardheaded culture of deals, negotiated settlements and backroom compromise. It’s a silent, blank space—only NSW Labor could make such a thing in the oldest and most famous Chinatown in Australia.

Visible colour, loud noise and movement, for NSW Labor, are provided not by the environment, but by the visiting membership (including your correspondent)..

Of course Sussex St has good points too. There’s the BBQ Pork Laksa from Happy Chef upstairs at the L1 food court between Sussex St and Dixon St downhill from the Star Hotel on the corner of Goulburn St. (All the focus groups report a high level of approval for coconut milk, fried tofu, curry and chilli).

Do the virtues of one cancel out the sins of the other? Which is the sacred and which the profane? There’s only one way to find out—and either way, if you don’t want to wear the stain, eat with long chopsticks.

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