We’ve all got to eat so it might as well be good! I’ve been a restaurant critic for almost 20 years, and have been writing a weekly restaurant column in Melbourne’s Sunday Age since 2006.
My approach is to always take a restaurant on its own terms: there’s no point slamming a burger joint because it doesn’t have white tablecloths. I try to be constructive in my criticism and I’ve always got the diner in mind: there are many places you could choose to go. Why should it be here?
When visitors arrive to Melbourne so does the where-to-eat wondering. A laneway coffee is probably compulsory. Splashing out somewhere like Vue de Monde or Grossi Florentino will appeal to some. Chasing a food truck or queuing at ChinChin is as uber-Melbourne as waiting for an Uber. And for a high quality, upmarket-but-not-overwhelming experience, Pure South is an excellent pick.
For every clean-eater enjoying a chia smoothie or paleo popsicle there will be five people chomping on a greasy, grainy, cheesy burger with extra stodge on the side. That doesn’t mean burgers win, it’s just to say that food is in a polarising place right now with the health kick and ‘fully sick’ brigades both tending to the extreme.
Hot summer days and warm drinks go together like Vegemite and peaches (that is, badly; I tried it so you don’t have to). But the desire for coffee is a year-round yearning. Solution: bring on the cold coffee. In the current climes of thoughtful caffeination, iced coffee does not mean a beige beverage with whipped cream and little interest in keeping a body awake. At Townhouse, it means smooth and lively cold drip coffee served in a stemless wine glass over ice. It also denotes swank Vietnamese-style iced coffee with a syrupy slug of condensed milk. They’re both good: the cold drip is an excruciatingly slow process – one litre takes about five hours to dribble through – but the result has true coffee character.
It’s got to be a good sign when everyone at my table downs cutlery and dips a finger in the sweet, tart pomegranate caramel that’s the too-delicious-to-leave remains of Sezar’s chicken wings. The dish says a lot about this unsung but fabulous laneway restaurant, open a year and hitting its stride after a mini-reno which means owner-chef Garen Maskel now has the welcoming, expansive, two-level premises to match his ambitions.
Everything is ridiculously nice in Red Hill. Tidy fields slope gently to valleys. Bay snippets slot neatly under smudged horizons. There’s good wine and food at every turn. The only downer is that my holiday house hasn’t materialised. Until last year, this property was three separate businesses: villas, grapes and the restaurant Vines of Red Hill but new owner Sam Coverdale amalgamated them into three-pronged Polperro. The bistro – refitted with dark timbers and snuggly lambswool chair covers – opened in May. The view is a charming cliche: rows of vines, a promising produce garden and, at night, dramatically lit trees leering marvellously through the windows.
My day pivots on the moment breakfast lands on the table. If it doesn’t look right (wan bacon, flaccid toast, unjiggly eggs) my heart sinks and I know it will be a day of uncharged phones and rogue red socks in the whites wash. But if my breakfast looks as appetising as the sujuk sausage and egg at MezMez then it’s a good day: there’ll be free-flowing traffic and extra hugs.
The vibes are good and the vegetarian food is filling at this relaxed old factory space near St Kilda Town Hall. Potted greenery, recycled craft, dreamy dreadlocks and chunky timber tables set an earthy tone. There are cosy nooks to sip on kombucha cocktails and large tables where groups can gather for cheap feasting. Owner Giovanna Ghelardini knows her wholefoods: she was part of the original Lentil as Anything team and Vegilicious has popped up at markets and festivals for seven years. Even in its permanent home, Vegilicious still has a colourful, raggedy, warm-hearted festival feeling, and strong links to the 4DVerse arts hub upstairs add to the table-hopping community mood.
The Baker’s Wife is an impressive, energetic bakery and cafe in an eastern suburbs pocket that is something of a desert for quality casual dining. Open a year, it expanded two months ago and is now a massive place with an edgy industrial aesthetic that’s softened by a clever demarcation of zones. From couches to courtyard to communal tables, swift service also makes the large premises feel more intimate: when you know the waiters have your back the hospitality horizons draw closer.
Theming a restaurant is dangerous: it’s easy to tip into try-hard kitsch. But Ike’s Rack Shack does it right, recreating a Texan barbecue joint with wry humour and many excursions to the plentiful hunting grounds of eBay. Ike’s is the sub-branded dining room at The Beaufort, a corner pub that’s now a rum-soaked saloon. The same finger-licking food is available throughout but Ike’s has table-service and is decked out as though it’s a veranda spilling onto an astroturfed outdoors. The windows are boarded up, an alligator leers from a canoe and a pool table stands at the back like a squat green challenger. When a restaurant makes you giggle it’s a pretty good sign.
“How was the lamb, ma’am?” asked our waiter. “Lovely,” I replied brightly because, really, there’s nothing else to be said to such a query except perhaps, “Nice rhyme this time.” The dutiful but pointless question is indicative of the culture at Eureka89, a high-rise restaurant with extraordinary views and a self-reflexive special occasion outlook that means people are called ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir’, and ma’am and sir will eat truffle, crayfish, champagne foam and foie gras, because that’s how ma’am and sir will be sure they’re having a fancy meal. There’s nothing inherently wrong with those ingredients (except perhaps foie gras, the rich liver of an overfed duck) but I think it’s dated and unnecessary to have them trotted out one after another in a procession of self-conscious luxury.