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?
There’s nothing else like Cellar Bar in Melbourne. I love it. Go. The glamorous subterranean hideout, downstairs at the Newmarket Hotel, is the latest venture from Melbourne Pub Group, owners of Circa, Middle Park Hotel and Albert Park Hotel. Cellar Bar is faux Vegas and pretend retro, a grown-up, spangly parlour that offers a big night out not just a meal. The business card instructs diners to leave furs and inhibitions at the door: it’s suggestive and indicative. Even the pimped up toilets command a party.
The Bank’s honest food, decent prices and an attractive heritage dining room are a spirited illustration of how the west is winning. The menu is an easy read, the food is contemporary but not too tricky, and there’s a focus on top produce delivered at reasonable prices.
A restaurant called I Love Dumplings is halfway to a win with name alone. I respect a restaurant with heart on sleeve and I feel an instant kinship because I love dumplings too. (The fact that this restaurant has an alternative name, Chinese Spicy and Barbie Kitchen, is a descriptive if confusing bonus.) The restaurant is in a simple shopfront but theatre is created with wallpaper depicting idyllic pastoral Chinese life, thick timber slab tables and custom-made chunky leather chairs. (It’s great that in an Australia that’s largely made in China, some Chinese imports still seem exotic.) The furniture is great but it’s also oversized and unwieldy so be prepared to straddle table legs and come with parties of no more than four, unless you’ve booked the sole larger table.
Long before Melbourne became a hotbed of fancy hotdogs, sliders (small burgers) and pulled (slow-cooked and shredded) meat, Fog chef Jeremy Sutphin was serving up American food at big, party-hard Fog. Sutphin came here from Dallas in 2006 when Fog opened and his menu reflects his south-western US background: part Texan twang and a little Californian lilt with the gaps filled by whatchamacallit Mod Oz.
‘Is the chef Thai?’ asked a nearby diner. ‘He’s white Thai,’ joshed the waiter. You’ll forgive me for eavesdropping because most seating at this stylish modern Thai kitchen is at a communal table and it was all I could do to stop myself pouring a slurp of the next group’s wine and nicking a spoonful of the fish curry I couldn’t quite fit onto my own extended food order. It’s true that there’s no-one Thai involved at this two-year-old restaurant which is, nevertheless, doing Thai food that is delicious, fresh and attractive. The wine list shows thoughtful effort, featuring single-vineyard offerings that dance with the food.
The smell was the first thing that struck me at Rina’s, a 10-month-old restaurant in a quiet clutch of antique and art emporiums. The opening gambit was a warm waft of garlic and bay leaves, lamb and love. Thus cosseted, I noticed the dark, timbered furnishings, gentle lighting, and a small open kitchen where cooking proceeded calmly. There are two dining areas, a front room which feels like a bistro and a rear parlour which is a little out of the way.
When a restaurant doesn’t get the basics right, any good elements will struggle to outweigh the bad. I arrived alone at this attractive Greek tavern, a joint venture between experienced operator John Ghionis and 2010 Masterchef contestant Philip Vakos. I was shown to a table then left to founder without water, menu or the offer of a beverage. If that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, Spitiko was chilly. I arrived in coat and scarf and was reluctant to remove either. A broken heater blew cold air, which the manager knew (‘Oh, yeah, someone else said that’) but didn’t rectify. After my friends arrived, so did menus listing standard Greek dishes: there’s nothing wrong with classics when they’re done well. There was also a sheet of specials – scallops, soft-shelled crab and other fancier stuff – but it was later whisked away because ‘everything had run outâ€. Then don’t tempt us: it’s only once you know what you’re missing that you rue it. The mostly Greek wine list was a partial mystery to our waiter but he managed to recommend a bottle. What a shame it wasn’t available. We chose another, which he then sloshed onto my plate and the table and didn’t wipe up. An untuned TV in the corner added to the careless feel.
Just named Best New Restaurant in The Age Good Food Guide 2013, Pei Modern melds the casual buzz and accessible pricing of the bistro with the clever food ideas and seriously good cooking you’d expect in gastronomic temples – hence the ‘bistronomy’ tag. The owner is chef Mark Best: his Sydney restaurant Marque is one of those gastrotemples, though it’s a witty and savvy example of the breed. Best’s Melbourne incursion stars local chef Matt Germanchis (Pandora’s Box); the team of waiters is led by Ainslie Lubbock (Attica, Royal Mail), awarded the Good Food Guide’s gong for service excellence. Crack team, cracking experience.
Mama Baba is a big, fun, noisy, semi-subterranean restaurant with cool aesthetics and mostly good food. It’s part of George Calombaris’ stable and the concept reflects the chef’s own Greek (mama) and Italian (baba) heritage. The menu is a cute culture mash but it does feels a little like an arranged marriage, strategic rather than an affair of the heart. On the other hand, I’ve heard it said that many contrived unions turn out happy and fulfilling, and that’s how it usually shakes down here.
Real estate agents in McKinnon have been able to spruik the latte lifestyle for a while now and they’ve had no trouble raving about the suburb’s schools. They must be so happy that they can now add ‘stylish local restaurant’ to their spiel, thanks to The Way to San Jose, a pizza parlour with neat, petite food and wine menus. The restaurant comprises a front room with a lovely broad bar and dining tables, and a snug rear room by the kitchen with carpet, an artisan produce display and close-set tables. I imagine it would feel quite cruisy if McKinnon wasn’t in such a state of breathless excitement about the restaurant’s mere existence.