In a bid to somewhat justify the expense of eating out every night for the past two months, I’ve decided to share some of my thoughts on Melbourne’s restaurant scene – the one I complained that I missed so much whilst I was away.
It turns out I was justified in my grief, and there is many a shack turning out some great dishes, at reasonable prices, with little carry-on or fanfare. The prices seem quite incredulous coming from Paris (Hi Illona Staller), but the quality is high and the wages of staff probably higher too. The wine is expensive and the cheese isn’t raw, but all that is to be expected.
The thing that I have found reasonably horrifying upon my return, is the hype. And the wide spread virus commonly known as a ‘no bookings’ policy, useful only for further perpetuating said ridiculous hype.
I don’t know exactly who started the new go-to accessory for restauranteurs, but I think it could have been Cumulus that somewhat put it on the map. It certainly feels like it became more prominent after the cherished Flinders Lane eatery made it chic. The differentiating factor about the McConnell sans-bookings camp – which now also incorporates Golden Fields – is that they know how to manage this phenomenon.
A particularly recent experience is testament. Five people at 7.30pm on a Wednesday night, looking at a minimum one hour wait. I suggested a bottle of Champagne at Siglo, as the Cumulus bar was rammed, and they were more than happy to let us meander and give me a call when our table was available.
When we returned, they were still waiting for a group to vacate our space, who had apparently been sitting on an empty round of desserts for half an hour. But instead of unceremoniously removing them, they set us up at the bar with a bottle of wine and sent out some Charcuterie to keep us occupied.
The key thing for me, was not so much looking after us whilst we were waiting, but having enough respect for the previous group to let them leave at their leisure. Never at Cumulus have I ever been rushed off a table, I’ve even sat in the same spot from 11am – 8pm with not so much as a snide look from any of the staff.
And then you go to Mamasita. A wildly overpriced take on real Mexican food, where the only thing reliable is the wait. First my friends arrived at 4pm on a Monday, when the place was empty, and were refused a table because I was running late. They were seated at the bar, and moved not once, but three times before I arrived at 5pm, at which time they seated us all at the other end of the bar. I assumed this was some kind of April Fools joke re-imagined for November.
In this hour, my friends had already spent over $150 on drinks. In the proceeding ten minutes after being semi-seated and held at gunpoint to order, another $300 worth of Mexican fare was on the table. Everything came out quickly – and at once, which it didn’t need to be – and we did our best to navigate the small piece of real estate we had been appointed, that was now obscured by food and elbows.
Once we had finished, it was made clear that if we didn’t want dessert, it was time to get off the table. Fair enough if we had just bought McDonalds, not fair enough considering we just parted with $500 to eat hipster Taco Bill in a space smaller than my Parisian apartment. When you talk about value for money, Mamasita is up there with Louis Vuitton dog carriers.
The thing that annoys me the most about all of this table-turnover rudeness, is that the general public seem not only to put up with it, but encourage it. This was all over by 6.30ish and there was already a line forming well down Collins Street, full of wide eyed Masterchef fans eager to throw their dollars to people that are, essentially rude.
Yes the food is decent, but it is not worth what you pay for it in my opinion. Especially not now that Melbourne has gone mad for fresh mexican food and the options have tripled since I left. And I will never understand people supporting a restaurant that treats you like cattle, prodding you out of the joint when you are barely finished eating.
A no bookings policy isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It works for Movida Next Door, when you might spontaneously want a night with Camora but haven’t the occasion or foresight to book in at the flagship. It worked fine last night at Illona Staller – but we had to get there at 6.30 – and it works at Bar Lourinhã, when all you want is some gambas and a glass of Sherry.
But is it really necessary? What does it actually achieve? And what is wrong with waiting a few weeks for a reservation at a truly phenomenal restaurant? The experience I had at Cutler & Co, after waiting for five weeks to get a table, was so much more memorable than being cattle prodded at Mamasita. Yet the morons keep lining up…
