I was characteristically torn. On the one hand, there was the principle of the thing: I had been a fan of Paul Mathis’ SOS—its food, its wine list, its eco-friendly intentions—since it opened in mid-2006, and had been disappointed to learn of the departures of both its wonderful chef and its killer sommelier. Only the sustainable scallops would remain, but I was determined to remain faithful to the concept. On the other hand, there was Ricardo Momesso, the outgoing chef in question: I had been a fan of SOS because of Momesso’s cooking. The prospect of seeing what he could do back in the land of beast and fowl, liberated from the philosophically sound—but gastronomically restrictive—vege-aquarian brief, was very appealing.
And so here I was, torn, at Momesso’s new digs: Bottega. An interesting chef had won out over the environment. I was about to eat pig. Guilt.
Admittedly, Momesso’s cooking wasn’t the only reason I was here (I was also conducting research for an article on bread), but it was a reason nonetheless, and a significant one at that. And so too was it the cooking that very quickly justified the move. If Momesso was good at SOS, he’s on fire at Bottega.
I knew exactly what I wanted as soon as I saw the menu: an entrée of eel (I had heard good things), a main of sucking pig (I had a craving for pork), and a white chocolate semifreddo for desert (I like white). Meanwhile, I overdid the drinks—aperitifs, table wines and fortifieds all got a look-in—and busied myself with the bread and butter. The bread is an airy ciabatta from Fitzroy’s Wild Flour.
After a dry, sherry-like marmosa, which doesn’t so much cleanse the palate as nuke it, the meal proper begins with smoked eel on a bed of egg mimosa, marinated kipfler potatoes and mustard dressing. Crowned with a halo of fried onion ring and micro herbs, the dish is a delicately balanced play of textures: the ever-so-slightly slippery eel; the crumbly-cum-fluffy minced eggs; the faint graininess of the poppy seeds (and, apparently, the eel bones). There’s a satisfying freshness to the dish that nothing else comes close to all day. It’s one of the best things I’ve eaten in months.
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Compared to the eel, my main is bland looking. A small nest of slow-roasted western plains sucking pig comes out marinated in a mirto blood orange glaze, accompanied by a side order of pan-seared broccolini with almond sauce. The pig is mostly glutinous, with at least half as much fat on the plate as meat, and only ever hints at crackling. It’s good, but ultimately unremarkable. The blood orange glaze is particularly disappointing, and the mouthfuls of zesty goodness I was after are few and far between. It says something that when the waitress collects my plate I can’t help but rave about the broccolini. “It’s good, isn’t it?” she enthusiastically agrees. “Though it’s probably not a good thing when the side overshadows the main.” Touché.
The businessmen at the table next to mine discuss what they call their “sensational dessert”. But I’m not having what they’re having (I think it’s the affogato); I’m having the white chocolate semifreddo with citrus salad and ruby grapefruit sorbet. John Lethlean has described the dish as “too sweet” but “marginally”. Well, barely a tweak of the dish later, it seems, and the comment hardly applies. The nice little chunk of snowy semifreddo has a texture somewhere between St. Agur cheese and that of the cream from the middle of a Delta Cream or an Oreo: creamy, with a satisfactory hint of grit. The taste, meanwhile, is one hundred per cent Milky Bar. The citrus salad is fresh and heady but, not a fan of grapefruit, I find the sorbet less appealing. I cap the whole thing off with a latté.
It cost me a little under one hundred dollars for a three-course lunch (including tip and about fifteen dollars more alcohol than necessary) and I left the restaurant feeling very satisfied. (That I wound up eating at The Grill that night was probably not much appreciated by my waistline. My relative lack of appetite was probably not much appreciated by The Grill.) Of course, eating alone was a stupid idea—fine dining is all about conspicuous consumption and stealing bits and pieces from your better half’s plate—but the food was very good and I can’t wait to go back again with friends. Despite a couple of choices I would make differently next time—I’d drop the pig, maybe try a pasta, and go the “sensational” affogato—I think Momesso’s doing some fantastic work. And while I look forward to checking out his replacement at SOS, I have to say that I’m feeling decidedly less torn. I can happily divide my loyalties. Smoked eel has that effect on me.
The Scene, 8 May 2007
