Time Out Melbourne never writes starred reviews from hosted experiences – Time Out covers restaurant and bar bills for reviews so that readers can trust our critique.
Though they’re few and far between, some days in life seem utterly in your favour. The sun is shining and the sky is blue. Everyone smiles at you as you walk by. Even the neighbourhood cats who’d usually scamper away come instead to nuzzle at your feet. There’s a scent of something like optimism in the air – or could that simply be the jasmine blooms of an unseasonably early spring?
It’s on a day exactly like this that the boyfriend and I wander off by foot to investigate Brico. It’s a wine bar in Carlton North, a 30-seater, and relatively new at six-ish months young. Remember Little Andorra, or even further back in time, the famous restaurant of the ‘80s and ‘90s, Tansy’s? This is the same lovely corner building that used to house those.
We’re hoping we’ll be able to get a table for Sunday lunch. As the day is apparently blessed, of course we do. The place is nearly full, but there’s a spot outside in the ivy-decorated courtyard that looks as if it were made just for us. We’re escorted by our friendly host, and each staff member – from the bar to the kitchen – offers a courteous nod as we pass through. Though it’s been only seconds since we entered, Brico already feels like a happy place. It’s light, clean, bright and down to Earth.
A glance at the menu indicates you could stop in here for a broad range of occasions, from a vino catch-up with friends to a full three-course luncheon. The snacky end tends towards bites like olives, salami, anchovies, cheese and crackers and crudités with taramasalata, while heartier dishes plate up proteins like King George whiting and confit duck leg in a style that could loosely be described as European.
A rabbit and pancetta pie looks particularly eye-catching. We’re told it has a 40-minute advance cooking time, which could be a deterrent for some, but I can think of no better way to spend 40 minutes on a Sunday afternoon than tasting different wines in the sunshine, anticipating a freshly baked pie. Besides, there’s plenty to graze on while we wait.
If a bowl of chips is the classic shared starter at a pub, then surely oysters remain the official opener of every good wine bar. The ones we try have been plucked from Pambula in New South Wales, and come dressed in a sophisticated koshu mignonette seasoned with white pepper. They’re perfect. The Cremant d’Alsace from Domaine Mittnacht Freres, a rather spectacular sparkling wine from France, is a crisp pairing. Meanwhile, my partner marvels at the funky, fermented notes of a skin-contact semillon from Travis Tausend in the Adelaide Hills.
Up next is a classic snack from the south of France. Panisse – or chickpea flour fries – are traditionally sold from baskets balanced on the heads of Provençal street vendors howling “C’est chaud!” (“It’s hot!”). They get gradually soggy into the afternoon, but who’s complaining when you’re in the south of France? Nevertheless, we’re told not to fear – these ones will be on our plate straight out of the fryer. And they are – each panisse’s hot golden crust makes way for a satin-soft, thyme-perfumed centre, whole chickpeas smooshed in. A shower of parmesan snow on top adds brownie points. Polenta chips, eat your heart out!
Next we try San Lorenzo’s Le Oche verdicchio, which has developed a discrete richness from spending 12 months on lees, and a floral-fresh Portuguese rosé. Each wine’s complex fruit pops beautifully with the bold dish we try next: ricotta gnudi with winter greens and chilli. For those new to gnudi, think gnocchi. But instead of using potato flour to form the little pillows, the chef uses cheese. Yes, these fluffy clouds are delicious, but swimming in Brico’s zippy vegetal sauce, they’re taken to the next level.
Does it get any better than this? It does, thanks to the arrival of our pie with a delicately arranged chicory salad. I haven’t got many notes to go by, such was my distracted fervour in eating the holy thing. What I do know, however, is that it was tremendously tasty and we demolished every last crumb, before washing it down with two top wines: a strawberry-ish Cab Franc and the Brico Rouge pinot noir from Commune of Buttons.
If you’re not full by his point (trust me, I was full), then you must try some dessert (which I did, because self-control is not my Sunday best). I can’t resist one menu item’s cheeky description: a little choccy pot with boozy prunes and cream. Meanwhile my partner opts for the rum baba with Chantilly cream and homemade marmalade, which after eating he promptly crowns is the best he’s had.
Our server says something about adding yellow chartreuse, an optional inclusion to the choccy pot, and he’s right. Its spicy, floral heat invigorates my prune-spiked, slightly salted, rich chocolate pudding and I’m over the moon.
Brico may not be reinventing the wheel as far as wine bars are concerned, but there’s so much to be said for nailing down the classics. Here’s a team who’ve created an operation entirely dedicated to your pleasure. There’s a real joy in sitting down to a meal that’s been made with tradition and masterful technique. This is food and wine that doesn’t need to shout to make an impression – it just needs to be savoured.