Where to start at this dapper bistro,all dressed in French oak,mosaic tiles and linen curtains? How about with a Chablis at the 13-metre zinc bar overlooking the open kitchen,before moving to a lamp-lit table or a copper-lined booth to smear slabs of luscious,doorstopper-sized chicken liver parfait onto crisped golden brioche?

Next,slice into duck breast,all come hither with ruby jus and radicchio,sorghum and saucy fermented plum,or steak frites topped with a great splodge of herby and heart-stopping Cafe de Paris butter,the fries thin and full of crunch.

Cavolo nero salad with fat slivers of cabbage,currants and walnuts is another example of underselling and over delivering,and there’s no better way to finish than by driving your spoon into a bronzed and trembling orb of syrupy creme caramel,or by sweeping rum caneles through ribbons of lemon curd.

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Eastern Suburbs

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