SA Weekend restaurant review — Bridgewater Mill at Bridgewater

The magic of the paddlewheel would lift dining at the Bridgewater Mill to another level, writes Simon Wilkinson.

Coorong mullet, fennel and peas at the Bridgewater Mill.

Restaurant menus. They come in endless shapes, sizes and degrees of fanciful writing. The one at the Bridgewater Mill, for instance, reads like a guest list for a meeting of the United Nations.

Take the pork belly. It is grilled over Aussie red gum before being brushed with “gochujang gastrique”, a blend of a Korean chilli paste and a French sweet-sour sauce that goes back to Escoffier. Underneath is a stiff mortar made up of kim chi, Korea’s fermented cabbage, and romesco, a Spanish preparation of roasted peppers and nuts.

Elsewhere Middle Eastern barberries hit it off with the spicy Italian sausage n’duja, edamame rubs shoulders with salt bush leaves and sumac pumpkin is having a fling with togarashi.

While an open mind and global perspective are part of the Mill’s heritage, I’m not sure any of Ben Fenwick’s predecessors in the kitchen had quite as many stamps in their culinary passports.

This old stone flour mill in the Adelaide Hills has loomed large in the story of regional dining in this state since the mid-1980s when Brian Croser’s Petaluma winery spent several million dollars converting the dilapidated building into a cellar door and restaurant.

A succession of brilliant chefs gained the Mill national prominence in its early years but subsequent corporate manoeuvring and shifts in ownership and personnel have seen its reputation wane.

Pan fried prawns and scallops with green mango at the Bridgewater Mill

The building is now in the hands of wine impresario Warren Randall (also owner of Seppeltsfield) and he has leased the space to Greg and Kate Hobby, who also run a family catering business.

Through all these changes, one enduring mystery is the apparent reluctance to use the outdoor deck beside the paddlewheel known as “Old Rumbler” that turns with a rhythmical slap-slapping and creates a fine mist that descends like fairy dust.

For this visit, on a clear, mild afternoon, the outdoor umbrellas are lowered, the tables empty, the wheel still.

Not that the pair of indoor alternatives lack character. The Fernery, a long room featuring a rainforest’s worth of greenery behind a glass wall, is hosting a function.

That leaves the Granary Hall, a cavernous space inside the original building, in which modifications include the addition of galleries around the walls on two levels, giving it the feel of an Elizabethan theatre without the rotten tomatoes.

Dishes are split into “Something Small” and “Something Larger”, serving sizes that are bigger than a traditional entree and main. A few favourite options are suggested with an overload of adjectives (“beautiful”, “gorgeous” et cetera) that quickly lose their gloss, even where justified.

Like with the oysters that are encased in crunchy tempura and laid back in their shells on a fluffy pillow of celeriac puree. Add a sprinkle of nori and leek salt and they are, well, gorgeous.

Another snack features a large gherkin, halved and hollowed into a canoe, then filled with beef tartare, soy caramel, fried shallots and stripes of kewpie mayo. It’s one for those who like their burger rare and with an extra load of pickles.

Bridgewater Mill. Picture: Alejandro Carriel

Scallop meat and prawns are fried golden in a pan, then tossed with a soothing combination of shredded green mango, radish discs and a punchy green chilli/herb sauce.

“Our famous pork belly” might be overstating things but there is no denying that these sticky glazed slabs have all the addictive appeal of ribs without the mess. Add a big dollop of kimchi romesco and, in the words of XTC, senses are working overtime.

The fish for the day is Coorong mullet, the fillets in magnificent nick, fried so their skin has crisped, and tossed with fennel (bulb and fronds) and peas. Underneath is a puddle of harissa, which may be a chilli sauce/paste/salsa too many, especially when a side of grilled broccolini has its own extra-hot chilli and hazelnut sprinkle.

Vanilla “cheesecake” is pulled apart and put together again with the filling piped into a neat dome and topped with a crumble of dark chocolate biscuit and honeycomb. A marmalade jell buried in the middle lifts the dessert to another level.

If only we’d been eating outside. Checking details later, I’m told the deck is operational whenever the day is “nice”. Whether it needs a change to the structure, a change in mindset, or both, the policy needs revision. This could be, should be, a setting to celebrate. Often. Always. Wherever in the world you come from.