Simon Wilkinson: Jock Zonfrillo takes native ingredients to whole new level at Orana on Rundle St
FOOD writer Simon Wilkinson found Adelaide's new restaurant, Orana, a totally overwhelming experience.
AT the end of the barrage of “Alkoopina”, or snacks, that kick off dinner at Orana, a sphere of glossy, white sorbet is presented on a tasting spoon.
It’s made from only three ingredients, we’re told: water, sugar and a mystery element that we are challenged to try and guess.
Well, let’s see, there’s a burst of juicy citrus, but it isn’t lemon or lime, and then something else that’s hard to pinpoint, a different taste, earthy, sort of, a bit like...
Eating at Orana does that.
It will challenge your perceptions and your vocabulary, like travelling to an exotic, far-off land.
I can’t remember a meal where there is so much to take in: new ingredients, unfamiliar flavours – and an inkling that this could be an opening that is talked about for a long time.
The crazy thing, of course, is that all these foreign sensations have come from, if not right under our noses, then at least within these shores.
Peas and weeds are picked in the Adelaide Hills, tough little succulents from coastal rocks and dunes, more exotic berries, leaves and fruit from a network of suppliers across the country.
It has been left to a charismatic Scotsman to take the next step in unlocking the potential of the cornucopia that for so long has been dismissed as “bush tucker”, to see that often sharp, confronting flavours can be remarkable when given the right treatment and the right context.
This is the food that Jock Zonfrillo was planning for Magill Estate before they parted ways and it is a moot point now whether the experience would have been enhanced looking over the twinkling lights of the city, rather than across to the other side of Rundle St.
As it is, the view, the little upstairs room, the swirly artwork, and the retro-cool Mad Men furnishing, are forgotten as soon as the first plate drops. The “Alkoopina”, all 14 of them, arrive in flights of two or three. There’s a crusty sprig of saltbush, leaves dry and curled... nature’s salt and vinegar chip. Chopped samphire cooked risotto-style with smoked roo tail.
Spencer Gulf prawn sprinkled with a powder of fermented plum.
A gnarled finger of beetroot, baked in a backyard firepit for 36 hours, with a blend of fresh and aged goat’s cheese.
The best cockles you will eat.
Succulent iceplant in an irresistible smoked snapper cream.
Venison and native mulberry.
To do them all justice would fill this column.
Dinner proper is another eight courses, all with wine matches that, bar one sherry, rise to the challenge.
A “wild” salad of muntries and peas, weeds and leaves from the Hills is pretty and cleansing.
Strips of raw mulloway are dotted with sweet-sour ruby saltbush berries and a vivid green sea celery oil.
Loin of kangaroo is served with some of the animal’s favourite pasture, thistle and daisy leaves, as well as an Asian-ish pepper sauce.
If anything, I’d prefer the roo a little rarer.
KI marron, however, is God’s gift, dressed in nothing more than a scattering of finger lime pearls and a few aniseed myrtle leaves
Then there’s steak (South Devon), goat’s cheese with riberry leaves and, finally, two dazzling desserts.
An ever-so-slightly sweetened puree of native currant turns the meal’s background hum of astringency up to heavy metal, but is soothed by the creaminess of the flesh and a sorbet of young coconut.
And a small knoll of set buttermilk, sprinkled with salt flakes and vinegar, sits in a pool of strawberry juice and an oil made from leaves of strawberry gum that takes the flavour in a new direction.
Pure genius. Noma in Denmark and D.O.M. in Brazil, restaurants with a similar preoccupation for their backyard, sit at the pinnacle of world ratings.
Who’s to say Zonfrillo can’t take Australian ingredients on a similar journey.
Oh, and that sorbet? I’m not telling. Prepare to be surprised.