Grossi Florentino’s grand dining room fails to live up to history
ONE of Melbourne’s most iconic eating institutions should feel luxurious, special and exciting — but I’d settle for delicious. Unfortunately this experience was none of those things and not memorable for the right reasons, writes Dan Stock.
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ABOUT this time last year I was having lunch at the best restaurant in the world™. Of all the things I remember about an extraordinary meal at Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy, what I will take to the grave is the sublime, wondrous joy of eating the tiniest tortellini in the thickest cheese sauce straight from the pan at the table.
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While the restaurant has found global fame for its artful, thoughtful and elegant juxtaposition of tradition and modernity, its celebration of the simple pleasures of the cuisine makes it unforgettable.
That’s what all top restaurants are in the business of. Creating memories.
And given the position it’s held for 90 years, much of Melbourne has memories of our most famous Italian, Grossi Florentino.
I was excited about dinner. For while this is Melbourne’s most grand, historic, oh-if-the-walls-could-talk dining room, a fresh breeze has recently blown in through the windows that capture the leafy top of Bourke St, with patriarch Guy Grossi’s son Carlo graduating through the empire’s ranks to now oversee the flagship. A juxtaposition of tradition and modernity.
A frosty reception upon reaching the top of the stairs didn’t augur well. Neither did mineral water slopped on the tablecloth by the waiter soon after seating.
Neither the ebullient chef nor Carlo were in the house. Perhaps things run more smoothly when they are, but it’s a kitchen well off the boil that is the overriding memory of this night.
An initial bite, a single gnoccho fritto, is presented like a treasure, though why the kitchen thinks this little hollow pastry pillow usually served with salumi is an acceptable solo snack to set the scene is a mystery.
A tired mozzarella triangle and a mussel on a toothpick follow and wouldn’t look out of place at a smart suburban dinner party. In 1980.
A little bowl of ribolita — a Tuscan vegetable soup — is hearty, warming, and delicious. These are all pre first-course starters.
Three scallops served on the shell taste only of the cheese sauce they’re covered with, and given they are of wildly different sizes two are overcooked.
Vincigrassi — the Mache-style lasagne that’s amped with offal — is OK, though the pasta sheets served as a cylindrical tower had dried out at the edges. It pales in comparison with the $29 version at Lello down the road.
But it shone next to the lamb’s brains, which were covered in a damp and grey crumb casing which had to be picked off.
A Grossi signature, ravioli filled with yolk and scattered with amaretti crumbs, is technically impressive and deservedly famous, but the seasonal addition of Manjimup truffle wasn’t delivered with any tableside theatre.
And while there’s nothing wrong with serving rustic dishes, trattoria-level slow-cooked lamb shoulder with floury roasted potato is perhaps stretching the friendship, especially when the meat tasted mainly of unrendered fat.
My excitement of seeing one of my favourite dishes — miale al latte (pork cooked in milk) — turned quickly to disappointment, then disgust, for the stringy dry meat lacked the caramelised nuggety curds of the best, and was served on chunky baby sick-like gruel the menu called barley polenta. It was inedible.
The cellar is rightfully lauded; the sommelier guided us towards a nicely chosen grand noir from Chianti down the shallow end of the encyclopaedic tome. But just because we didn’t spend like a drunken politician does not excuse red wine dripped on the table, nor leaning the bottle on the glass when pouring. Unforgivably sloppy at this level. So too plates put down in front of the wrong diner — twice. Service is jarringly unintuitive at best.
Desserts were excellent — a very clever, dexterous take on the flavours of tiramisu; an alluring malt barely pannacotta with sweet corn and stout — but these very modern creations lack any coherence with what’s gone before them. They seem to have come from two different kitchens — which, I guess, is a good thing at this point in the crashingly disappointing meal.
In these days of anonymous venture capital-run restaurants there is much to admire about a family built and run empire.
But this dinner was lacking in the fundamentals of hospitality I know this family takes seriously, and things such as supermarket hand wash in the bathroom speak of corner cutting in a restaurant where three courses cost $150, four courses $175.
Florentino should feel luxurious, special. It would be great if it also felt exciting. But I’d settle for delicious. Unfortunately this experience was none of those things.
Florentino should be memorable. For the right reasons.
Grossi Florentino
Upstairs, 80 Bourke St, Melbourne
Ph: 9662 1811
Open: Mon-Fri lunch; Mon-Sat dinner
Go-to dish: Flavours of tiramisu
Score: 11/20
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