Pretty Boy Italian Steakhouse at Novotel Ibis Hotel a soulless dining experience
A dirty menu, a soulless vibe and a sign asking patrons to at least wear thongs and a singlet. And then there’s the food. How did this city steakhouse — which only serves three steaks — get so much so wrong?
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It’s astonishing how in 2019 Melbourne a restaurant can still get it so very wrong.
I can only imagine the “brainstorming” that went up on the butcher’s paper during the F+B committee meeting for Pretty Boy Italian Steakhouse, the in-house restaurant at the new dual-branded Novotel and Ibis hotel on Lt Lonsdale St in the city.
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“What should we call the restaurant, to capture our position in the heart of Melbourne, the city they call the dining capital of Australia?”
*silence*
“Well? Anyone? Brandon?”
“Erm, something to do with footy?”
“Not bad, a bit obvious. What about you Pheona?”
“Melbourne’s known for its laneways, we’re sort of on a laneway, what about Laneway Legends?”
“Bit up itself. Anyone else? Logan?”
“I once heard about this American bank robber in the American Midwest in the early 20th century who was known as Pretty Boy Floyd.”
“Nothing to do with anything. Brilliant.”
Pretty Boy has perfectly captured the soullessness of a dual-function hotel restaurant, where staff has one eye on setting up the buffet for breakfast before mains have been cleared, where windows on one side of the large space capture the neighbouring car park in all its concrete glory and bright globe pendants unironically date the space to the ’70s.
The room has the clinical feel of design by spreadsheet. Where the banquette sits so low the table almost reaches your chin, where the large open kitchen adds neither warmth nor atmosphere save the annoying bell banging that rings through the sparsely populated room with ill-concealed hostility.
It’s a restaurant where the fug of the lonely businessman permeates the air, a miasma of halitosis and broken dreams, of recurring eczema and pay-per-view porn.
A dirty menu is an opening salvo in the lack of attention to detail and general sloppiness that defined this meal.
The food is a grab bag of “Italian” that opens with a small selection of cured meats — prosciutto, bresaola, calabrese — the provenance of which is, apparently, “Australia” according the waitress.
A choice of six primi and four pastas follow. From the former, a small bowl of “clams” in an “Italian XO” that’s heavy on anchovy, light on chilli and bolstered with a few cherry tomatoes. A couple of pieces of char-marked sourdough are on hand for the sauce that’s searingly salty by the bowl’s end ($19).
Pastas come in two sizes, though pity the punter who orders the main tagliatelle for the entree came with enough oil to take it off grid, slivers of damp, flaccid guanciale (cured pork jowl) stretched across the wan pasta like a used letter from France you don’t want to read, let alone eat ($21/29).
On this visit, just three steaks are offered, which would make the restaurant’s moniker a bit of a push even if the kitchen could cook them with class. My O’Connor’s scotch, overpowered with pepper and with acrid char marks, was not ($36).
No offer of mustard to go with the plate that’s unadorned save a forgettable few onion rings, but there are half dozen sauces at $3 a pop. A salad of raw zucchini ribbons dressed in pesto and finished with pecorino is the meal’s sole redeeming feature ($8).
No offer of a glass of wine, either, to accompany the steak, even if I did want to try the Heathcote tempranillo that is “Italy’s version of pinot noir” (it’s actually a Spanish varietal, but close enough, I guess).
Ever the optimist, I dared dream the Americano cheesecake would be some clever rendition of the vermouth-Campari cocktail — even when the waitress described it as having “lots of cheese flavour and a biscuit base”. She forgot “with a crumbly filling, ridiculous fairy floss, nonsensical microherbs” ($15).
Dreams duly dashed, upon leaving I spied a sign at the hostess station I missed upon entry: “Minimal dress code required for in-house dining: shorts, singlet and thongs”.
The mind reels at the incident/s that led to this. Did someone turn up in just socks and a smile? A dressing gown? That guests not only need to be asked to dress for dinner but to dress full stop fits with the restaurant’s institutional vibe, though you’d probably find better food in a hospital.
That tourists who dine here think this is indicative of Melbourne is the type of nightmare tourism executives wake from screaming at 2am.
A dozen brilliant, quintessential dining experiences found within a block or two just adds salt into the jet-lagged wound.
Ersatz Italian cooked with little care for the vulnerable who don’t know any better. To every tourist, on behalf of Melbourne, I’m sorry for your loss.
Pretty Boy Italian Steakhouse
L1, 399 Lt Lonsdale St, Melbourne
Ph: 9929 8888
Open: Nightly from 6pm
Score: 8/20
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