Castlerose review 2024: Kara Monssen visits South Melbourne supper club

This supper club looks the goods online, but beyond the social media gloss the experience was anything but fancy.

Castlerose looks the goods online, but the real-life experience wasn’t quite as glossy. Picture: Supplied.

Oh dear, I’ve been catfished by a restaurant.

Dinner baited by a perfectly curated grid, swept up in a social media moment, only to leave feeling foolish and angry about wasted calories and time.

If this South Melbourne supper club is the sham influencer, then I’m the gullible follower who drank the Kool-Aid and wants a refund.

Long after the taste of beef fat and stale bread subsided, I resolved to this.

Castlerose has potential.

The underground speakeasy bar, filled with leather and velour, has plenty of cosy nooks to nuzzle with your lover. A well-priced cheese trolley stocked with wondrous worldly finds for $13. Wine nerds can try any bottle, within reason, by the glass thanks to the nifty Coravin gadget, making typically big-budget Barolos or Burgundies suddenly within reach.

Not to mention the passion from the owners is undeniable, especially around the wine and cheese.

Why Castlerose didn’t just stick to that, is beyond me.

Everything seems like an afterthought, lazily prepared with the same apathy of a disinterested teenager writing a 5000-word essay on art history.

So, what’s worth ordering?

Duck rillettes was one of the better dishes. Picture: Alex Squadrito.

Anything they don’t cook or make themselves.

Let’s start with the baity-est dish of them all: duck rillettes cigars ($12 each).

Confit duck meat is rolled fat like Cubans in a paper fine filo, fried and served in a wooden box with accompanying aioli and ‘olive dust’ ashtray for dunking.

All three of ours came out ‘lukewarm’, with a dry, unseasoned and uninspiring filling – halfway through eating I became so bored I gave up.

With the veg samosa ($11), went the other way with too much spice and chilli heat, the pastry exuding zero personality or crunch.

I’d like to think the lobster roll would be redeeming, but at this point, why would it be?

A teeny lump of just-cooked meat was tender, served in a white roll either stale or toasted well before service. When I cast my eyes over to the bar I clocked a trolley covered in a white cloth; shielding baskets of bread and crackers and realised it was the former.

Without butter or integrity (the roll fell apart in my hand), $19 is a hard ask.

I often found myself questioning where Castlerose injects its time and effort.

Take the duck rillettes ($19), sealed by a commercial grade manual can machine on site, designed for the all-important ‘ring pull’ removal video moment tableside.

All that work for three seconds of vision, yet they can’t even toast bread properly.

The filling is similar to that in those cigars, needing more duck fat or pear puree for balance.

Though, if I had to choose, this was the best thing we ate all night, aside from those meaty rock oysters ($6).

Confit duck cigars. Picture: Alex Squadrito.

Castlerose looks the part and certainly has potential. Picture: Alex Squadrito.

I regret not ordering more of these as it would mean I’d eat less of everything else.

By this stage I’m losing hope, though I remain optimistic the wagyu rump and fries can turn things around. Surely that can’t be hard to get right. Then I ask how it’s cooked.

“It’s sous vide, finished on the grill.” Righto.

I’m not sure what’s more concerning: paying $65 for 200g (or God forbid $125 for 500g), or having it come out rare, fatty with no flavour, served with cold fries, and dishevelled yorkshire pud that looks how I’m feeling at this point.

Being a ‘supper club’ or ‘just a bar’ doesn’t exempt you from serving sub-par food, especially on your busiest night of the week.

If drinks are the focus, fine, but even Castlerose seems lost here.

The cocktail offering is unbalanced, limited and leaning boozy, spritzy and sour, while the wine by the bottle is more exciting by the glass (save for two drops, you’ll know them). Though the Coravin option is an exciting addition.

I still have so many questions. Why wasn’t the food coming out hot? Where is the kitchen (I’m told an upstairs kitchen it shares with cafe Clementine)? Why aren’t staff waiting until our conversation with another waiter ends before serving food or drink?

Small things make a big difference.

If we strip away the marketing and theatrics, focus on attention to detail and sharpen up the cooking, Castlerose isn’t all that bad of a place.

As they say, if it looks too good to be true ...