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It’s Friday night and Hofbräuhaus is heaving. Adults of all ages are holding up steins of beer and belting out Sweet Caroline as the four-piece band diverts from German folk songs to classic hits. Birthday revellers pass around schnapps shots for vigorous toasts. Waiters in dirndls ferry huge trays of sausages. It’s noisy, boisterous and good-spirited.

Since 1968, Hofbräuhaus has been doing its darndest to bring Bavarian beer-hall
bonhomie to Melbourne’s Chinatown. There’s timber slatting on the external walls and, inside, it’s low-ceilinged with heavy wooden furniture, scenic murals and a general sense of sturdiness and long tradition. A weekend dinner here may mean feeding 650 people: there are two sittings of 140 downstairs, another 150 at communal tables in the first-floor beer hall, plus drop-ins at the bar next door.

I’m not a singalong person. I hate shouting in restaurants. But I’ve been disarmed and charmed by the quality offering here and the sincerity with which it’s delivered.

I’ve never thought, “Let’s get some German food tonight!” but that might change now that I’ve had the Hofbräuhaus pork knuckle: brined and roasted, with outlandishly crunchy crackling giving way to pull-apart meat.

The juicy hunk is served with sauerkraut, hot mustard, mash and Dunkel-Bier sauce, a dark beer gravy. It’s the sauce that gives me pause because it says so much about what’s happening in the kitchen here. You don’t get this depth of flavour unless you’re doing the work.

Veteran chef Sunny Gilbert – he bought the place in 2023 when the previous owners found themselves in a post-pandemic pickle – tells me later how he makes it. Beef stock is simmered for eight hours, then enriched with jelly from the pork knuckle, deepened with malty beer and reduced to glossy perfection.

“I’ve never thought, ‘Let’s get some German food tonight!’ but that might change now.”

Schnitzels are crumbed to order: they’re crisp, hot and wavy, with air pockets you
just don’t get if the breadcrumbs have been applied hours before and allowed to get gluey.

The Bismarck salad is a spin on salted herring, often served as a sandwich, but here piled with kipfler potatoes, caramelised yoghurt, pickled onion and capers. Housemade sourdough is served alongside.

The first thing you need to know about flammkuchen is that you mustn’t call it pizza. This Alsatian flatbread is actually a rural snack, invented to test the heat of wood-fired village ovens. Scattered with bacon or mushrooms, plus chives and creme fraiche, it’s indulgent but not too filling.

The constantly reinvented Black Forest cake is another sign of the team’s facility with balancing tradition and creativity. The classic elements (dark chocolate, cherries, cream, kirsch) are fandangled into new forms: you might luck into a roulade, tart or mousse.

The energy here is also thanks to Philipp Hockenberger, a German-born marketing man who’s known as the venue’s Mr Authenticity. Whether it’s long-term staff or backpackers, the team is cheery and well-schooled, able to steer you through excellent German lagers, wheat beers and pilsners poured from the tap.

If you want Bavarian beer and bratwurst but not the brouhaha, go early in the week when there’s no live music and the tavern feels spacious and hushed rather
than Oktoberfest-by-proxy.

If you’re among the legions who already love Hofbräuhaus, you’ll know all this. If you’re a little doubtful – as I was – it’s one to add to the Melbourne banquet.

Good Food reviews are booked anonymously and paid independently. A restaurant can’t pay for a review or inclusion in the Good Food Guide.

This review was originally published in Good Weekend magazine