Previous SlideNext Slide

A couple of plates in, after you’ve swiped the dregs of your garlicky, herb-flecked flatbread through the last of the cod-roe dip, polished off a serve of the house-made mortadella and devilled eggs, and started to dunk red-hot fried ocean-jacket cheeks into green-goddess dressing, you might stop and think to yourself: maybe I should have run less hard at the snacks.

You’d be wrong, though. The snacks are downright the funnest part of both Bessie’s and Alma’s, a two-for-one restaurant-bar from Morgan McGlone and Nathan Sasi, the pair behind Surry Hills’ perpetually overflowing Bar Copains down the road. Whether it’s a trio of things to dip bread into, pleated empanadas stuffed with spiced confit lamb, or brick-red gazpacho surrounding a blob of stracciatella, overloading the table is essential.

What’s more, it’s right in tune with the way the share-plate generation likes to eat: flexible, endlessly remixable and most of all, good with a drink. Pull up at the American oak bar that dominates Alma’s and beautiful people are crowding out the banquette wrapping the room, taking a final sip of a “one-sip martini” as they await one of the city’s better renditions of a Ramos Gin Fizz, so thick the top souffles out of the glass and the straw stands straight up like a flagpole.

In these ways - in the bottles lining the walls, the energy, even in a few dishes - it’s easy to draw parallels with Bar Copains. But the sequel is more than a place to catch the overflow, and once you step into Bessie’s, it’s immediately apparent that snacks are just the beginning.

The snacks are downright the funnest part of both Bessie’s and Alma’s.

There’s no physical barrier between the bar and restaurant, but a shift from terrazzo to floorboards delineates them, as does a switch in the uniforms from burnt ochre to worker-jacket blue (a colour theme echoed subtly in the Sabre cutlery). From Bessie’s heart, Sasi oversees a menu built around fire.

The top half of the menu mimics Alma’s, but among the larger plates a flat pie filled with fennel and bitter greens cooked down to a level of deep intensity stands out, the pastry blistered from the wood oven. Equally appealing are the pipis, coaxed open and served in a briny emulsified XO sauce with thick garlic-rubbed A.P Bakery toast so direct it’s probably a better match for snacks than the high-volume flatbread.

Go bigger, and a pork belly and loin chop comes on the bone, the fat deeply charred, quince aioli adding sweetness. Then there’s the butterflied Murray cod with pil pil, chosen as a local alternative to turbot, the fish gracing Bessie’s logo.

The dish is so integral that head chef Remy Davis was employed on the strength of his experience grilling turbot at Elkano, a pilgrimage-worthy fish restaurant outside San Sebastian. It’s in the zone, the skin crisp and intact, the flesh just past the point of fatty sweetness. I’d say Josh Niland did it better at Rose Bay’s (now closed) Charcoal Fish, but elephant garlic crisps are a keen addition. The pil pil, meanwhile, all gelatinous sheen, is a dream to drag the flesh around in.

Derivative? Definitely. And the pair make no secret of the inspiration they took from London’s Mountain restaurant either, but their personalities remain a defining feature: McGlone has again crafted all the ceramics, while those nuggets of fried ocean jacket will taste familiar to anyone acquainted with his work at Belles Hot Chicken. For Sasi, there’s through-lines with his Adelaide project Leigh Street Wine Room, while the house-made mortadella and chorizo continue a habit of doing things the hard way.

Wine, led by Ishan Kaplish, reflects how the pair like to drink. There’s a spritzy vinho verde-style blend from Catalonia on by the glass or carafe, plenty of lo-fi gear and classics on by the bottle. Ask, and assured floor staff will bring the list for the “black box”, McGlone and Sasi’s personal cellar filled with limited releases.

It’s not all plain sailing. The bug patty in the sandwich, a variant on Copains’ famed crumbed whiting sando, isn’t properly set on one visit. The mortadella is too aerated. But who’s counting when the package is this strong, or when the Portuguese tart, fired to order in the wood oven, promises such warm custardy ooze and flaky crunch?

Catch McGlone, and he might tell you about the whisk on the door paying tribute to Chefs’ Warehouse, the supply store that as the building’s former tenant was hallowed ground for local chefs, and how they collected more paraphernalia to display, but it didn’t pan out. You might also catch yourself admiring the kitchen. The brigade flowing, climate-controlled drawers sliding open, hibachi blazing, wood oven burning. Counters and shelves piled precisely with gleaming gastro trays, spoons, plates, bowls.

In these objects, Bessie’s is perhaps more intensely related to the building’s former life than they’ve realised. And while leaning too hard could have made it a chef’s restaurant, the restraint means it’s a place for us as much as for them, as seamless as the transition between the bar and restaurant itself. A chefs’ warehouse for the people.

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