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I’ve come to the conclusion, following extensive field work involving pasta, burrata and nebbiolo, that being Italian is a state of mind. Cultural appropriation be damned: inside us all there’s a headscarf-clad nonna with firm opinions about the true recipe for spaghetti bolognese and a final word on the parmesan with seafood debate.

David Lakhi can go one better by laying claim to a nonna who wasn’t a figment of his imagination. The Indian-born chef apprenticed and worked for more than a decade with an Italian, restaurant-owning family whose octogenarian matriarch ruled the kitchen. And at Little Black Pig & Sons, his bistro of the past six years, he’s putting the lessons into action.

In Heidelberg, tucked into the shopping strip down the hill from the Austin Hospital, he whips ’nduja with olive oil and uses it to baste octopus ($20) as it chars on skewers threaded alongside green olives and mild green peppers.

He makes a 24-hour fermented focaccia that crowns its textbook sponginess with a deeply caramelised crust sprinkled with salt crystals. And he whips up a blanket of creamy, parmesan-sharp polenta ($27) with a rich mushroom ragu that stops winter in its tracks.

On a blustery, midweek night, a bistro dining-room warm with the babble of diners is a great thing to behold in Heidelberg, my childhood suburb which, back in the day, boasted Aussie-Chinese and fish and chips as its two culinary standard-bearers. It’s the kind of room that’s half-full rather than half-empty.

The things that matter have been thought about: the way the lighting casts a golden, 1970s movie glow; a raw brick wall adorned with the rusted-steel representation of the titular pig; the music swinging from opera classics to the Great American Songbook with a side order of Michael Buble. It’s a solid package
in which nothing threatens to overwhelm the pursuit of uncomplicated enjoyment.

It’s cucina povera at cucina Australia prices but, occasionally, things stray into cheffy territory. The steak tartare ($27), served on rugged Sardinian crackers, is a decent update on a classic dish with egg yolk puree and truffle butter (real truffle, not the devil’s oil); unfortunately, dabs of coffee gel mow down everything in their path.

Inside us all there’s a headscarf-clad nonna with firm opinions about the recipe for spaghetti bolognese.

Kingfish crudo ($27) finds safer ground with charry-edged nubbles of blood orange, capers and a whomp of bottarga that revs up the pleasure synapses.

There’s a blue swimmer crab dish ($27) of Lakhi’s own invention that took flight from his love of polenta, but treads its own path: served in the shell, the sweet meat is subsumed into creamed corn with an umami-packing base of saffron, anchovies and capers. There’s the lilting note of tarragon in there, too, and with dill oil and pickled kohlrabi, it makes a spoonable, posh-rustic party.

You ought to try the pasta. The four-strong list features house-made pappardelle teamed with a wet braise of veal cooked with porcini and a quiver of aromats. Agnolotti are bouncy with Moreton Bay bug meat and served with a lobster bisque and butter sauce. Both are big, rich and shareable.

The namesake dish is the go-to, though. The rolled pork belly ($47) is softly rich and sweet, the crackle a solid counterpoint, the salsa verde perky, the bed of cannellini beans with braised radicchio as village-y as you could ask.

The wine list, about 100 bottles strong, is a sophisticated beast that speaks of real care, with Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, pinot blanc and pecorino poured by the glass (it comes as no surprise to learn that LBP holds regular wine-matching dinners). Its insouciant mix of Italian and simpatico Australian drops is also the work of Lakhi, who floats between kitchen and floor and seems to enjoy chatting with diners.

His floor offsiders are young, sweet and a little green: busy, but not too busy that they won’t pour you a taste of prosecco before you commit to ordering a glass.

In the classic way of the hardworking suburban bistro, Little Black Pig attracts a diverse crowd. Tables are occupied by date-night couples, silver foxes catching up off the golf course and families delighting in not cooking.

Staff feed your kids with adapted dishes that don’t suck, and they’ll send you off into the night with a proper, door-holding farewell. My inner Italian approves.

This review was originally published in Good Weekend magazine