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Deep-friend camembert.. Deep-fried foie gras. Deep-fried shiitake mushrooms with blue cheese. My arteries are used to taking a punch, but this is heavyweight boxing. A championship bout. A real pow, right in the kisser. All that’s missing is a referee in black slacks and a bow-tie: “And in the blue corner … whole sea-eel tempura!”

After an afternoon spent judging cakes (thoughts and prayers, I know), battered goose liver was the last thing I felt like eating. Nor did I have much enthusiasm for schlepping into the CBD on a cold night to hunt down a new Japanese restaurant that lists its address simply as Wynyard Lane. At least the bright, blondwood dining room is easy to spot on a strip that sometimes smells like a wheelie bin on Boxing Day.

Kudos to Kuon, then, that after a few rounds with its fried seafood, I feel revived rather than “call a wheelbarrow and get me out of here” full. A creamy Mont Blanc ($24) was at least one dessert too many for the day, but that doesn’t stop our table from hoovering up every spiral of its sweet potato and chestnut purée. This is addictive, comforting food.

Izakaya Tempura Kuon, unsurprisingly, specialises in tempura, but it’s not an izakaya in the “noisy, beerdrenched bar for chicken skewers” sense of the term. It’s a quiet evening when I visit: a table of parents with two kids is in one corner and a small group of chatty businessmen sharing a bottle of Giant Steps Yarra Valley Pinot Noir ($80) is in the other.

Do you need the deep-fried camembert? Probably not, but it’s a bit of fun to share, so you might as well.

I can’t tell you the pinot’s vintage because it isn’t listed on the QR code-activated menu you’re required to order from, but I’m sure the staff would be happy to find out if you asked. Our bottle of mildly fruity Kozaemon “Goddess” junmai sake ($20 a glass) is presented to the table before pouring – an indication of a service team that cares about service.

Anyway, back to the tempura. Inject it into my atoms, please. Before the izakaya there was an omakase version of Tempura Kuon in Haymarket, featuring a volley of courses built around the more subtle end of the deep-fried spectrum (which goes from spinach pakora to the Chiko roll). But Sydney’s appetite for the concept wasn’t as big as owner Kenny Lee hoped, so he packed up the copper vats and launched a new model with chef Hideaki Fukada in August.

The key to great tempura, Lee says, is the oil – particularly the cold-pressed sesame oil he imports from Japan at $500 per drum and replaces almost daily. No wonder Kuon’s sand whiting is the tastiest fish and chips (sans chips) I’ve eaten in a long time. It’s $10 for two just cooked fillets coated in a veil of batter that’s big on crunch and low on grease; swipe the fish through its accompanying soy-based sauce or hit it with the curry salt found at the centre of each table. Thick, golden discs of squid (two pieces for $10) are taut without being tough; slender, tender prawns (two for $12) look like tiny feather boas in their frizz of batter; tempura scallops (two for $15) are fat and sweet and demand more dipping sauce. You can create a fisherman’s basket for the ages. Solo diners, meanwhile, are best served by an assorted tempura plate ($38) featuring the whiting, prawns, eggplant, shiso leaves and eel.

Do you need the deep-fried camembert ($14)? Probably not, but it’s a bit of fun to share the three gooey wedges between mates, so you might as well. The blue cheese-bolstered mushrooms ($14) and foie gras-stuffed daikon tempura ($25) feel like a few hundred kilojoules over the recommended daily dose, however, so we order battered asparagus under a blizzard of parmigiano reggiano ($14) instead. It’s fine, but you could probably skip it.

There are other, sake-friendly things, such as delicious, snow crab-filled croquettes (three for $19), yakitori (two skewers for $12), vinegar-pickled tomatoes ($9) and kangaroo tartare ($25). Tuna sashimi ($24) sharpened with yuzu juice, parsley oil and chilli is pretty to look at thanks to a few edible flowers, but too many competing flavours overpower the fish.

Ox tongue, simmered in red miso and served in a thick and intensely savoury sauce that’s as satisfying as any country pub casserole ($29), is a must, though. I’m just upset the place didn’t open four months ago; it would’ve been terrific to inhale curry-spiced whiting straight from the deep-fryer in the depths of winter and follow it up with Japanese stew and a spot of battered cheese. At least there’s plenty of time to get match-fit for next season.

This review was originally published in Good Weekend magazine