EAT > Maison Bâtard, Melbourne (16/20)

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Aspiring to Parisian grandeur is some what expected in Australia’s French restaurants, but Maison Bâtard takes it to a new level, four of them actually. An unabashed, four-level reverie to la belle France, right on Bourke Street. It is here, amongst velvet, marble, and spirited conversation, that a chap might imagine himself on the Right Bank, with only the faintest whiff of tram brake dust to remind one he is, in fact, in Australia.

AMBIENCE >

From the moment one is shown through the landmark heritage doors, Maison Bâtard envelops you in a whirl of jazz, velvet-lined nooks, and the genteel bustle of Melbourne’s society set. The grand staircase spirals upwards like the flourish of a maître d’s napkin, connecting a moody basement suppertime salon (just the place to conspire over a late Cognac), brasserie-style dining rooms adorned with modern art, and a rooftop terrace, shaded by a mature maple, where one may take their Kir Royale al fresco as the city lights glimmer.

Service is knowing and brisk, with enough theatricality to remind one that dinner, here, is a spectacle best enjoyed in good company, polished shoes, and a dash of cologne for good measure.

EAT >

Maison Bâtard’s menu proffers a greatest-hits of French brasserie fare, reimagined for the discerning Melbourne palate. A signature potato omelette, rolled with crisp chips and crowned with Oscietra caviar, arrives with unembarrassed decadence. Bannockburn chicken, brined and roasted on the rôtisserie, is marinated with green olives and herbs—a nod, the waiter insists, to Ducasse, but the lemony brightness is pure Melbourne spring.

The grill is put to fine use: an eye fillet, served perfectly rare, and a lustrous duck, bronzed and tender, conjure the best of Paris and Gascony at once. Sides—potato mash, Comté-laced cauliflower, and slender fries—are unashamedly buttery, compelling even a self-disciplined diner to cast aside all restraint.
Dessert is executed with panache: mousse au chocolat, swooped tableside, and the house sundae with red berries and a swoosh of Chantilly. A flourish, indeed, and the sort of thing Dickens might have taken as proof positive of progress since the days of gruel.

Prices scale heights worthy of Montmartre’s church steps, but what one receives is a rich, immersive experience—a celebration of old-world hospitality dressed in Melbourne’s finest.

WINE >

The cellar is mighty and deeply French, ably guided by a sommelier who glides about with the confidence of a Savile Row tailor. There are flights of Champagne and many a Burgundy, but also more democratic bottles for those whose wallets have lately encountered the perfidious forces of inflation. The Dirty Bâtard cocktail—a Martini enlivened with Chartreuse—arrives with a wink and the promise of one more just like it. Certainly, the wines are priced with ambition, but one must expect to pay dearly for such elegance.

VERDICT >

Maison Bâtard is not for the faint of heart, nor for those who wish to “grab a quick bite.” Prices scale heights worthy of Montmartre’s church steps, but what one receives is a rich, immersive experience—a celebration of old-world hospitality dressed in Melbourne’s finest. Not every dish achieves perfection (let us forgive a salad verte or a sluggish water jug), and conversation may struggle against a boisterous crowd, but these are mere footnotes in an otherwise splendid symphony.

For celebrations, assignations, or an evening when only the crispest linen and the softest lighting will do, Maison Bâtard asserts itself with gusto. You will leave lighter of wallet, but faintly aglow—and if you close your eyes outside on Bourke Street, the magic of Paris lingers, just for a moment.

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