Isn’t Melbourne lucky. We have an influx of authentic Asian eateries, abundance of Italian and in the small pocket of Greville street, we get to go to Paris. Passport free.
Just arriving at ‘Rue de Entrecôte’ already feels like you’re transported. The cute French curtain, grand piano belting out classics and exquisitely dressed waitstaff that give a truly international vibe.
Service too is typically French. Even when you’ve booked, you may barely be noticed or attended to for a few good minutes, and little apology when you finally are. But with a jovial smile and swarve French accent leading you to your opulently set table, makes that short (but long) wait become redundant.
The dining room is oh so French. Ostentatious champagne holders, plush purple carpets and booths, and grand dimly lit chandeliers give the space light and warmth even on a chilly day. A strikingly sexy large print of a s/he with curly black ringlets, intense dreamy eyes and a bare nipple exposed can’t help capture your attention in adventure and intrigue.
There’s a place everyone at Entrecôte. Mohawk rockstars clinking Champagne, sharing bumps of caviar , elderly neui viu wealthy ladies dripping in pearls, sipping dirty martinis and just your regular mums and dads out for a cheeky weekday lunch. There’s even a dedicated stool for your handbag to sit, and whether it’s a Gucci, Prada, or just a cheap knock off -it gets the same airspace.
Naturally the food marries its location. In French tradition, lather a slab of creamy butter on a crunchy white baguette and shot down a freshly chucked oyster. Tartare de Boeuf (beef) has hints of salty cornichons and is topped with a plump golden yolk. Mix it in, pile it onto the paprika crisps and season with tobasco for some seriously delightful crunch . Provence style seafood ragout is a soupy mix with balls of orange carrots, yellow spuds, and a colour scheme reminiscent of the outside crisp autumn day.
But who are we kidding, the entrecôte is where it’s at. A rich, juicy piece of black Angus beef has a ruby pink inside, and is topped with a soft velvety green ‘secret’ sauce. The simplicity of being served along a humble serve of frites make you realise why the French are famous. And when the sommelier tells you in an abruptly serious tone that you ‘must’ order the hermitage as ‘it is ze best’ , you listen. (even if it might cost you your weeks wage, this isn’t a place for counting pennies or calories) and as it turns out, she was not wrong.
Deserts are poised, refined, and delightful. A vacherin (discs of meringue) with sweet but balanced poached stone fruit and delicate petals are a gorgeous end to a sublime meal. You leave with a weathered credit card, a satisfied belly, and a vow that you must make it to Paris sometime.
Bottom line; a taste of France in the heart of Melbourne. Oui Merci.