NEW YORK MEETS PARIS IN SYDNEY: A Review of Neil Perry’s Sydney Clubhouse
Distant memories of a pre-lockdown time that will soon again be upon us
Walking into Rockpool, one feels as if they’veve entered a strange mélange between a legacy steakhouse in midtown Manhattan and a storied European cocktail lounge—an enchanting combination of Del Frisco’s in New York and La Closerie des Lilas in Paris or Harry’s Bar in Florence. Far from France or Italy or America, however, Rockpool sits in the heart of Sydney. It’s a pleasant surprise, a gorgeous addition, and an inevitable powerhouse for the de facto capital of Britain’s former convict colony.
Rife with 30-meter ceilings, marble flooring, and towering columns, the place is verbose but solemn, commanding but graceful—intoxicating, charming, lascivious. Impeccably dressed, suit-sporting waiters usher in an ambiance of Madmen and Ocean’s 11—of Rat Pack chic and timeless elegance. Ubiquitous shades of noir invite one into a secret club, a mysterious culinary adventure waiting to be experienced. Overlooking the many tables below, an enormous balcony perches itself unimposingly above the noise. Of course, the second story also hosts a number of private dining rooms, as well as the powdering rooms.
The food is delectable, to say the least. The Oysters are enormous, fresh, and luxurious—lending new meaning to the old adage that the delicacy serves as an unparalleled aphrodisiac. The Squid Ink Risotto, topped with mouthwatering grilled pork belly is a staple. Warm, soft, and jet black, the dish beckons memories of holiday meals with beloved family members on cold winter nights. The Charcoal Roasted Prawns, peeled for convenience and thoroughly marinated, transport those with the good fortune to taste them off to an exotic seaside beach club on the Mediterranean. Their version of “Mac and Cheese,” which is really more of a Penne a la Vodka, tickles the taste buds and classes up a childhood favorite. The scallops are thick, succulent, and addicting. The freshly baked bread and butter blows all other yeast bakers out of the water.
While the menu is vast and expansive, their specialties come from the woodfired grill. The Free-Range Chicken with Jerusalem Artichokes and Sage Burnt Butter occupies the position of best in Sydney, hands down. Thick and juicy, it somehow manages to feel light, delicate, and angelic. The beef, on the other hand, sits in a league of its own, putting The Gidley, 6Head, and many of Sydney’s other iconic steakhouses to shame. Their trick is that there is no staple, no go-to cut. The selection changes daily, meaning that Rockpool’s meat guru’s pick the best cuts on offer from exceptional butchers each and every morning. Master’s in their craft, the chefs know to prepare just about anything. Like the Fast saga’s Dominic Toretto always says—it ain’t the car, it’s the driver. At Rockpool, it ain’t the meat, it’s the chefs. But frankly, the meat is uniformly of exceptional quality—thoroughly marbled, expertly seasoned, and exquisitely cooked. The full blood wagyu’s I’ve had there are my favorites, but again, anything one orders is going to melt in their mouth.
Then there are the desserts. Rockpool might as well have a bakery tucked into a corner of their vast kitchen, because these treats are worthy of a very lucky child’s birthday party and bring one back to the many they likely celebrated as a kid in parks, in classrooms, and at home. The Red Velvet Cupcakes are especially indulgent—rich, creamy, and deserving of their own award for best dessert.
The quality of service is second to none. They think of everything. On two occasions, upon returning from the bathroom, I found my food had been kept warm by an attentive waiter. For my birthday, which had been noted in the reservation, I received a battery of complimentary dishes—prawns, scallops, champagne, cupcakes, and chocolate. This, of course, was in addition to what we had ordered. I couldn’t finish all of it and, admittedly, took some home—because even reheated, Rockpool is far better than anything I or anybody else can cook. It’s also worth noting that sharing is caring at Rockpool, and almost all of the dishes can be split. In fact, for no extra cost and, I suspect, a bit of a heftier portion, the waiter will serve out dishes on separate plates. On another occasion, I asked to move tables because I couldn’t hear my date over the uproarious laughter coming from a portly gent seated nearby. Our table was moved immediately, with no questions asked.
The bar and the cocktails (which, evidently, are also served in the dining room) are a world apart from the restaurant, but consistent in quality. Adjoined to the main floor but in a separate little building, the bar is sleek, chic, and noir—like something out of the David Yurman Townhouse on Madison and 57th. It’s a modern, sophisticated play on the old diner’s clubs of New York where politicians, businessmen, and journalists used to hold court, for their power lunches, happy hours, and pre-dinner drinks. The Wagyu-Rubbed Old Fashioned is one of their timeless specialties. So too is their whiskey sour. Most drinks come with a large square ice cube sporting an intricate, freshly carved pattern. As with the food, the cocktail menu is ever-changing, so there’s always something new, exciting, and gay to which one can eagerly look forward.
Without trepidation, I would recommend Rockpool to anybody. The only caveat to that is that the restaurant is, by nature and design, rather expensive. It is a special occasion joint whose patrons typically come to celebrate something. It’s not the kind of place you’d visit multiple times a week. But it doesn’t try or intend to be. Rockpool is what it is—an unapologetic, beautiful feast.
