BISTRO REX - LONG LUNCHING POTTS POINT

Finding a French bistro in Sydney isn’t difficult anymore.

Almost every suburb has something claiming a little piece of Paris. But finding one that feels effortless, with an uncomplicated menu and service that feels just as effortless, is still much harder.

Whenever I’m looking for a long lunch spot, Bistro Rex had been popping up for some time.

So when I’m asked about birthday and Christmas presents, I don’t really need anything but craft beer boxes and wine bar vouchers. Now that’s a gift I’ll happily receive.

Researching the menus is part of the ritual, skimming websites and Instagram profiles, checking menus and wine lists. I always look for a few telltale things.

A generous entrée section. Steak tartare. Charcuterie. Then I check the price of oysters, because that’s usually a good indication of where the restaurant sits.

Then the wine list. Lots by the glass and please, not just the standard varietals. These days I’d love to see Fiano, Sancerre, Petit Verdot, Grenache or Montepulciano.

Oh, and if you have a Sparkling Shiraz, don’t judge.

Bistro Rex ticked all my boxes but Sunday lunch also happened to be BYO which meant I could take something special out of the cellar.

A 2010 Rockford Basket Press Shiraz.

Crossing Macleay Street to Bistro Rex, I hadn’t realised it occupied the ground floor of an apartment building.

Restaurants in residential buildings like this are becoming a mainstay as developers begin creating communities, not just apartments.

As this building was smaller, walking inside the bistro felt instantly intimate and the room was alive. Conversations drifted around marble tables. Waiters darted through the room, drinks flowed and the open kitchen was a buzz.

Before we’d even opened our menus a waiter was asking, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Perfect!

For me, that’s one of hospitality’s simplest tests. I won’t read a menu before I have a drink in my hand. Even if it’s only sparkling water.

Ideally it’s a Negroni.

At the same time the sommelier walked over.

“I had to come and say hello,” he laughed. “I was distracted by that bottle.”

I was definitely in my kind of place.

The Rockford disappeared to be opened. A few minutes later I noticed the decanter sitting on the kitchen pass at the front of the open kitchen. Sitting proudly on display, being allowed to breathe.

I smiled. I knew exactly which bottle it was.

My Negroni arrived in a beautiful crystal glass. Unfortunately it also arrived carrying what looked like about a quarter of an orange. I get orange in a Negroni. A simple twist of peel releasing its oils across the surface is perfect.

Just not enough to stock a fruit bowl. A giant wedge becomes something you have to wrestle every time you take a sip.

A tiny thing. But hospitality is often a collection of tiny things.

Not long afterwards the somm brought over two glasses saying we were probably opening it a few months later than ideal, another six months and it may well have been too far gone. He explained he’d decanted it carefully. The cork was a punish and he’d left almost an inch of heavy sediment behind.

His assessment was right.

The first few minutes showed its age, but then it opened beautifully. Silky. Velvety. Everything I hoped for from an old Basket Press

One of the things I loved most about the menu was that it almost encouraged you to forget about mains altogether. The best wine bars should make you want to order another glass, and another small plate rather than rush towards the biggest thing on the menu.

Ordering the Tartare was never in doubt, the grilled baby octopus sounded great and the baked beetroot somehow found its way onto the order as well.

The Wagyu tartare arrived first, a perfectly formed round of Wagyu topped with a golden egg yolk scattered with flakes of salt that caught the light like little jewels. Breaking the yolk and watching it slowly run through the beef felt ceremonial.

It was outstanding.

The hibachi grilled baby octopus had everything I hope for. Tender through the middle, crisp around the edges, sitting over chickpeas with just enough nduja butter to remind you it was there without taking over.

The salt baked beetroot was exactly what great beetroot should be. Soft, earthy and sweet. Completely at home beside everything else on the table.

Three dishes. Three little winners.

The Rockford quietly tied the whole lunch together and now had found its rhythm, opening with every glass. Old wines can be like that. Sometimes they just need to breathe a little, I mean it’s been stuck in there for 15 years.

When I’m in a French bistro there are two dishes I’m hoping to find. Bouillabaisse and cassoulet. If one of them is on the menu, chances are my decision has already been made.

Eventually it was time for the cassoulet. Duck leg, Toulouse sausage, Ham hock and Cannellini beans. Comfort food doesn’t need to be reinvented when it’s already this good.

This also came with the Steak Frites a stunning medium rare sirlion with crunchy fries and a the Cavolo Nero salad to cut through all the moreish French richness.

Some lunches are over in an hour. This was never going to be one of them. Long lunches have their own rhythm.

Nobody is watching the clock. Nobody is trying to turn tables.

Another sip, another conversation, and more people watching around the room

It’s made possible when hospitality almost disappears into the background, quietly giving you permission to stay exactly where you are.

I think that’s what struck me most.

Since COVID I’d almost forgotten what effortless hospitality felt like. Not over-attentive. Not theatrical. Just genuinely professional people who made the whole afternoon feel easy.

Walking out, I realised it had taken me years to finally get to Bistro Rex.

It won’t take me nearly as long to go back.