Tipo 00: Cucina Italiana in the heart of Melbourne

Photo credit Kristoffer Paulsen

My decision to visit Tipo 00 was merely one of convenience and the fact it was less than 3 minutes, at a brisk pace, from the bus stop. I wanted a quick lunch stop and a new foodie friend recommended this Italian pasta bar. I don’t normally  go out for pasta but I thought I’d give it a try. The bar itself is just off of Elizabeth Street, on Little Bourke Street; it’s small, relatively cosy, and has an L-shaped mozzarella bar to the left as you walk through the door. Conveniently, it is situated but a few yards from Brothers Baba Budan Coffee House, so if you know your Melbourne coffee stops, you can’t miss it. I had to research why the restaurant was named Tipo 00 – it turns out to be the name of the flour they use to make their pasta. This, to me, is a pleasant sign; they make all their own pasta in house. The restaurant’s website states it focuses on three things; Italian food, pasta and wine. As some of you may know, I don’t drink when I go out to eat, so as usual I’ll be reporting on the most important thing – the food. One of the best thing I’ve noticed about Melbourne is that there is no pressure to drink with the meal, which isn’t always the case in many establishments.

After ordering a long black coffee, which is wholly necessary after four hours of sleep, I take a moment to appreciate the atmosphere and styling of the restaurant. The place is casual - you can see casualness running through the very stone of the bar, the wooden panelling, and the simplistic wine cellar that, remarkably, appears to resemble a bookcase. A lady sits to my left - a lady who, perhaps, could have won my heart had I been born during the Truman administration - looking vaguely panicked and worried. She quickly tells me, upon enquiring, that her dining companions had missed their stop on the tram and are running late. Tipo 00 fills up quickly if you don’t have a reservation; I am profoundly lucky to have scored a spot by virtue of dining all by my lonesome. There are certain advantages to being single. The waitress is putting no pressure on my newfound dining partner, reinforcing the fact that Tipo 00 is a casual, relaxed and low-strung institution. I like this very much - far too many restaurants can push you out of the door, betraying their casual demeanour for a management style only seen in Assenheim’s 56 near Moorgate.

After exchanging niceties and the usual “Oh, you’re here on holiday? How are you liking Australia?”, she orders herself a lime-based cocktail (someone who drinks can provide you with a list of them - I have no idea what it was or what it tasted like. I’m guessing it probably tasted of lime...) She tells me, in a perfectly enunciated Australian accent, that she is from Perth, and therefore does not refer to herself as “Strayan” as the Victorians do. Here, I’m referring to Victorians in the sense that Melbourne is in the state of Victoria, not people from the Victorian era. Obviously.
To distract myself from her alcohol-fueled amorous advances, I subtly divert my attention to the menu. It’s broken down into the usual sections you see at Italian eateries around the world; Appetisers, Pasta & Risotto, Secondi, Sides and Dolce - no surprises here then. I see a few of my favourite things here – all Sound of Music references aside – such as grilled ox tongue, calves’ liver, Burrata, squid, and scallops. Essentially, there is too much to choose from! I opt for a ‘surprise’ tasting menu which takes a few dishes from each main section - to make choosing dishes easier. Additionally, to make my investigation more thorough, I went back a second time to sample a few more of the dishes. Please don’t judge.


Whilst waiting for the food to drop, I watch a chef cutting spaghettini from a bronze-dye automated pasta extruder. As the pasta marches through the mould, the chef adeptly slices them with a palette knife, weighs them, and rolls them into rings before adding them to a lined tray. A server brings out an amuse bouche and bread together. First into my mouth is some homemade focaccia with ricotta and basil oil. The cheese is light and fresh and contrasts nicely with the texture of the bread, although I feel it could have benefited from a pinch of coarse sea salt for extra pop. The arancini sits upon a securing blob of garlic mayonnaise; it’s crisp on the outside, as it should be, with a tomato and Parmigiano Reggiano interior. There is a subtle perfume of basil which permeates through the rice, keeping the Italian Holy Trinity of cheese, tomato and basil together. The tomato flavour dissipates quicker than I expect, giving way to the tang of Parmigiano Reggiano. The aged cheese flavour is pleasant but without the unifying umbrella of tomato, the cheese is constantly at odds with the basil.


The next plate is promised to me as “the best artichoke you’ll ever eat.” It isn’t. The artichoke has a cheese and breadcrumb gratin over the top and a parsnip puree, and is served with cubes of artichoke stem. This ends up being the most disappointing of the dishes for me. The parsnip puree bleeds into a dressing which washes a lot of the intense parsnip flavour away, and there is void on the palate where salt should be - the stuff of foodie nightmares. The artichoke itself is cold, and one too many leaves have been left on - resulting in quite a tough mouthful of glorified mediterranean thistle. If it is indeed the best artichoke I’ll ever eat, I’ve lost all interest in future artichoke-related endeavours.


On my second outing, I am delivered the off-menu special of octopus carpaccio, set in a red wine jelly with diced celery and potato and two smears of, you guessed it, artichoke puree. A scattering of parsley shoots complete the dish. Again, the dish has a distinct lack of seasoning. There is a weird acrid taste of red-wine in the jelly, and would probably be better replaced by fish stock jelly or similar - basically, something salty. I see the point behind using the red wine, since it is the same wine used to braise the octopus, but it seems to come at the expense of harmony across the range of components. It’s not quite sour but it isn’t sweet - I guess it just tastes of wine. Can you see why wine is often just wasted on me? In my best wine connoisseur voice, “This one tastes like the colour maroon.”


A dish consisting of baby squid, ‘cous-cous’, basil, basil oil, balsamic dressing and pomegranate drops next. I say ‘cous-cous’ as I have a feeling that, due to the roasted, nutty quality of the grains, it is more likely Fregola Sarda. I may be wrong, and it could just be giant Italian cous-cous. The squid is well charred and still tender to the tooth; I’m thankful I don’t have to add it to my list of ‘seafood with the texture of silicon implants’ – it’s quite full already. The basil leaves add some colour, but remind me of the parsley garnish you would find on a plate at Rick Stein’s in the mid nineties. The basil oil is great and packs a weighty punch; it would have been enough by itself. The ‘cous-cous’ is a little too soft for me but the flavour is good, with a nuttiness exuding from the toasted grains. The pomegranate is superfluous to my mind; the dish doesn’t need any sweetness and would benefit from a bit more deliberate salinity. The balsamic vinegar also seems like an afterthought; both elements add too much sweetness for a squid dish, and it simply isn’t needed - there is no excess fattiness to cut through, nor is there so much salt that it requires balancing.


Returning a second time, Ox tongue is presented as the next course - slivers of meat are wrapped into neat rolls, and drizzled with a sweet balsamic vinegar and spicy red peppercorn sauce. The tongue itself is lightly brined and retains a good amount of saltiness, but not in such excessive quantities that your tongue turns in on itself like the collapse of a dying star. The acidity in the sauce serves to cut through the fattiness of the meat, in addition to providing some sweetness to complement the pepperiness. There isn’t much you can say about this dish and not much you can get wrong - it is simple and delicious.


On the second visit, I insist that I have the calves liver. Aside from a bowl of tripe and liver soup I had previously in a Chinese restaurant in Boxhill, I am in dire need of an offal fix. It’s served on dark plate with a sea of balsamic vinegar and onion sauce, mirroring the liver and onion you often find in the UK. The liver is perfectly cooked – slightly pink in the middle and yielding to the tooth. The sauce is sweet and sour, appropriate for this dish seeing as a piece of calves liver is incredibly fatty in comparison to pigs or lambs liver. There are two pieces of scalding-hot fried polenta, the first bite of which burns the skin from the roof of my mouth in an inferno of creamy parmesan. Recovering well, I return to the liver. The liver is sliced and baptised in the sauce and has all the familiar tastes of Italian home cooking.


For the fish course, I’m served a fillet of red mullet on spaghettini. The sauce is a delicious mixture of an anchovy and onion base, with fried garlic and chilli and fennel tops, saffron, lemon and butter. This is my favourite dish of the day; the garlic and chilli give a warm background whilst the lemon and fennel tops serve to cut through the fattiness of the butter. The spaghettini doesn’t make it onto the Rockwell scale, yet has a decent bite to complement the soft fish. The mullet is completely bone-free and the skin is crisp, adding another layer of texture and interest to the dish. The flavours are light enough to taste the perfume of saffron running through the plate, and the sauce clings well to the back of the spoon. The balance between the flavours is perfect, with no taste overpowering another. This, to me, epitomises Italian cooking at its best. It is balanced, it is subtle, and it is simple. It’s so good that I thought it worth eating twice, so I requested it be included in my second visit. The second edition of this dish was just as good as the first - I appreciate consistency in cooking.


The main course is braised duck with black pepper, tomatoes, Pecorino cheese and gnocchi. The gnocchi are less “pillows with bite” but more “sponges with sauce”. For me this dish lacks the hearty flavours you’d expect from a ragu-like sauce. The Pecorino provides some much-needed salinity yet the dish remains a bit squishy, for want of a better word. Unfortunately, this gnocchi dish is completely forgettable.


The Casarecce and sausage with garlic and sage, on the other hand, is a different beast entirely. The pasta is firm yet not undercooked; it has a distinct lack of chalkiness – the very definition of underdone pasta or rice. The sauce has a mysterious stringy-melted cheese in it which I can’t place, and is bitter with radicchio. The bitterness is no bad thing; in fact, after wave after wave of sweet and sour balsamic vinegar, it is a welcome change in tone. The dish has only four or five components, but each contributes and plays its part perfectly. There’s enough salt from the sausage, there’s bitterness from the radicchio, and bite from the pasta - all gelling together with the help of the mystery cheese. This edges into pole position for me; the ultimate test of Italian cooking in my eyes is whether it is possible to cook it yourself at home. Boil Casarecce - which I know is available in UK supermarkets as I’ve bought some before - in oiled and salted water, fry some split sage and onion sausage with onion, and add a melty non-Mozzarella cheese. Mix in some chopped radicchio and serve. Test passed. Just kidding; I’ll do a recipe review on this. It’s likely to be the same with a few more connectives.


For puddings – yes there are two of them, bite me – there is an offering of passionfruit panna cotta with mango and basil, followed by a “Tipomisu”, which unsurprisingly has all the usual tiramisu flavours, with the addition of a salted-caramel espresso sauce. The panna cotta is fairly firm, with numerous air bubbles betraying the fact that it has been set with slightly too much gelatine - though the flavours are good and serve to compensate for it. It’s not bad, but it also isn’t outstandingly stellar. The additions of mango and basil add a freshness to work against the firm cream and they do so rather well, the mango leaving a fruity sharpness in the mouth. The “Tipomisu” is warm and rich and everything that a wintery dessert should be. It has all the flavours but none of the lightness that tiramisu usually brings at the end of a meal, so it could be argued to be quite stodgy - the kind of pudding you know you’ve eaten as it sits deep in the gut. I idiotically eat the panna cotta before the chocolate. On both visits. I told you I’m an idiot...

Although I may have seemed overly negative about some of these dishes, Tipo 00 has many great things going for it. The flaws, in most cases, didn’t detract from the experience too much, but did leave many obvious areas for improvement. Perhaps, during a busy lunch rush, the cooking of pasta and fregola was slightly misjudged - but as a specialised pasta bar I would expect more consistency in the execution of their pasta. The majority of classic dishes are great; the simplicity of the pasta dishes with robust, balanced flavours really put it ahead of many other places I’ve been which serve similar fare. The pasta has good bite, and the smaller plates have interesting flavour concepts - but often the execution can be a bit of a let-down. The desserts are not too sweet, carrying enough weight to finish the meal, especially if you manage to eat them in the correct order. I’d still recommend going along and having a go; the Casarecce, chargrilled squid and the spaghettini are excellent solo items. Be brave and try the liver and tongue as they pack a lot of solid flavour which can be lacking in other dishes. Looking over the shoulder of my dining neighbours, they also appear to have some fruity Italian cheeses. For a quick and cheap Italian lunch-fix - sat at a casual bar - this is a place not to miss. If you have a pathological hatred of artichoke hyperbole, give that particular dish a wide berth. There are far better artichokes out there; the marinated artichokes from a Morrison’s supermarket open salad bar, for example.

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