I’m not sure who this disappointing Brisbane import is for. But it’s certainly not me

The bartender is in a mood. Someone called in sick, he doesn’t feel that well himself, and the large party at the bar showed up an hour late for their booking. The Corpse Reviver 86 cocktail he’s made me proves that he knows what he’s doing – it’s cold and balanced and zippy – but the poor dude is also having to make drinks with names like “Tim Tam Slam” and “Pavlova Punch,” which would ruin the night of any self-respecting mixologist. (“No lychee martini?” one of the latecomers gripes.)

We, on the other hand, are not late. In fact, we’re embarrassingly early. “Yeah, there’s still someone sitting at your table,” Mr. Grumpy-Pants says. A few minutes later, two blokes walk in with no booking and are shown directly up the stairs while we languish in the bar with our disgruntled friend. When we finally get our chance, we see the dining room – fitted out in dramatically curtained booths and mirrored ceilings – is more than half empty. We wait. And wait. Drinks are ordered. It’s 25 minutes before we get a food menu. The walk-ins are already eating happily.

This is Blackbird, the Brisbane transplant on Flinders Lane adjacent to the Sofitel Hotel. The site was recently home to another transplant, New Zealand-founded Botswana Butchery, before that company went into administration. Botswana was an odd restaurant, huge and lavish and expensive, and I questioned exactly who it was for. But the food and service were good, and they had a lobster roll I still think about.

I’m also not sure who Blackbird is for: steak-centric, cocktails made to taste like iconic Australian desserts, a basement bar that reminds me of the Gold Class lounge at Village Cinemas. Regardless, I’m hoping the Botswana Butchery equation will apply (odd fit for Melbourne; good food and service) minus the crippling debt.

But the (lack of) welcome was a sign of things to come. There were a couple of early wins: a raw honey bug (a species of Balmain bug) that was sweet and fresh; a duck and foie gras pâté that was so soft as to be almost liquid but had a strong, rich, decadent flavour that worked beautifully with brioche toast.

But that was about where the fun ends. John Dory with mussels, clams and fregola pearls was bland and overcooked, and the sea urchin butter it came with tasted of nothing much, perhaps a whiff of something vanilla-adjacent, but it was hard to tell.

A generously portioned marrow bone was a total waste, so undercooked that its pink, globby interior was still cool, with none of the tense wobble and gushing fat a few more minutes under heat would have given it.

Surely the steaks, the signature item, were better? Not really. A 250-gram strip loin ordered medium rare came out oversalted and undercooked, its gristle un-rendered, with a slaw that appeared to be dressed in mayo and wasabi, a combination that should be left firmly in some shameful past decade.

I’m not sure how to even write about the tres leches and passionfruit dessert without veering into indecent adjectives, so I’ll keep it simple: tooth-achingly sweet, texturally unnerving, do not recommend.

The most impressive thing about Blackbird is its wine list, which is expansive and diverse, with something at every price point and for every taste. The sommelier is also friendly and knowledgeable, which stands out here, especially because the rest of the staff either seem angry or dazed, like they were dropped here in the middle of one of those waiting tables stress dreams every current and ex-hospo person has. How did I get here? What am I supposed to be doing?

Maybe I caught everyone, kitchen, bar staff, wait staff, on a bad day? It seemed unlikely but I went back for lunch. The seafood (tuna tartare) was fresh but the flavours were tired (more wasabi). Heirloom baby beetroots were startlingly cold, over a labne that was more paste than cream. I couldn’t face another dessert.

All of this is especially disappointing because we in Melbourne tend to be horrible snobs about Brisbane, which is actually a beautiful city with a dining scene that gets better by the minute. But Blackbird lives up to the cliche we like to impose: flash without substance or taste; expense without payoff. Sometimes expensive and flashy are fun, but we already have a whole casino up the road for that purpose, and plenty within a three-block radius that have all the glitz, plus actual heart.

“I shoulda stayed home,” the bartender proclaimed bitterly to the hostess, early on that first evening. Me too, buddy, me too.

Good Food reviews are booked anonymously and paid independently. A restaurant can’t pay for a review or inclusion in the Good Food Guide.

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