>A pre-Christmas dinner with work friends took us to one my new favourite restaurants in Melbourne.
Il Solito Posto is tucked away in a basement down a side alley off the Paris end of Collins Street. It could have been a businessman’s realm but managed not to be. Small groups in suits sat eating in casual surroundings on the upper level, but the real treat was further down the stairs into the basement proper.
From our corner table we could see everything. One wall was lined with shelves full of wine. The clientele was a mix of after-work diners, couples and slightly noisier groups of friends.
Alan and Jeanette our waiters were the ultimate in Melbourne hospitality: unobtrusive, but friendly and professional, they guided us through the menu, wine list and specials as if we were regulars.
The menu was not too lengthy, with something for everybody. Classic antipasti, an excellent well-chosen list of pasta and risotto dishes, and main courses ranging from rib-eye steak to snapper.
I chose the sea urchin for a starter from the specials list. Two spiky specimens arrived, each sitting on a bed of salt, the meat sitting atop a scoop or two of chopped onion, chilli and ginger in a light vinaigrette dressing. It was ultra-fresh and tasted of the sea. Divine.
For the main course I chose the fillet steak, roasted medium-rare and served on a bed of mashed potato. Every mouthful was a treat; the steak was perfectly cooked.
The wine list was superb: dozens of wines grouped by grape, ranging from under $50 to almost four figures. We chose a Chianti Classico (when in Rome…) from the lower end of the price scale, which complemented our food perfectly.
I could not resist the dessert menu (unusual for me) and chose a tiramisu. The girls helped me out with their coffee spoons. Like a good Italian restaurant, they had it just right. Not too boozy, not too runny, not too big.
Il Solito Posto translates as “the usual place” and I can guarantee that this little place will become one of my regular haunts in the city. Whether for a quick after-work bite in the bar or a perfect Italian dinner downstairs, it won’t let you down.

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They say Pellegrini’s has had one paint job in over fifty years, and it left the place looking exactly the same. I wandered in there one cold Monday night, walking the length of its 1950s bar to the cosy kitchen at the back. The red leather barstools are comfortable enough for a weekday lunchtime or an afternoon macchiato and slice of apple strudel, but the dark evenings make the big communal kitchen table beckon.

There is no menu as such; an old wood veneer menu hangs from the ceiling above the bar. It lists a handful of dishes but there are no prices. Over time you get to know the daily specials – spinach and ricotta cannelloni makes a guest appearance on Tuesdays and gnocchi cameos on Fridays. The waiters charge you whatever they like, but it is always great value.

I sat with a man and his young son to one side of me, and the owner himself on the other, trademark silk kerchief at his neck, apparently being interviewed for an article. The young boy chatted comfortably to the woman at the cooker about his recently deceased pet rabbit, while she cooked him his “usual” and taught him a few more words of Italian.

The cooker was simmering with pots of bolognese and napoli sauces whilst the oven opened briefly to display an enormous lasagne. The cook lady turned out plates of pasta ordered in shouted Italian from the bar beyond, whilst seeming to talk away to herself in between times (in Italian too, so I couldn’t eavesdrop).

My plate of steaming ravioli bolognese came with two freshly buttered doorsteps of bread and a cold glass of water. No alcohol here in Pellegrini’s, but the food is good enough to entice me to eat even without a glass of red in my hand. When asked, the lady happily heaped lots more parmesan onto my already loaded plate from her bowl by the cooker.

I ate slowly, taking in the surroundings. An ancient poster of the Chianti region and an old advertisement for Besana pannetonni adorned the walls, darkened by years of grease and heat. Beyond a hatch in the wall the bar was half-full of diners but it felt sleepier than daylight hours. The oak table was about eight inches thick, and the stools about an inch too low for it. The forks were bent and the white crockery dull and chipped in places, but my supper was sublime.

Later, as I sipped my long macchiato, the cook lady silently left her position at the cooker and came back with a saucer of home-made biscuits for me. I dunked them in my sweet coffee, feeling even more at home. They didn’t charge me for them.