Ben John is the chef behind BistroX at The StandardX in Fitzroy. He trained in Aotearoa New Zealand, came up through some of Naarm’s most exacting kitchens, and has led teams at places where standards are high and pressure is constant. At BistroX, he’s building something deliberately more relaxed: a neighbourhood bistro inside a hotel that doesn’t really feel like a hotel at all. We talk about suppliers and seasons, teaching young chefs properly, breaking down whole animals, and what leadership looks like now compared with when he was coming up. We also talk about balance, longevity, and how to stay generous in a demanding industry. I really enjoyed this conversation. Ben is thoughtful, grounded and deeply committed to the craft.

It’s been a few years since I last saw Punit, back when Elichi was still open in Black Rock and the world and hospitality felt very different. In the time since, he’s lived what feels like several careers’ worth of experience: closing a restaurant, cooking through lockdown with his family, stepping into senior hotel roles, winning AHA Chef of the Year last year, and quietly building the foundations for something deeply personal. That something is Bombay Meri Jaan, Punit’s Richmond restaurant and love letter to Mumbai. Not the shorthand version of Indian food most of us think we know, but a layered, regional, memory-driven expression of western Indian cooking shaped by coastal spices, street snacks, family recipes, and the rhythms of a city that never stops moving. In this conversation, Punit talks about slowing down, learning when to step back, and what it means to cook food that actually reflects who you are. We cover hotel kitchens and home cooking, leadership and letting go, butter chicken (of course), and why some of the most important dishes are the ones tied to trains, fishermen, and late-night streets.

I first spoke to Esca Khoo a few years ago, when he was head chef at Miss Mi and thinking out loud about where food might take him next. Since then, he’s travelled, cooked and learned his way across Southeast Asia. What’s stayed constant is his generosity and the size of his heart, something that shows up as much in the way he runs a kitchen as in the food he cooks. Now he’s back in Melbourne, leading the kitchen at Tyga on Koornang Road in Carnegie. I came to the opening, and could not wait to go back, largely because I couldn’t stop thinking about the wood-fired bone marrow with crab sambal and roti. This conversation picks up where the last one left off and I loved it every bit as much as I loved the first.

Moondrop has only just opened, but it already knows exactly who it is: a Shanghai-1920s fever dream on Gertrude Street, all low light, Mahjong tiles and jazz-era swagger, it’s the kind of bar that looks effortless. Of course, it isn’t. When a venue with a big past goes dark, it leaves behind more than a fitted-out bar. It leaves pressure. The easy move is to inherit the room and keep moving. Chef Jacob Muoio along with co-owners, Steve Chan and Jesse Kourmouzis chose the harder option with the space that was previously The Everleigh: strip it back, repaint the mood, and refuse to wear someone else’s suit. That’s where this conversation starts, before moving quickly into the good stuff: cocktails built on fabulous puns and excellent balance, food designed to keep you drinking happily past midnight, and a working philosophy that favours calm, curiosity and not being a dick. Jacob talks about learning Chinese ingredients in real time, juggling Sleepy’s and Moondrop, and raising a young family alongside opening a new bar.

What happens when a chef wanders off the line and into biotechnology? In George Peppou’s case, you get Vow, a company growing meat in a new way, not instead of animals, but with far fewer of them. Cultured meat starts with a tiny sample of animal cells, nurtured in a stainless-steel tank the way yeast is nurtured into bread or grapes into wine. Feed those cells well, let them multiply into muscle, fat and connective tissue, and in a matter of weeks you have meat without needing to raise whole flocks or herds. It opens questions most of us have never had to ask. What if meat could be produced with less land, less resource intensity, and a fraction of the animals? What if foie gras could be indulgent without the ethical weight? What if the future of meat is less about taking something away, and more about curiosity, flavour and abundance? George is chasing a future where meat is abundant, sustainable, and joy-giving. I wanted to know how he got here, what it all means, and what it looks like on the plate.

I sat down with Culinary Creative Director Michael Stolley and Head Chef Hung Hoa Duong at Disuko, the new terracotta-glowing, disco-ball-speckled takeover of the old Madame Brussels space. Michael is the big-picture force, the one thinking in concepts, mood, music and menus, while Hoa brings a grounded precision shaped by Nobu, Kisumé and a long, steady engagement with Japanese technique. Together they’ve built a venue where omakase discipline meets Shibuya-fun dining, where a fillet-o-ebi sando with prawn katsu, tartare, and American cheese sits happily alongside chicken wings painted in black garlic schmaltz and an udon carbonara. They’re honest about the grind, the joy, the burnout and the strange compulsion that keeps chefs in kitchens long after logic tells them to leave.

There’s something genuinely uplifting about sitting down with someone who’s spent over forty years in hospitality and still lights up when they talk about food. That’s Darryl Hand. He’s been in kitchens since the days of Hilton Melbourne’s grand dining rooms in the ’80s, cooked for queens and rock stars, and seen hotel dining evolve from silver service to share plates and open kitchens. But what’s most striking is that he still exudes pure, uncomplicated joy when he talks about cooking. He’s the Executive Chef overseeing not one but two new hotels in the heart of Melbourne: Hotel Indigo and Holiday Inn on Little Collins and yet he is still the guy who gets excited about discovering a different kind of prawn in Sicily and wishing we could get them here.

Francesca Giorgi Monfort didn’t set out to become Melbourne’s most interesting pie maker. The Swiss-born chef’s path has been anything but straightforward: from PR and art galleries in London to restaurant management in Europe, and finally to the kitchen where she found her true calling. After working at Farmer’s Daughters, Marion and heading the kitchen at Noisy Ritual, Fran decided to do things her own way. What began as an experiment with puff pastry has become Frankie’s Pie Shop, a cult favourite at the Carlton Farmers’ Market known for pies with personality. Her cauliflower cheese pie, inspired by a Tesco recipe but elevated with charred vegetables and proper technique, is a perfect example of her ethos: simple done brilliantly. For now, she’s beginning a residency at Superette on Sydney Road in Brunswick, selling two flavours of pies and two sausage rolls every day. I met Fran at Superette and am especially grateful for her patience. It was my first video podcast, and she couldn’t have been more generous as we talked about pastry that gets more rest than she does, the quiet resilience behind Frankie’s, and her belief that vegetarian pies can, and should, be far more than vegetable stew.

Sincero in Malvern is the second restaurant from chef Mirco Speri and the team behind Buono in Parkdale. While Buono captures the easy warmth of a bayside trattoria, Sincero brings a quieter confidence to Glenferrie Road. Open since April 2024, it’s already known for what Mirco calls Italian my way: familiar flavours, local produce, and the occasional twist; like seaweed inguine with Moreton Bay bugs and blood orange jelly. Mirco has spent three decades cooking around the world, from Michelin-starred kitchens in Europe to Melbourne’s evolving dining scene. At Sincero, that experience shows in food that feels both grounded and instinctive. He’s not chasing trends or nostalgia; he’s cooking with sincerity, curiosity, and the kind of calm assurance that only comes from doing something you truly love. buymeacoffee.com/conversationwithachef

Today I’m chatting with Anuj Sanghi, who’s opened Bar Mercado on Peel Street, right across from the Queen Victoria Market. The name Mercado means “market” in Spanish, and that’s really the heart of what Anuj has created, a place for people to gather, share food, drink, stories, and cultures. Every morning he walks over to the market to hand-pick his produce, chatting with the traders and letting what he finds inspire the day’s menu. The food at Bar Mercado is a vibrant mix of South American, Spanish and Latin flavours; think wood-fired chorizo with chimichurri, oysters with chilli and lime granita, slow-cooked lamb sandwiches and churros with dark chocolate. It’s not fine dining, but you can feel the finesse of someone who’s worked at places like Maha, Rockpool and Entrecôte. Anuj moved from Delhi to Melbourne to study at Le Cordon Bleu and never looked back. We talked about how his mum inspired his love of food, what he’s learned from his mentors, and how he’s building something that feels like community.

Atta in Albert Park has quietly and confidently become one of Melbourne’s most enduring modern Indian restaurants. It’s been ten years since it opened, which is no small feat in this city, and behind it all is chef and owner Harry Dhanjal. Harry has spent that decade redefining how we think about Indian cuisine, balancing innovation and tradition, respecting the roots of each dish while bringing them to life in a contemporary, elegant way. Atta isn’t fusion, as Harry says, it’s modern Indian: thoughtful, beautiful, and deeply grounded in flavour and culture. We talked about the early days of Atta and what it took to get people to see Indian food differently, the fine line between innovation and tradition, and why for Harry, being a chef is as much about discipline and joy as it is about technique.

When I walked into Aegli in South Melbourne, the first thing I noticed was the light: soft, golden, everywhere. Then I met Ioannis Kasidokostas, and it makes even more sense. Aegli was a goddess, Yanni tells me: elegant, dazzling, radiant, and that’s exactly what he’s built here. The space, the food, the feeling. Yanni doesn’t see hospitality as a job. He calls it a culture. It’s about philoxenia, the Greek art of making a stranger feel like they’ve come home. It’s there in how he talks about his team, the way he refuses to rush a service, and the stories woven through every dish. We talked about patience, trust, and what it means to build something that glows from the inside out. We talked about a raw prawn and nectarine dish that started as a lesson from his fisherman grandfather, a 90-day kopanisti that’s worth the wait, and a philosophy that Greek cuisine doesn’t need to reinvent itself, it just needs to remember where it came from. Aegli means light, but it’s also warmth. And I think that’s exactly what Yanni is serving. This was a wonderful conversation and I feel all the better for having met Yanni and chatted with him.

Today I’m chatting with Rachel Miyazaki from Niji Sweets. If you’ve walked through Queen Vic Market lately, you might have stopped in your tracks at a stall that looks more like a jewellery counter than a lolly stand: trays of shimmering kohakutou, those jewel-like Japanese sweets that catch the light and your imagination all at once. Rachel trained as a pastry chef, working everywhere from LuxBite to Marvel Stadium, but with Niji Sweets she and her friend Yiying are doing something entirely different. We talked about how a childhood love of baking, a detour through computer studies, and a trip to Japan all converged on these edible crystals. From the patient, days-long process of crystallising agar to the thrill of seeing someone’s face light up when they bite through that crunchy shell into soft jelly, Rachel is bringing something rare and beautiful to Melbourne and I am very happy to have had the opportunity to sit down with her and hear all about it.

When Luke’s Bánh Mì opened in the CBD, the response was extraordinary. Queues ran down Little Bourke Street, and more than 1,200 bánh mì were sold that first day. In fact, customers were averaging two or three each, so the real number was far higher. I went to the preview and then couldn’t resist coming back the very next day just to see it all unfold. I even filmed the line, and for the first time ever, something I posted went viral. But the real story is bigger than one opening. Luke Vu is a third-generation Vietnamese baker whose journey began in his family’s bakery in Ho Chi Minh City, with memories of wood-fired bread and early morning deliveries on his bike. After moving to Melbourne and completing a university degree, Luke still couldn’t shake the pull of the bakery. The lure of bread, pâté and pickles was too strong, and he soon set up his own shop, first in Reservoir, then in Moonee Ponds and South Melbourne, where the bánh mì quickly became local fixtures. That history, and the hard work behind every detail, made the leap into the city all the more powerful.

Collingwood has no shortage of bars, but Babines stands out, thanks to the two Juliens behind it, Julien Pascal and Julien Wurtlin. When I first ducked in not long after they opened a year and a half ago (on the recommendation of a French friend, naturally), I was hooked: the cocktails, the anchovy toasts, the way the place already felt like it belonged. Since then, the pair have kept shaping and reshaping the space themselves into something great; renovations, late nights, a little trial and error. What started as a cocktail bar has grown into a neighbourhood dining room, where you can order salt cod fritters with that sharp little Caribbean sauce, or a Victorian hanger steak that rivals anything in France. The drinks list shifts with the seasons, equal parts French roots and Melbourne edge, and the late-night kitchen has made Babines a magnet for the industry crowd. I sat down with both Juliens to hear how they pulled it off: the DIY headaches, the Collingwood quirks, and why taking their time was the best decision they made.

I’ve spoken to Sunny Gilbert at Melbourne’s Hofbrauhaus before and it was such a delight to catch up with him again, especially at this time of year. He’d just flown back from Munich, where Oktoberfest really is as big, loud and joyful as everyone says: ten beer tents, each crammed with 10,000 people, steins thudding on tables, bands lifting whole crowds onto benches. Back in Melbourne, at Hofbrauhaus, Sunny and his team are keeping that spirit alive all October: bigger bands, stronger beer, stein-holding contests, and plenty of schnitzel and knuckle to go around. Get your Dirndls and Lederhosen on and let’s go! Now, I have a spring head cold, so I apologise for my voice. I’d like to think it sounds resonant and alluring, but I am fairly certain it just sounds like I have a cold. The show must go on.

Lorcán Kan has one of those reputations that precedes him, not in the loud, headline-grabbing way, but in the quiet way that matters more. Mention his name to other chefs and their response is usually the same: “He’s such a lovely guy.” Kan, now head chef at Etta in Brunswick East, carries that reputation with the same understated composure he brings to food. Born in Donegal to an Irish-Malaysian family and in Melbourne since he was one, Kan grew up resisting his dad’s Malaysian cooking (hot dogs seemed more appealing at the time) before circling back to it as comfort food. His path has been anything but linear: New York fine dining, German art studios, years of travel guided by one-way tickets and kitchen doors that opened when he knocked. He’s studied food science to answer the “why” questions, explored fermentation before it was fashionable, and learned that creative control is as much about restraint as it is about freedom. At Etta, his cooking sits at that intersection; comforting but restless, grounded but curious, waste-aware but playful. Talking with Kan feels like talking to someone who still finds wonder in the work. He’s calm, thoughtful, and very much the real deal.

I’m upstairs at Eleni’s Kitchen in Yarraville with Eleftheria Amanatidis. The room feels like a taverna: a criss cross of dark beams, low light, and the sense that food is at the centre of everything. Eleftheria has captured not just the dishes of her Yiayias and Papous, but the atmosphere too: the smells, the rituals, the family gathered around a table. Hospitality runs in Eleftheria’s blood: her family opened Yarraville’s first Greek restaurant opposite the Sun Theatre in the ’70s, back when Greek films screened on weekends and the jukebox played until late. That history of feeding Melbourne’s Greek community is part of what she carries forward now.Her recently launched book Ela na Fáme (Come and Eat) is both a collection of recipes and a love letter to that heritage; filo rolled thin with patience, pork and cabbage stew simmering on a winter’s day, and the call that anchored her childhood: “Come and eat.” While we were talking, her Yiayia Eleni wandered upstairs to look at old photos, a reminder that in Greek kitchens, the past is always at the table.

When I first spoke to Kyle Nicol back in late 2020, he was head chef at Rascal, and Melbourne was lurching in and out of lockdown. He was already thinking deeply about sustainability in kitchens, not just in terms of produce, but of chefs themselves. Five years on, Kyle’s covered a lot of ground: Lilac, Hazel, a string of pop-ups, consulting, foraging, and even a side project in charcuterie. He’s also hit burnout, had knee surgery, and taken a step back to reset. What hasn’t changed is his generosity, both in cooking and in spirit. Kyle’s the kind of chef other chefs call when they need help, the one who’ll share knowledge, jump on a service, or roll pasta at home just because. We caught up to talk about balance, identity in hospitality, and what it means to give your all without giving yourself away.

Brooke is a pastry chef with a flair for precision and a competitive streak that’s taken her from Sydney kitchens to the World Food Championships in Indianapolis, where her buttermilk cheesecake earned her third place in the world for dessert. She’s now preparing to return in October to take out the top spot all while juggling recipe testing, private chef gigs, and her educational platform Capture the Chef as well as packing her own sugar for the competition because, as she puts it, “Australian sugar tastes better.” Talking to her when she was in Melbourne, I got the sense of someone who thrives on high stakes but carries it lightly: meticulous yet unflappable, and deeply in love with sharing food and technique with anyone curious enough to watch.