Pretty Little feels like a dinner party at a friend’s house (one who can cook like a hatted chef, that is)

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Do you want to come to a dinner party? The hosts are these three guys. They’re all so friendly. Two of them are great cooks and the other one will never let your glass run dry. They’d love to have you over!

We won’t know the other guests – or at least, not when we arrive. We might all be friends by the end of the night because we’ll all be sitting around one table, 16 of us, so it can get chatty. Oh, yeah, you do have to pay. It’s dreamy, but we’re still in the real world.

Pretty Little, a brave, bijou operation that rides on energy and feeling, was opened in 2019 by hospitality veteran and dinner-party lover Mike Byard. The hybrid concept brings the easygoing generosity and garrulous engagement of dinner at a friend’s house to a high-street setting. The result is a neighbourhood restaurant infused with soulful finesse.

Until recently, diners all arrived at the same time and were served a six-course, $120 tasting menu. But the icy grip of increased living costs meant a sharp downturn in custom. So Pretty Little pivoted to a looser format: diners can book in throughout the evening and order two, three or four courses. Walk-ins are possible.

It still feels like a dinner party, but it’s more “Come when you want – either for something modest or a banquet; we’ll be here.” You can also visit for snacks and drinks at the window bench or in the courtyard, or snuggle down in the rear lounge, which has a fireplace and record player.

Chef Mike Harrison has been cooking since 2000, doing all kinds of food in all sorts of kitchens: fine dining, avant-garde contemporary, hotel restaurants and wine bars. He tells me he’s learnt a lot about himself over the decades and that the conviviality and engagement that’s possible at Pretty Little are exactly the right fit for his skills.

Everything looks good and eats well. Nothing tries too hard or is showy.

Even the restrictions of the space are a fun challenge. Everything is made in a domestic kitchen installed at one end of the handsome, timber dining table. The oven, the stovetop, the compact workspace are similar to what you might expect in a small townhouse. Excellent sourdough is made in a cast-iron Dutch oven that looks as if it could’ve been on special in the centre lane at Aldi.

There’s no kitchenhand: Harrison and his charming French sous chef Laurent Jeannin run dirty plates to a washroom out back and do the dishes themselves.

In a world of snacks, the dishes here are composed and plated, shareable but not designed that way.

There are two entrees, two mains and two desserts: most dining duos go for three courses, meaning they can try every dish in a proxy six-plate degustation.

The first entree is an elegant and rich parmesan broth dotted with potato gnocchi and salt-baked celeriac: the soup is a distillation of cool-weather pleasures, the flavours layered like cosy winter clothing.

Entree two is a petite portion of smoked trout with macadamia cream and muntries, a thoughtful interplay of sweet and tart.

For mains, there’s steamed hapuka – flaking beautifully into plump morsels – gleaming on a swirl of jus gras (glossy chicken sauce).

The final savoury dish is a lamb assiette with pretty pressed bricks of slow-cooked meat, vermouth-spiked cauliflower puree and sticky lamb jus.

For dessert, there’s quince poached in red wine and served with white chocolate ganache, candied almonds and jubes of honey jelly.

A nostalgic and comforting banana brioche pudding is served with rum-soaked raisins and custard tickled with bay leaf.

Everything looks good and eats well. Throughout the menu there’s evidence of classic technique, an engagement with ingredients, a sense of curiosity and play balanced with the restraint that’s generally born of experience. Nothing tries too hard or is showy. You sense a real desire to please and satisfy, to see smiles on patrons’ faces, not earnest perplexity.

Owner Mike Byard has just finished a long-term project of turning the wine list into an all-Victorian affair. It’s been a voyage of discovery for him and one he’s passed on to diners who can sojourn to every corner of the state to find the right sip for each dish.

The restrictions of the cellar mirror Pretty Little as a whole: the project of scaling down and going small pays off in intimacy, depth and joy.

This review was originally published in Good Weekend magazine