MoVida Next Door

Australians seldom see eye to eye - or even stomach to stomach - on when's the perfect time for dinner. In the wilds of rural South Australia, hotels have usually turned off the deep-fat fryer before 8pm. Up on the Gold Coast, 6.30pm is restaurant rush hour, which might have something to do with nursing home curfews, or just that everyone wants to be home in bed with cocoa before Border Security. Many Sydneysiders are such hard-working, high-flying corporate success stories that they can't possibly get to the restaurant until after 9pm.

MoVida Next Door is perfect for all of them because with its no-bookings policy, tight space and exploding-from-the-blocks popularity, early or late are probably the best times to search for a table at Frank Camorra's long-anticipated new sherry and tapas bar.

Camorra has made no secret of the fact that he wanted to have a more casual bar to allow MoVida to function more as a traditional comedor (dining room). It's a traditional combination that also reflects perfectly Melbourne's love of great grazing and bar-hopping.

The food here is far more traditional and even more simply presented than at MoVida. Rustic glazed plates and bowls arrive with little more than a couple of fat prawns or a mound of clams. There are cold meats - cured pork loin (lomo) or top-class jamon - and cheeses.

While Camorra has always embraced some new Spanish ideas, peasant classics like the Galician octopus have always been staples on his menu. It's no surprise then to find that Next Door squeezes in a perfect, golden-crusted croquette with its slightly elastic interior roaring with the flavours of jamon and manchego cheese. It's another tapas cliche, but here wonderfully crunchy cheeks of roasted potato are slathered in a simple, chillied, fresh tomato salsa and a drizzle of paprika mayonnaise for a combined effect that's almost - and I mean this as the highest compliment - '70s cocktail sauce.

These are great, but two eyes-misting-up standouts on the night we go are skewers of the beautifully tender quail thighs sweet from their (pedro ximinez) sherry marination, and the tiny lemon-crumbed anchovy fillet laid on the sweet freshness of a pat of what can best be described as Spanish-style ricotta. This marriage of strident and delicate flavours is a shocking success.

Oh, and you have to order the stumpy chorizo sausages made to Frank's dad Juan's specifications and sharing the same almost billowing fluffiness as the morcilla (blood pudding) next door.

The small, high-ceiling room matches the roughness of the flatware and the cool simplicity of the food. Long shafted fans dangle from the roof, pendant lights are shaded in clods of old Valencian terracotta roof tiles, and the bar looks as though it's been thrown up as a last-minute barricade to keep the hordes from rampaging through the Spanish beer and the rainbow of sherries.

Add a sensible number of staff on the floor and the little private drama of watching a lone black marron patrolling the seafood display desperately looking for an exit and you have all the makings of a great night. When you get a table!