O.MY

They had me at "Would you like tap water or sparkling?" because the mundane query was murmured with such solicitous care. It was the first signal that O.My wasn't going to deliver the kind of meal you might expect on Melbourne's fringe, 50 kilometres south-east of the city but easy to zoom to on the M1.

This two-year-old, degustation-only 30-seat restaurant is run with uncompromising enthusiasm and delightful geekiness by three brothers, Blayne and Tyson in the kitchen, and the youngest, 21-year-old Chayse in the dining room. The Bertoncello boys have a produce garden out the back (ask about the secret bar sprouting in the shed) and larger plots nearby. They grow much of what you'll eat.

Their complex dishes are inspired, surprising and incredibly good value, as is the modest food-driven wine list. Sweet potato is poached in duck fat until it's silken and seductive; it comes with fermented potato puree, black garlic and leek in various stages of delicious crisis.

Duck breast gets the purple treatment, served with rhubarb "paper", pickled plum and beetroot both roasted and gelled, all of which cut through the rich meat in complementary ways.

A chestnut dessert is a glorious song to the season, featuring four different preparations of chestnut (including raw, shaved flurries), quince jam and honeycomb made from backyard honey.

Not all dishes sing in perfect harmony. I'm not sure that the bone broth was advanced by dried blueberries bobbing around in it, and the 10 elements that attended the beautifully cooked kingfish fillet (samphire emulsion and lemon gel among them) were a case of just a little too much passion forced upon the plate. Overwhelmingly, though, the glee gleams in a good way, even in the ladies' toilet which has a vanity cupboard stocked with items both winning and weird.

Rating: Four stars (out of five)