The Undertaker

Score: 13/20

THE Undertaker is a pretty edgy name for a restaurant. It’s the kind of name a bad-lad chef like Anthony Bourdain would choose if he was hanging out his shingle in a slowly gentrifying New York slum. It’s not the kind of name you expect to see in a suburb such as Hawthorn, where edgy is how parents get each year when private school fee hikes are announced.

The owners can point all they like to the red-brick, neo-Gothic building’s former life as a funeral home; all I’m saying is, if anything goes wrong in quality control, it’s a headline waiting to happen.

The gods of irony are unlikely to strike. The Undertaker benefits from hands-on owners keen to strike the right balance in an area known as a tricky one for hospitality adventurers due to its asset-rich, time-poor constituency. And after recently taking an inventory of the five-year-old business and canning the upstairs restaurant with white linen and all the rest, they’ve settled on a safe, middle-of-the-road formula that’s probably the most sensible business model for these days of the great economic hangover.

Known officially as Social at the Undertaker (although let’s just stick to the last bit), it  plays multiple cards — cafe-bistro-wine bar — and shores it up with a menu that does that share-plate, snacky thing, making an ambit claim on appetites and offering a few proper mains for people sticking stubbornly to the normal way of doing things.

It suits the room, which stands pretty much unchanged since before the rebranding and mixes up some of Melbourne’s favourite design cliches — a black-and-white destination scroll reclaimed from a W-class tram, arty-industrial lights (rusty wire cages filled with globes) and seating at various altitudes, although the mis-matched chairs representing the past 20 years in bistro style are more confused than chic.

Don’t go mistaking the multiple personalities for multiple personality disorder. The menu is well-designed, with a certain familiarity to the headings, which include ‘‘simply prepared fish’’, ‘‘something traditional and comforting’’ and ‘‘posh burgers’’. Apart from being a lesson in plain English, they’re one of the trademarks of Paul Wilson, the ex-Botanical kitchen supremo who was hired as a consultant to massage the menu into bistro loveliness.

There’s no real thematic handle for the Undertaker but for anyone hooked on pigeonholing, you could call it a gastro-pub in disguise. It’s not ambitious but capitalises on food fashions and displays a broad repertoire that’s a bit Asian, a bit Middle Eastern and a bit European.

Unsurprisingly, there’s also pizza, that GFC white knight, although it has been styled up as coca ($18), the Spanish answer to the Italian staple. With a thick, bready base and toppings to make their Neapolitan cousins look anorexic (the version with prawns, chorizo and manchego cheese with fennel, toasted almonds and romesco sauce sticks closely to the Iberian theme), I suspect it’s all about giving lovers of the fat American-style pies an excuse to come out of the closet.

I’d be happy to share a not-pizza over a glass of the sweetly mineral Foster e Rocco Sangiovese Rosé ($9.50) but the not-pasta is less attractive. Sweet, cake-like spinach and ricotta dumplings — gnudi without the sex appeal — with a personality-free pumpkin sauce that can’t be resurrected by crisp sage leaves and strangely medicinal bits of black olive. Vive la difference and all but the price ($20) is all that separates it from baby food.
A dish that fulfils the Undertaker’s promise is the pork belly ($16): three cubes of sticky, sweetly caramelised meat with a brightly acidic, Thai-style salad of pickled young ginger, shredded green mango and herbs. It’s a reminder of Wilson’s affinity with Asian flavours, although Aubrey Williams, formerly of  the Bot, is in charge of the pans here.

Or the best version of salt cod fritters ($12) I’ve had all year, great golden-fried breadcrumbs hiding lots of fish texture and a gentle hand on the binding. Harissa, punctuated by nigella seeds, rides shotgun.

Similarly risk-averse without being boring is a take on Madrid’s calamari bocadillo, recently popularised by MoVida Aqui. This version ($15 for two) raises the stakes by adding chorizo and rocket to the aioli-slathered salt and pepper calamari. Addictive potential.

There are no fine-dining pretensions at the rebooted Undertaker and, mostly, the friendly uni-student service suits the mood of the place but some things could do with a gee-up. The steak might be the poster-child for a medium-rare, 300-gram Black Angus rib from Cape Grim ($36) but watching your bowl of fries languish on the pass while your waitress goes off to do something else is a special form of torture. And not to harp on about the name too much but the heating, or lack thereof, is decidedly funereal, although apparently it’s a problem they’re rectifying.

Nonetheless, it’s a fitting note for desserts, an underwhelming part of the meal. A round of brittle meringue with little creamy gooeyness going on inside, a hat of passionfruit curd ladled on top, does not, in my book or in Stephanie Alexander’s The Cook’s Companion, constitute a pavlova ($8.50). The sleight of hand isn’t assuaged by a sticky toffee pudding with caramelised pear. The sponge is dry and the vanilla ice-cream is commercial-tasting. If it’s edgy you’re after, try paying $14 for that.

But it’s a rare bum note for a place that is making a good show of its new persona. The Undertaker is doing a community service by not trying to wow its conservative audience and instead providing a great local joint with a large welcome mat. After all, edgy can be flash in the pan but steady as she goes pays the bills.