Buzzing with Italian energy, Grill Americano brings the theatre back to a night out

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The ceilings soar. Behind the counter – white marble stretching to infinity – coals flare up on the Josper grills. A martini, nestled on ice in a mini carafe, lands on a silver tray alongside a couple of olives.

Men in suits slap backs and delight at the candle in their meringue-coated layer cake. Women stride by like the room’s a catwalk. The amaro trolley clinks. And every so often, a glass bowl of tiramisu, the top perfectly flush, makes its way to a table, heads turning, waiting for that single, satisfying scoop.

Why do we even go out to eat? It’s not about sustenance, it’s about being in the room. Go to a steakhouse and dinner is secondary. Conspicuous consumption, blood and money and glamour and glitz come first.

Currently, no restaurateur in the country understands this more than Chris Lucas. Dinner as theatre has been Lucas Collective’s modus operandi ever since it threw out the bookings and turned up the volume at Chin Chin in the laneways of Melbourne, bumped in the colossal crystal chandeliers at Society.

Grill Americano, first launched in the Victorian capital on Flinders Lane in 2022, is Lucas’ homage to the old Italian steakhouses of Manhattan, Melbourne’s historic grills and brasseries, and to Harry’s Bar in Venice, his beloved lodestar for the concept, realised in cobalt, studded leather, velvet and chrome. The success is such that a 170-seat Sydney spin-off has been loading for at least a year, since Lucas secured the lease to the long-vacant Qantas House building at Chifley Square.

Rockpool Bar & Grill may be on the same block, but there’s a carefree, spirited air here that, coupled with the Italian angle, gives it more universal appeal than any of the CBD’s more traditional steakhouses. Just try to get a booking.

For plenty of diners, being here is enough. Whether it’s dressing for dinner, working clients, or – like one couple – ordering the $185 hand-cut lobster taglioni and the tiramisu, photographing them, picking at them, then leaving. But if you’re interested in actually eating the food, there’s more than enough to justify the buzz.

Octopus carpaccio, strewn across the plate with a dressing of lemon, parsley, chilli and olive oil is pretty and bright. Oysters, including candy-sweet royal miyagis from Tasmania, are sourced from as many as 12 farms at a time, shucked cleanly, and plated on ice with a teeny bottle of Tabasco. Mozzarella, air-freighted from Campania twice a week, is torn over whorls of prosciutto.

‘My mozzarella comes from Italy, darling, how about yours?’

Pasta whiz Simone Giorgianni has joined executive chef Vincenzo Ursini in making the move from the Melbourne original, and it’s where the kitchen does some of its best work, the dough laminated to achieve maximum spring and bounce. Order lobster agnolotti and the parcels are impossibly plump, the curves thrown into relief by high-gloss sauce Americaine that clings to the ruffled edges. Buffalo ricotta ravioli balances acid with the oceanic depth of bottarga.

Oysters, pasta and steak are the staples, and they’re where you’ll have the best luck. Stay simple and prime cuts come unadorned. Go bigger and it’s either steaks on the bone or three signature bistecche, each properly crusted, rested, then served in its own style, including “pizzaiola” of tenderloin over a caper-infused sugo or a high-spec citrus-fed Chauvel hanger steak under mushroom and eschalot jus. Classicists might prefer to steer clear, but the ease and appeal is undeniable.

Also undeniable is the expense. It’s justified when it’s pulled off, but it’s hard to see the value in a cocktail of three tired-looking king prawns for $55. Fried cacio e pepe polenta – the weakest snack in an otherwise solid line-up of cicchetti – lands as a handful of stubby polenta chips under a snowstorm of pecorino that’s clumped together from sitting too long under lights.

Other fumbles come from the floor. We order a single bowl of stuffed, fried Sicilian olives, but we’re served two. Another visit, we’re encouraged to split the agnolotti, then unwittingly served extra and charged for it. There’s also a charge for the clotted cream that doesn’t arrive with the apple pie because we ordered vanilla gelato as an add-on. These may be teething issues, but the corporate crowd won’t indulge them.

The general air, though, is of charm and polish. White-jacketed waiters rattle off essentials. A fleet of nine expert sommeliers take as much satisfaction from pouring an abridged list of more affordable bottles as they do barolo and burgundy for five figures.

Desserts – crafted by head pastry chef Michaela Kang, who’s also moved interstate – bring the magic, too, from the seam of tempered chocolate in the tiramisu that cracks as your spoon makes contact, to light-as-air sponge cake, its meringue peaks kissed by the heat of a blowtorch.

Do we need another grill? At this point we’re asking the wrong question. This isn’t about need, it’s about want. The desire to glance at the next table, flirt with your bank balance, play the part and look good doing it. Chris Lucas, and Grill Americano, get this maybe better than anyone. My mozzarella comes from Italy, darling, how about yours?

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