Melbourne’s a parochial place. We’re suckers for a homegrown hero, and in the Australian restaurant world there are few figures as revered as Maurice Terzini, whose zeitgeist-nailing credentials include founding South Yarra’s Caffe e Cucina, and turning Sydney’s Icebergs into one of the nation’s iconic places to wine, dine and shine.

It’s little wonder that after a decade long Terzini absence, Cucina Povera Vino Vero is Melbourne’s latest “it” restaurant. It’s been hit hard by the tsunami of expectation and the fight for a scarce resource – namely, one of the 60-odd seats in a tight space in the heart of the CBD.

It used to be Massi, the restaurant solely owned by chef Joseph Vargetto (Mister Bianco) until he teamed up with his old buddy to recreate the memories of their childhoods in suburban Melbourne.

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Even for those of us who didn’t grow up in an Italian immigrant family in the 1960s, the freewheeling associations are easy to enjoy. Translated roughly as “food of the poor”, Cucina Povera is no pusher of fancy-pants salumi but there’s a slab of mortadella as thick as your fingernail, warmed on the grill and electrified with balsamic and a squeeze of lemon. 

Stracciatella, the soft curd cheese, is turned into vegetarian polpette finished with sugo and a blizzard of salted ricotto. There are perfectly pink-centred lamb chops “scottadito” (“burnt fingers”) to swipe through a yoghurty salmoriglio; just add a side of the turnip tops with chickpeas and call it a main. A tub of Vargetto’s excellent fresh ricotta regularly does the rounds to slather on pull-apart ciabatta rolls. If this is the food of the peasantry, count me in for a life of hard toil in the sun.

The space is the evil twin of sunshine-filled Icebergs. Barely signposted from the street, it’s a minimalist and moody vision of concrete-esque grey walls, heavy drapery and dim lighting. The formalism of white jacketed waiters and linen draped tables is offset by gonzo touches such as the sign to the loos marked out in slapdash white tape. It’s like brutalism running headlong into early expressionist cinema.

A tight all-Victorian wine list of eight by the glass and carafe favours producers on the biodynamic and low-intervention end of the spectrum. Head deeper and you’ll be shelling out more serious bucks for serious Italian drops – nebbiolo, anyone? – or celebrating lambrusco’s rehabilitation with a $95 Podere Sottoilnoce Puntorosso from Sicily.

The biggest bucks you’re looking at on the food list is $38 for a rugged tumble of seafood – clams and mussels on the shell, tail-on prawns – in a saffron spiked sauce padded out with fregola. Pasta? The dumpling-like ricotta gnudi in a chlorophyllic sauce of endive and broccoletti will set you back $23. And it’s hard to resist the nostalgia-soaked “half time” oranges at dessert: Vargetto’s tribute to his childhood soccer matches, only with the citrus poached and caramelised into sticky, jube-like submission alongside dark chocolate blended with olive oil. Dip, repeat.

There’s a freewheeling joy to Cucina Povera. It’s theatrical and honest; squeezy and frenetic and loud, with the rumble of the crowd competing with the soundtrack of New Order and The Cure.

As predicted, they’ve been hit with the equivalent of a magnitude-nine earthquake, so cool your boots over a Negroni Sbagliato and toast the return of a prodigal son.

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