The Hardware Lane precinct doesn’t get the same foodie fanfare as, say, Flinders Lane or the top end of town. But if the buzz there on a Saturday afternoon is anything to go by, it should. 

A cool busker outside Maker Coffee plays to packed tables on the pedestrian laneway while, a few paces away, pasta pioneer Tipo 00, sister Osteria Ilaria and the Filipino kitchen Serai, are all pumping.

And then there’s newcomer Myrtle Wine Bar, tucked down red-brick Warburton Lane in a two-storey space that was formerly a Spanish restaurant and, originally, a blacksmith’s.

Doors open at 3pm and I’m the first to arrive. Owners Kirsty McAteer (maitre d’) and Chris Smith (chef) snap to attention, McAteer fetching me a Davidson Plum and prosecco spritz garnished with Geraldton wax while Smith checks on the wattle seed damper.

My friends arrive and order a Drover Club, a sort of gin sour with vermouth and wattle pollen, and a mocktail version of the Batida Australis, based on the boozy Brazilian milkshake. 

Beers are all-Australian and mostly crafty with the exception of Melbourne Bitter longnecks. The winelist showcases smaller, sustainable producers that are all home-grown too. There’s plenty to explore, from Gundagai fiano and South Australian malbec to more established styles such as Mornington pinots and biodynamic Cullen wines from Margaret River. There are 16 by the glass; a sunny, Rhone-style blend of Marsanne-Roussanne from Heathcote is good company as I graze the menu.

The damper’s still baking so we skip that and dive straight into sardines. Glossy, spotted silver fillets arrive draped on toast soldiers, their acid-bright flavours cut with garlicky, creamy whipped Murray Cod roe (“Aussie tarama,” McAteer calls it). A fine start.

Croquettes are always a good idea. Here they’re roast chicken flavoured, lightly crumbed and the size of a slim Dagwood Dog. Not only do the contents taste precisely like roast chook, right down to the richness of pan juices, but they also come with a lick of lemon aioli and bonus shard of salty chicken skin. 

Smith blitzes whole sheets of this skin to make his own chicken salt, used to season very generous helpings of hand-cut fries. So the chips are non-negotiable. 

Myrtle’s mezzanine space ticks the vintage timber, foundry light and painted brickwork boxes. An upstairs space of dining tables and bar seating overlooks the street-side action below. Wine walls and barrels reinforce Myrtle’s mission statement; Rennie Ellis prints of Melbourne society add to the sense of place.

The menu incorporates native flavours not in a tokenistic way but as essential ingredients in original recipes. A salad-like arrangement of confit beetroot comes cloaked in macadamia cream, roasted macadamias and foraged red-vein sorrel and wild celery leaf. The tagliata-style O’Connor rump steak is sauced with Tasmanian mountain pepper. Desserts might run to a Davidson plum crostata with cinnamon myrtle ice cream, or an aniseed myrtle creme caramel.

But not every dish is indigenous. Smith’s “octopus salami” is a technically French terrine of carpaccioed tentacle meat bound with bone marrow, dressed in sauce vierge (tomatoes, herbs, olive oil and red wine vinegar) and crowned with tendrils of dill. 

I’m a pushover for prawn cocktails and Myrtle’s is a cracker, its giant butterflied prawns lounging on charred cos and lushly accessorised with avocado mousse and Marie Rose sauce.

There’s much to like about Myrtle but next time I’ll leave the difficult decision-making to Smith (chef’s selection, $69 a head) so I can kick back and enjoy the classic vinyl tunes –  Heart Of Glass, Abbey Road and much more – spun on their bar-top turntables. 

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