The best eating experiences have a funny way of leaving an indelible mark on you. It’s that wonderful fondness of feasts past that are often as much about the moment as the feast itself. I grew up in Sydney’s wild western suburbs where our mullets flowed with the hot breeze while we tiptoed over tarmac to save the soles of our feet. As summer breathed heavily on our backs, the triple treat of Neapolitan ice cream in crisp cones cooled our rosy cheeks. It’s when I fell in love with vanilla ice cream, and my sister and I began the eternal spoon fight for the chocolate and strawberry glory.

When I first look at the menu at Otis Dining Hall, the house-made Neapolitan ice cream brings a big smile to my face. Who would have thought a newcomer to Canberra would take me back to Sydney’s west? It’s the first time I’ve understood those peculiar diners who read the dessert section before ordering their mains. There are few more satisfying restaurants than those that gleefully reminisce on your behalf with food that is as familiar as it is a joy to eat. And in this, and as a reliable local, Otis Dining Hall manages to be right on the money.

In a former Belgian Beer Cafe, they’ve rolled up their sleeves and delivered a room of dark wood panelling, mirrors, chandeliers and a big eat-or-drink-at bar (open quite late), providing a warm platform for genuine hospitality.

It’s as if the staff have a slice of the ownership pie, providing as honest, affable and welcoming service as I’ve had anywhere, without the fuss of silver service. And in the kitchen, chef and owner Damian Brabender (formerly of Sage) seems to be cooking with a maturity that’s free from the shackles of ego.

A classic potted chicken liver pâté hides beneath a thin layer of fat. The pâté itself, velvety and luxurious, is accompanied with a handful of cornichons and crisp slices of baguette. Next, smoked eel stamps its authority on a textural beef tartare. Although the accompanying sago crisps are nice, they’re not needed.

Smoky eggplant and nori provide a strong base for delicately smoked mussels and confit pork jowl cooked to a not-quite wobble, and a beautifully cooked John Dory fillet rests atop a simple pea risotto, but I could do without the dollops of aioli – about 10 on the plate.

Then comes the time-machine moment of that rotund westie (ie, yours truly) way back when. A simple bowl with three scoops of ice cream: a dreamy, dense vanilla-bean ice cream; the spark of fresh strawberry gelato; a soft and airy mousse of chocolate. Good lord. I feel like I’m 10 again, and I may well have formed another fond food memory. Otis Dining Hall: what a wonderful little local.