Attica

Attica doesn’t shout. It hums with quiet intent on a suburban Ripponlea street, where Ben Shewry’s kitchen tells stories in scent, texture and smoke. The tasting menu is a slow burn—startling, grounded, and deeply Australian.

You might begin with emu liver parfait, rich and precise, or a single marron tail, sweet as creek water. Later, a dish arrives cloaked in the scent of bushfire. It tastes like memory: char, earth, salt. Shewry doesn’t dabble in native ingredients—he commits. Wattleseed, saltbush, bunya nut, quandong: they’re not garnish, they’re the point.

The room is dark and spare. No art, no noise, just the low murmur of conversation and the quiet choreography of a team that knows exactly where it’s going. Service is attentive but never theatrical. You’re looked after, not fussed over.

Menus shift with the seasons and Shewry’s instincts. One night it’s wallaby tartare; another, a broth that tastes like the bush after rain. Even the bread course—served with house-churned butter and a story—feels ceremonial.

This isn’t dinner. It’s a conversation with place, history and care. Attica doesn’t chase trends. It listens, and people fly across oceans to hear what it has to say.