Stilts is the kind of restaurant that earns its name twice. You arrive, you go up, and the city goes quiet beneath you. Glass on three sides, a long room that knows it doesn't need to shout. Another from Michael Tassis, and you can feel his hand in the room before the menu arrives.
We worked our way through seven plates. Confit beetroot opened the night, paired with a macadamia cheese that did the work of dairy without the heaviness, and crackers that gave the whole thing some teeth. Pan-seared Canadian scallops landed on a slick of corn purée with morcilla and crispy leeks, the kind of dish that wants you to take a slow bite and then a slower one.
The Stilts brioche is a dish on its own. Cultured butter, smoked salt, and the sort of crumb that makes you reconsider your bread arrangements at home.
Then the toothfish, set in an artichoke purée under a tangle of artichoke crisps and Australian native flowers, with a fish broth that brought the dish together rather than dressing it up. Moreton Bay bugs through linguine. A clean cucumber salad with goat feta. Cheese to close, because why not.
Where it lands
Stilts cooks well. The room is generous, the service unhurried, the plates handsome. What it lacks is a little of the swing that makes a meal stay with you, the moment that turns a good dinner into a story. The toothfish came closest. The brioche came closer still. The rest was lovely without ever quite reaching for the throat.
Would I go back?
Yes, for a long evening when the view is part of the point. Bring someone you want to slow down with. Order the brioche twice.