Transformed Surry Hills restaurant Arthur is bigger, bolder and better than ever

There’s something about chef Tristan Rosier’s cooking. It’s old school. Personal. And at the risk of sounding a little hokey, very honest. For the past eight years, Rosier and his partner, Bec Fanning, had run this Surry Hills restaurant as an intimate, 25-seat tasting menu-only experience. But back in 2024, the couple began to think about what the next iteration of Arthur would look like.

Ultimately, that was a place they would be comfortable dining in themselves over the next decade or longer. Something built to last, with conviviality at its core. That meant extending the seating to 55 to allow them to welcome walk-ins, and ditching the tasting menu. So this is Arthur Mark II, offering lots of things I want to eat, in the way I like to eat best: luxuriously, with time on my side.

Want to order one of everything and three rounds of dirty martinis? Go for it. Meeting someone new for a casual bite and a glass of wine? Oysters can be ordered by the piece, which could very well prove to be the perfect metric for how well a date’s going. Today’s are both Sydney rock – lean, iodine-y Wallis Lakes and sweeter, creamier Merimbulas – served with friendly, informed enthusiasm and a little shallot vinaigrette.

House-made sourdough arrives warm with a side of kefir butter – it’s a beautiful accompaniment to the oysters. A whole steamed globe artichoke is served at room temperature, its heart filled with a little pool of mandarin oil. It’s a nice nod to the world of retro cold appetisers – particularly when paired with a locally made port and tonic.

You’ll see Rosier on the pans, working with a quiet economy. His is a menu of balance and harmony, with a focus on Australian ingredients. There’s the moreish abalone and shimeji mushroom skewer resting on whipped pork fat. Raw prawns no larger than the top of my thumb are draped with razor-thin slices of cured swordfish belly that melt on the tongue. Dressed with a mix of prawn oil, bergamot juice and zest, each is a concentrated little explosion of flavour.

There’s the opportunity to go large. A lamb rack, say, with blood orange marmalade or wagyu rib-eye with mustard. (Take a preview by walking out the back of the dining room and into a dark, tiled antechamber where cabinets are filled with dry-ageing cuts of meat.) But there’s also something valuable in allowing space for smaller dishes rather than heading straight to a set-and-forget protein “moment”.

Ever heard of a quail parma? Me either. But now that I’ve met it, I can see we’re going to remain close friends. The little gamebird with its sweet, musky meat is butterflied, stuffed with ham, crumbed and fried ’til crisp and garnished with soft herbs. We treat it as our main course and build a few little dishes around it.