It's a restaurant on the beach, friends. For which you would forgive a lot. Luckily, it's rare that you need to make concessions at the Stokehouse.
Whip-smart service and linen so starched you could use it as a weapon join a menu that takes a thieving and promiscuous journey through all of Europe and comes out as new as a shiny penny. Rabbit and spanish blood sauce (morcilla) rumble around in slippery ribbons of papardelle pasta. Pork is a party of rack and crisped jowl with an opposing force of crisp cos, hazelnuts and golden nuggets of pumpkin. It's like clever money laundering for food.
Go early to watch the sun set, dip deeply into the excellent wine list, and rediscover the tradition of ordering entrees, mains and desserts that you don't bloody well have to share if you don't want to. Take that Melbourne.