No gas, no gimmicks — just wood, flame, and remarkable food.
Sydney has its fair share of culinary hotspots — harbourside tasting menus, rooftop fusion joints, cafés with queues longer than a Taylor Swift drop. But Firedoor plays a different game altogether. One without gas, electricity or pretense.
This is food cooked entirely over fire — no safety nets, no shortcuts. Chef Lennox Hastie isn’t trying to impress with foams and nitrogen; he’s communicating something primal. And in this world, every flame speaks a different language.
I arrived with jetlag, dinner-shift hunger, and high expectations. Firedoor greeted me with smoke, swagger, and a warmth that wasn’t just from the coals. The room is low-lit and industrial, but not cold. Staff move with ease — they’re not performing. They’re professionals. The kind who know when to top up your wine without asking, and how to pronounce obscure cuts of meat without sounding smug.
The menu changes daily. That night, it started with ember-grilled peach with goat’s curd and native honey — light, bright, and impossible to replicate. Then came spanner crab, served simply, with a flick of citrus and an aftertaste of char that lingered in the best way. Then the steak: a dry-aged rib of beef, kissed by flame and nothing more. It needed no sauce, no garnishes. Just reverence.
Even the sourdough had edge — dense, smoked, and slathered with cultured butter that melted like candle wax.
There’s no music to speak of. Just the low murmur of people eating something that deserves their full attention. It’s a kind of culinary hush.
The wine list is exceptional, favouring Australian natural producers without veering into hipster parody. We drank a red that tasted like blackberries and burnt rosemary, which felt exactly right.
Firedoor doesn’t chase trends. It doesn’t need to. It’s about process, precision, and patience. Each dish arrives with a sense of inevitability — like this is how that thing was always meant to be eaten.
And yes, it’s worth the flight.
