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The Spinoff
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Spinoff
One of Wellington's most creative kitchens runs on a single charcoal-fired oven
At Supra, chef Thom Millot proves that brilliance doesn't need endless equipment – just fire, guts and pure creativity. Table Service is a column about food and hospitality in Wellington, by Nick Iles. Ever since the rise of molecular gastronomy and the orchestral slow-mo reverence of Netflix's Chef's Table, we've fallen hard for the image of the high-tech kitchen. You know the look: sous-vide machine humming away in a tub of water, Thermomix spinning silently on the bench, a Pacojet promising silky-smooth everything. All of it signalling control, precision, mastery – but creating distance between a chef and their produce. A piece of meat cooked in a water bath will be perfectly predictable, and probably delicious, but it lacks the chaos and vitality of one seared in a blistering hot pan. Heat, seasoning, originality. That is all a great chef needs. Technology and gadgetry aren't villains; it's just that limitations are where creativity is truly born. Nobody understands this better than Thom Millot, owner-operator of Supra, a 17-seat restaurant tucked away up a set of narrow stairs on Eva Street. His kitchen has a coal-fired barbecue oven, a small induction hob for prep… and that's it. All he needs is a sharp knife, some flames, creativity, and his near-psychotic attention to detail. Thom started his career at the age of 15, working the fryers at fast food joints in the Sydney suburbs. At the age of 19, he began an apprenticeship at a Tex-Mex spot, then moved on to a busy steakhouse. He was quickly stationed on the grill, a big responsibility for someone so young. The head chef saw something in him, and with good reason. Before long, he was routinely knocking out 250 covers a night with precision and control. He knew he had found his passion. He spent time travelling and fell in love with live fire cooking at some of the most exciting restaurants Australia has to offer: Rockpool, Porteño and Poly. Finally, he settled in Wellington and, in 2021, he opened Amok with his wife Tashie Piper. For three years, it blazed a trail in the capital, blending live fire cookery with immaculately sourced ingredients and a wine list full of originality. But like all good things, and with the near impossibility of keeping a restaurant open in this climate, it came to an end. Amok closed, and Thom spent some time cooking at other restaurants. In 2024, he ventured out on his own again with Supra. The space itself is a kind of magic: part speakeasy, part private dining room. Windows wrap around two sides, making it feel both hidden and wide open at the same time. Every night, the room fizzes with energy, the music up high and the talented staff waltzing around the space delivering plate after plate of truly world-class cookery. Here, the menu shifts constantly. Thom responds to whatever's at its best right now. New specials land weekly, depending on what produce is too good to ignore and whatever wild ideas he has been dreaming up. One thing that is always true is that it is all about bold, inventive and delicious flavours – and it all comes out of that one barbecue oven. We start the evening with a snapper carpaccio. It is everything a raw fish dish should be, but with just that little bit more. The snapper is lightly beaten out till it is paper thin and garnished with macerated persimmon, which brings a tart punch. A ponzu dressing lifts and spikes with citrus, and a delicate macadamia ajo blanco lends a luxurious, almost whisper-soft finish. It is a masterclass in restraint and elegance. Next up is a quite frankly outrageous raw beef dish. Six months in development, Thom has taken the classic combination of beef and oysters to a brand new place. Tri-tip is an unusual cut selection for a raw dish, meaning it is cut particularly fine and retains much more texture than a traditional tartare made with fillet. It is heavily spiced with a secret blend and is sweet, earthy and piquant at once, like it's doing a cabaret quick-change act as you eat. Thom smokes oysters and combines them with crème fraîche, resulting in something ocean-sweet, velvety and full of saline elegance. Serving the beef and smoked oyster cream on the half shell with a garnish of thin slices of Jerusalem artichoke turns the whole thing operatic: fatty, spicy, sour, chewy, smooth. It is a dish that I have genuinely thought about every single day since I ate it. The headline act for the meal is the rack of lamb sourced from Conscious Valley, a high-welfare ethical farm in Wellington's Ohariu Valley. The meat they produce is something quite special and can be seen popping up on menus across the city. Here, it has been brined for 24 hours before being left for a further two days to thoroughly dry. It is then set in the barbecue to roast without any additional fats or seasoning. At the halfway mark, it is smothered in a honey and black vinegar glaze and heavily dusted in cumin, coriander seed and fennel. The thick ribbon of fat on the edge is rendered into something quite obscene, and the eye of meat blushes perfectly. It's the rack of lamb you've always dreamed of but never quite received, until now. On the side is a cabbage that has been lacto-fermented for three days and then lightly charred and dusted with shiitake powder. It is an uber-cabbage that has had all of its natural sweetness and umami brought forward. To finish, a fennel puree and a jus made from the bones of the lamb provide perfect balance. Sweet, savoury, fatty, all clicking into place like it was always meant to be. You'd have to be a better person than me not to pick up the bone and gnaw until there is nothing left. It is without question the single best plate of food I have eaten this year. None of this is a fluke. The menu goes on, playfully riffing on things you recognise and showing you things you never dreamed of. Thom's focaccia is a revelation; it rises tall but not showy, all sour and savoury and rich. The duck liver parfait is a perfect rendition, accompanied by a zesty, bitter marmalade – all candied peel and deep citrus. The pumpkin gnocchi are pillow-soft and sing with sweetness before grounding themselves in hazelnuts and crispy sage. Brown butter brings the toastiness, and a genius touch of sharp black vinegar cuts through it all. A lacy peppered cheese cracker on top gives cacio e pepe energy, distilled to a single, brilliant disc. It's rare to witness genius up close: one man, in a tiny kitchen, turning out dishes this bold and brilliant. Thom sources every ingredient with care before filtering it through his singular vision and that one charcoal barbecue oven. Supra is the kind of restaurant this city should be parading through the streets, high on its shoulders for all to see.
The Spinoff
29-05-2025
- The Spinoff
The secret history of Wellington's most legendary falafel spot
Fighting on the streets of Beirut, recipes written on scraps of paper and a daring escape from near-certain death: the story of how Phoenician Falafel got its menu. Table Service is a column about food and hospitality in Wellington, by Nick Iles. Wellington, 2025. A menu, handwritten high up on the wall above the kitchen. Yellow, red and green on a black background. Traditional Lebanese dishes. Baba ghannouj, shawarma, makanek, kibbi. Behind the counter, Yolanda Assaf cooks orders with homemade ingredients as the noise of the busy junction outside fills the space. Beirut, the summer of 1958. While resting on the colourfully tiled floor of his living room, a seven-year-old Antoine 'Tony' Assaf looked up to see a bullet tear through the whitewashed walls of his home. His family gathered low in the middle of the room, all desperately praying that they would survive. The army outside was relentless in their attack; one shot came so close to a neighbour's head that it left a permanent scar. It was the first time young Tony had ever heard gunfire. Tony spent most of his childhood on the streets of Beirut exploring and adventuring among the fallen columns and ruins of civilisations past. Most days, he would arrive home from school only to throw his bag through the front door and leave immediately in search of more excitement. An entrepreneur at a young age, he used money he had cobbled together to buy up boxes of bright, individually wrapped bubble gum on the cheap before selling the contents on to the boys of the neighbourhood at five times the cost – until his mother caught him at it. The business was liquidated at once, and he was left looking for other forms of entertainment. Due to his keen sense of justice, this often meant fighting, looking out for the weaker ones being picked on and getting stuck in on their behalf. Before long, his reputation grew, and the other boys in his neighbourhood were told to stop playing with him. He was officially trouble. Behind the counter, Yola cooks the falafel in a traditional circular pan. Lined up neatly around the perimeter, they're fried so the edges turn lacy and crisp, delicate shards pointing in all directions. She assembles a heated wrap with pickles, tomato and homemade hummus. It is set to one side as she finishes the order. It was on New Year's Eve of 1961 that life got more serious. When walking across town to visit his uncle, Tony accidentally found himself in the middle of an attempted coup. The Syrian Social Nationalist Party had cut the military's communication lines and besieged the ministry of defence in an attempted hostile takeover. It lasted barely four hours and is a footnote in Lebanon's complex history, but it left a deep mark on Tony. He became politically motivated and devoured the newspapers every day. He wanted to make sure people were safe. It was with this full heart and strong head that he enlisted at the age of 20, but it was a short-lived military career. Within three months he realised the subservient life was not one for him; a superior officer tried to push him around and he responded in the only way he knew how. Tony was swiftly sent to military prison for a short sentence. Yola shapes the beef of the makanek, a kind of Levantine sausage, by hand and throws it leftwards on the flattop to cook. She heats a wrap and generously spreads the hummus, adds a fistful of homemade gherkins and fresh tomato. Three fat makanek are lined up on top, and the whole thing is wrapped. In 1975, Tony became engaged to Yola; they had known each other since they were children, and in 1977 were married. They were very much in love, but those early years were set against the gunfire and bloodshed of the Lebanese Civil War. Over the next 15 years, they raised four children while their neighbourhood was a near-constant battlefield. Tony did what most men in his area did: he joined the resistance and fought to keep his family and community safe. Late in the conflict, rival forces put a bounty on his head, making a public order for his capture. It was a death sentence. He was forced into hiding and plotted a plan to escape. Food would be his means of survival. He moved through the city quietly, calling in favours from those he trusted. In secret, he made his way to the best falafel seller in town and asked for his recipe, then to the best shawarma place, and then to the man who shaped and spiced the best makanek. They knew him. They loved him. They helped. Within weeks, he had a pocketful of recipes, all scribbled by hand and all of the best Beirut had to offer. In 1995, Tony, Yolanda and the whole family boarded a flight to Aotearoa and settled in Pōneke. Tony carried two precious items: that stack of handwritten recipes and a $100 BBC English language cassette tape programme. This was his lifeline to the new country he was about to encounter. He hid himself away in his apartment and studied. Eight tapes and several months later, he stepped out into Wellington with his newly acquired tongue. Before long, he had secured the deeds to the bricks and mortar he would call home for the next 28 years, 11 Kent Terrace. He wrote the menu high up on the wall that first week. It remains unchanged to this day. It is in this space and up those stairs that Tony and Yola still make every last element from scratch from the recipes written down in their previous lives in Beirut: the hummus, the baba ghannouj, all the pickles and garlic thoum. They even grind their own tahini from seed. Yola calls my name, and I am summoned to collect my falafel and makanek, both wrapped tightly in silver foil and presented on small blue plastic trays. They focus on quality ingredients, only using corn-fed chicken and lamb fillet for their shawarma and premium topside beef for their makanek. Spices of the Levant course through the beef, vast plains of aromatics and nuance: nutmeg, cumin, paprika. The falafel is at once delicate yet firm, light but with meaning. It is laced with those familiar spices that all take their turns appearing before making way for others: cardamom, cinnamon and more. Both in a flatbread with decadent hummus, thoum, tomato and crisp lettuce for texture. That menu, with so much more to explore, is a direct portal to Beirut in the early 1990s. It is one that has come so far and will continue its journey with their son Elie Assaf at his Auckland shop, Lebanese Grocer. It is a menu that tells just one of the many stories of Yola, Tony and their whole family. A piece of history written down by hand, wrapped tightly in foil and before us all now in this faraway country.
The Spinoff
15-05-2025
- General
- The Spinoff
The dream pub is real, and it is in Wellington
More than just a place to drink, The Ram on Cuba Street does everything a pub is meant to and so much more. Table Service is a column about food and hospitality in Wellington, by Nick Iles. In 1946, George Orwell published an essay called The Moon Under Water. In it, he posited a manifesto for his ideal drinking house – the perfect pub. He dreams of a place that 'drunks and rowdies never seem to find', and while there are no hot meals served, 'there is always the snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches'. Perhaps a bit of fun from an otherwise serious man, yet his wish that 'the barmaids know most of their customers by name, and take a personal interest in everyone' speaks of someone who truly understands the significance of the pub. More than just a place to drink, done properly it is a vital third space where one can escape the real world. Since moving here some years ago, I've made countless attempts to define my perfect pub, and work out whether Wellington truly has any (it does). I have spent time thinking about the little details: it would be mostly made out of wood; the seats would be at different heights, from low tables in intimate nooks to stools at the bar where you can end up chatting to random people; there must be multiple beers on tap and a few decent wines in the fridge; there should be random pictures and objects pinned to walls that meant something to somebody at some point. Maybe even a fireplace. When in a pub, you should have to huddle at the bar for service and not form a single-file line; chip packets are to be opened entirely and laid flat in the middle of the table for sharing; you do not have to eat any food and can sit there as long as you want; it is always quiet enough to talk, but noisy enough to never be overheard; most importantly you always feel safe, but there is the promise of potential chaos at any time. When The Ram first opened, I took all of this into account and decided that it probably wasn't, on reflection, my pub. It seemed too structured, too neat. Too gentle and polite. To arrive at The Ram is certainly to see a pub. There is wood, and lots of it. Dark, half-height panelling runs the length of the space and high-top tables mingle in with lower seating. The deep booths at the back of the room are dangerous – like the event horizon of a black hole, the gravitational pull of 'just one more' grows exponentially with each passing minute. Behind the bar, you'll find draft taps with a rotating list of exciting Aotearoa beers, one allocated to incredible local organic cider makers Fruit Cru, and one dedicated to a particularly lethal negroni. There is also an impressive wine list littered with exciting bottles from the likes of Halcyon Days, Amoise and Three Fates. Most importantly, there are stools. Plenty of them. You can also eat if you want, but you really don't have to. Though, can I suggest that you do, even just a few bits? Take a little look at the menu at least. It's really quite remarkable. It does this thing where the longer you look at it, the more exciting it becomes. Naturally, your eyes are drawn to the big traditional pub items: the steak, the burger or the lamb. But then you look closer, and you realise the steak is a generous porterhouse cut with a Café de Paris butter, served on the bone and neatly seared with that signature crust you hope to see on a piece of meat of this quality, the curried butter already melting into a viscous, spiced pool across its surface. All this accompanied by a generous pile of perfectly seasoned skinny fries and a well-dressed, sharp salad. The burger may read as a standard pub burger, but the reality is far more impressive. It is a house-made patty of brisket and bacon, topped with American cheddar, a fistful of pickles and a house-made special sauce, all on a fresh brioche bun. It's somehow what I always imagined when thinking of the perfect burger – there are no frills and nowhere to hide when doing something this simple. And though I hesitate to veer into cliché, it has genuinely ruined other burgers for me. It's available at lunchtime with fries for $20. Remarkable. The rest of the menu reads better than any other in the city. Salt 'n' vinegar fried oyster mushrooms are delicate and crisp, rich with umami and spiked with heat and sourness from a Japanese tonkatsu curry sauce. The kingfish ceviche is cut thick and laid flat across the plate, with red kiwifruit dotted across its surface, providing sharpness, and a herby crème fraîche bringing a real sense of luxury. The lamb ribs are piled daintily, sticky and sweet in all the right places. They come with a small pile of za'atar to dust at will and are about as elegant a plate of ribs as you are ever likely to find. These dishes change frequently and are not a fluke. Over the past year and a half of going to The Ram, I have been forced to recalibrate my definition of the dream pub. It is still predominantly wooden, and there are still seats at different heights. I can still sit at the bar having a drink, and I am under no obligation to order food. But rather than having to battle through that horrible scrum at the bar while the bigger boys get their drinks first, at The Ram the friendly and professional staff circulate the room, seemingly taking a genuine interest and making sure I am never left without a drink. I'll usually start with a beer, then move on to a glass of something low-intervention and exciting. And instead of eating my weight in crisps, we will order a few nibbly bits for the table. We'll then decide that we could probably all handle a main course. At that point, someone will suggest a bottle, and the night will flow onwards. Possibly for quite some time. So no, The Ram is not exactly the pub I thought I wanted. It's better. Now, when people ask me what my dream pub is like, I don't bother to describe it. Instead, I just tell them to go to The Ram.
