Review: Neptune’s Grotto – A Love Letter to my Italian Fantasy

Today was the day. After weeks—months, even, of anticipation, my wife finally secured us a table at Neptune’s Grotto. And I’ll admit, shamefully, that my excitement levels were… lukewarm. Unfounded? Absolutely. Unjustified? Without a doubt. Because this place is the brainchild of Dan Pepperell, Andy Clift, and Andy Tyson, and doubting them is, frankly, an amateur move. I have followed Dan my whole career and he’s never disappointed. I apologise in advance for my momentary lapse in faith.

Housed in the former Cubby’s Kitchen, Neptune’s Grotto isn’t so much an entrance as it is a test of will. A dangerously small hobbit door off Young & Bridge Street leads to a subterranean hideaway beneath Clam Bar. It’s the kind of entry that, if you weren’t looking for it, you’d miss—and maybe that’s the point. But once inside? This was my Italian restaurant fantasy. Dark, moody, effortlessly cool. Sinatra and Dean Martin crooning through the speakers. The air thick with garlic, chili, and anchovy. It was gangster, man. It had an allure of a mafia movie where people come here to do their business and not be seen. 

I was in love. And a proper, old-school welcome from the host sealed the deal. I love a venue that reassures you, you are in the right place with a big smile. Why did I ever doubt you?

The Look

The fit-out is pure Old Hollywood Italian cinema—half-moon banquettes wrapped in buttery Alfa Romeo leather, exuding effortless cool. Dark, moody, unmistakably Italian. It’s the kind of place where you half-expect to see Pacino nursing an espresso in the corner or to overhear a whispered conversation about a De Niro looking character “taking care of things.” A scene straight out of Goodfellas. The back bar features strongly and the light behind the door is where the kitchen is orchestrating the magic… I can only imagine finely shaved garlic with a razor liquifying in the olive oil. Anyway… salute. 

So, here’s the thing, I’d glanced at the menu earlier and felt… meh. And our waitress—bless her candor—made it clear: “What you see is what you get.” No embellishments, no overpromises. No additions today. This was not said with malice, but with the kind of confidence that made me again, feel, meh. Still, we ordered with intent. And let me tell you—what we got was the kind of CBD-suited, sharp, efficient, high-paced dining that I love. The kitchen meant business.

So, let’s talk food:

We kicked things off with Mama’s Slice—a solid slab of tomato-soaked bread paired with icy-cold smoked burrata and two types of anchovies. Salty, creamy, perfect. Love it. Why don’t I do this at home more often? Then, the fried zucchini, smashed with vinegar and mint, served chilled and proving once and for all that zucchini doesn’t have to be the bland, forgotten cousin of the vegetable world. This was a zucchini with something to say. You talkin to me? 

Then, a treat from the kitchen: a fiercely gamey, earthy chicken liver on toast—rich, rustic, and balanced beautifully by the side order of house pickles giadiniera. Not the citric acid stuff from a jar but this was a fist pumping opera of Italian garden vegetables doused in vinegar with a surprise fava purée, thick with garlic, under the pickles, it was a DIY killer combo. The pretty parcels of chilled tuna rolled with caponata hit the table amongst the crunching and swiping. It was bright, and bursting with flavor. The tuna was spanking fresh and of the highest grade. My wife wasn’t sold on the caponata component, something about cold tomato sugo vibes—but I’m the guy who eats lasagna straight from the fridge, actually anything out of the fridge, so no complaints from me. I liked it a lot but had to agree I wouldn’t order it again. 

And then, the real moment of truth. Pasta. You know a pasta dish is good when your first instinct is to say: “Bring me your biggest bowl, leave me alone, and let me disappear onto the couch and devour it” That was exactly the case with the pumpkin truffle agnolotti—earthy, sweet, buttery, and glistening like a dream. Man, it was so good. Perfect pumpkin flavour, truffle dancing on top and the pop of the agnolotti’s was a professional hit on the palette. I have to admit pumpkin and truffle is a combo that makes a lot of sense but unfamiliar to me. I am a fan. Right next to it – A simple, yet flawless thin spaghetti with tomato and basil—mum-style, but better. I wanted more mummas slice to mop it up, I should have shoved a white napkin in my shirt collar for this, as I ran my fingers through the plate to savour the goodness. 

For mains, we dove into an eggplant parmigiana that was smoky, fatty, and everything a proper parmigiana should be. A zingy fioretta side, packed with lemon and capers, cut through the richness. But the real star? The calamari. Charred, lemony, garlic-and-chili-fueled, tangled up in a muddle of rocket leaves and explosive shots of the cutest tiniest tomatoes the size

Of thumb nails blowing up in my mouth. It was brash, bold, and undeniably good. The calamari was tender and just a great combination and for me, what pure Italian simplicity and beauty is about.

My Conclusion

So, to Neptune’s Grotto, I offer my sincerest apologies. I doubted you. I should never have gone against the family. You were exceptional. From the music to the atmosphere to the food that had me questioning my own judgment—you delivered. Walking out, I half-expected to be told to “watch my back” for ever questioning you in the first place. Bravo. Well done. I Can’t wait to come back—unless I’m swimming with the fishes.