Dining Down Under (the Williamsburg Bridge)

The Wombat Bar (613 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY 11222)

Australian cuisine has never attained a popular status worldwide, and even in the trend-obsessed world of New York dining, our town has only managed to cough up three or four restaurants given over to down-under dinners. Much of this has to do with a certain vague and undefined nature of the nation's grub; still based around British traditions (roasts, chops) learned in the continent's colonial days, modern adaptations to the diet tend towards the heavy influence of an enormous Asian immigrant population (Japanese, Thai and Vietnamese in particular) or the "BBQ culture" of outdoor cooking so suited to the climate. Other than the dreaded Vegemite sandwich or farmed kangaroo meat, little on Australian plates is of indigenous inspiration. Modern Aussie chefs have sparked a movement to incorporate local ingredients (bush herbs, exotic seeds, alien-looking berries and a few odd fruits) in Sydney and Melbourne, but a recent visit to The Wombat Bar in Southeast Williamsburg yielded few surprises on the menu.

As expected, Asian tropical touches abound, from a Ginger Martini ($7 and not nearly spicy or strong enough; a Blackberry Fizzy Gin Tea, also $7, fared no better) to a slice of Banana Caramel pie for dessert (included in the $20 prix fixe menu available Mon-Fri before 8PM). A competent but curt waitress didn't make our welcome warm, but soon appeared with cocktails, water and an eagerness to grab our order; efficiency is appreciated in a field of work growing more amateurish by the day.

As mentioned, 20 bucks buys three courses, and we began with large salads of shelled pistachios, purple grapes, tender baby lettuces and hunks of creamy goat cheese, lightly tossed in a raspberry vinaigrette. Sure you could make it at home. But would you? An entree of tea-marinated flank steak with sauteed spinach and a pile of homemade onion rings was quite good, with a slightly bitter but salty reduction from the tea, butter-smooth and fork-tender meat and wickedly addictive beer-battered fried onions. Banana pie is no favorite at Cafe Drake, so we were surprised to enjoy a generous slice; as befitting fruit desserts, layers of deep richness and sweet were obtained through the indulgent use of an inch of caramel and blankets of sweetened whipped cream.

Decor is minimal; the long skinny dining room is dominated by a mural of Ayers Rock, lending a strange air of desolation to the already forebodding black concrete walls. We couldn't make this up, kids. A front bar is far more inviting, lit with tiny brass votives and the sounds of Brooklynites swigging beer like perpetually parched Aussies. Wombat Bar won't be winning any Drakies in 2008 (Cafe Drake's First Annual Food & Dining Awards) but a solid, if predictable, neighborhood staple always has a place in our hearts.