Beefbar Malta
47, Dawret il-Gżejjer,
Buġibba
Tel: 2158 0999

Food: 8/10
Service: 8/10
Ambience: 8/10
Value: moot
Overall: 8/10

The notion of value has little to no practical utility in today’s journey. It’s not where I ought to start but there is my refusal to score it just above this paragraph, so I thought I’d address it and get past it.

The restaurant in question is the latest in a chain by a man from Monaco and it is priced to suit. Before you read any further (with reference to my score above), there may be nothing left for you on this page.

To start with the location, it is weirdly impeccable. Across the road from Beefbar is a seedy part of Buġibba that subsists on ramshackle shops that peddle piles of plastic pool lilos and paper-thin towels to tourists who’ve chosen to spend their week off work in Buġibba.

But inside Beefbar, or on its lavish terrace, you can cast your gaze across the sea, on to the unspoilt beauty of St Paul’s Islands, and all the way across the open sea to the horizon, contemplating the insignificance of your existence when compared to the vast beauty of nature as you do so. Or perhaps just enjoying the view, free from existential cogitation.

Placing a reservation is a must. The first time I went there I didn’t think the place could be fully booked. The hostess upstairs gave me a card and asked me to call. She wouldn’t take my reservation ‒ I had to leave and use my phone. Go figure.

When I did call, they let me know that they offered a taxi service. If we turned up in a cab, they’d book and pay for our return journey. Nice touch.

Well, I drove there because I’m stubborn and trying to park in Buġibba made me realise I’d made a proper fool of myself. Beefbar know exactly where they’re located and the cab service makes a whole lot of sense. Make use of it, dear readers.

This time, another girl in a little black dress and impossibly high heels met us and did that whole thing you see in Mad Men where they had a guy press the button in the lift. Downstairs, another girl in a black dress asked if we wanted to take an accompanied tour of the place or just get to our table. I glanced around, took in the beauty of the place and asked for our table.

Service comes from guys in beige slacks and tops in a variety of Breton stripes. The girls in black just do hostessing duties. I thought we’d got over the quaintness of separating roles by gender and imposing ludicrous costumes but then I doubt I’m the intended audience for this place. There is a consistent demeanour among the front-of-house staff. They all appear happy, extremely pleased to serve you and have a stock of pleasantries which they pick from and dispense at every encounter.

The place looks great and feels more lounge than restaurant. It has been designed with an attention to detail that we are not accustomed to. From the multiple complementary materials that make up banquettes we were sat on to the ceramic light fittings and all the way to an emoticon-bedecked Bernardaud porcelain, everything has been custom made. There are happy faces and piggy snouts and burger icons on these gilt-edged plates to say they don’t take themselves too seriously and this begins to reveal the personality of the place.

This restaurant is one for those who want to kick back in a lounge environment, eat premium meats, drink cocktails, and unwind, with the added benefit of steep pricing to keep out the great unwashed

Elsewhere, this restaurant is one for those who want to kick back in a lounge environment, eat premium meats, drink cocktails and unwind, with the added benefit of steep pricing to keep out the great unwashed. But this is Malta. The pricing is there to turn the place into one where you can judge and be judged, to wear shirts with sausage-dog logos and display a gold wristwatch, and to place the key of your German premium SUV on the table and hope no other table has a fob with a little prancing horse on a yellow background.

Our man for the night seemed to be concerned with just our table. Even if the place was meant to be fully booked, no one sat in the area we were in until it was time for us to leave, so we had a waiter to ourselves and he was great.

I asked how we should go about things and he said it would be wise to start with a few of the smaller dishes since their meat was cooked in a process that would take around 20 minutes. It is popped into an oven at 600 degrees to crust on the outside. Then it was allowed the appropriate resting time and finally it is finished with a stint in the Josper. Sweeter words have rarely been spoken.

I asked if the beef was aged and our man said he’d consult their butcher and be right back. He was right back to say that no, they don’t age meat. Everything is fresh. A little dismayed, I picked a 300g centre-cut Black Angus ribeye. There’s a Wagyu double ribeye if you like as well but I thought I’d stick to somewhere half way in the price range.

The better half wondered what a burger that was priced at €30 tasted like and I’m always the voice of corruption that encourages indulgence, so I egged her on until she capitulated and ordered it. She refused to add truffle on what seemed to me the insignificant grounds of her despising the scent and flavour.

We ordered a couple of starters and a bottle of wine, again veering towards the centre of the price range in the interest of balance when writing this column. We then sat back and enjoyed the setting sun over a tranquil sea.

With a box of irresistible freshly baked breads and a bottle of wine at table, the view seemed even nicer and the sommelier popped by to congratulate us on our choice of wine, to let us know it is by a producer that focuses entirely on organic produce and that we could easily have two bottles – they have a driver to take us home if we need to. His demeanour, his French accent, his burst of energetic fervour, won us over instantly.

Our starters were served together and with a hint of drama. There’s little to do when serving a dish of sliced, 190-day aged Wagyu prosciutto but the smoked Kobe beef tostaditas are served under a glass dome that preserves the tail end of the smoking so it is lifted at table with a flick of the wrist, allowing the smoke to dissipate gracefully.

The prosciutto is delightful. It’s been air-dried and can be likened to a bresaola that’s been made out of a wonderfully marbled slab of Kobe beef. The tostaditas balance a little piece of smoked Kobe on a fresh guacamole that’s held up by a circular corn taco and there’s a hint of habanero chilli for a vigorous, lingering finish. Both dishes are elegant and quite clever without being overstated, pushing flavour rather than theatre.

Then it was time for our mains. I started by using one of the hefty, branded steak knives to cut a section of the burger. Any lingering scepticism about the burger vanished instantly. This has to be one of the best burgers I’ve eaten for a good while. Perhaps unusually, the most memorable burger I’ve eaten was one in a very specialised restaurant in Tokyo and the one at Beefbar sits right up there in my personal hall of fame.

My steak was also sumptuous. When I reached the centre, I did wish there had been at least a week of dry ageing but that’s a very personal preference. The meat is an unbelievable cut, the high exterior cooking temperature creates a perfect Maillard case with flavour from the Josper charcoal smoking and it cuts to a very abrupt gradient to a core that is served rare, as I’d ordered it. There is no faffing about here. They promise an excellent steak and they really deliver it.

We did pay more than I’m accustomed to for a steak and a bottle of wine by the sea but to describe our experience that way would be a rather hefty underappreciation of the detail that’s gone into it. If you’re happy to spend on good food and can’t be bothered with the slab of society you’re sharing a space with, I encourage you to treat yourself. If you’re not happy to pay what might seem to be an unreasonable amount on a meal, you could have followed my instructions earlier and turned the page while you still had the time to.