From writing menus based on what the locals supply to leasing land to farmers, these community-connected kitchens make dining out about more than just the food. 

It’s Saturday afternoon at Barragunda Dining and an echidna snuffles through native grasses outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, as though parading for enchanted diners. Beyond the scrub and the spiky marsupial, a farmer walks along a row of brassicas, hat tipping towards a dipping sun.

We’re on the Mornington Peninsula, about an hour south-east of Melbourne (Naarm), on a coastal property with beef, sheep, orchards and – since February – a restaurant four years in the making. Clouds stream swiftly above but the air ripples gently at ground level, Cape Schanck’s wild winds held at bay by dense tea tree and banksia plantings. Inside, 40 diners sit at round timber tables eating vibrant dishes layered with today’s leaves, fermented goods from seasons past and surprising plant treasures that don’t often hit the plate: a cream made from sunflower stem, a sauce flavoured with leek tops, pickled green almonds.

Everything feels connected: the building in the landscape, the food to the seasons, the narrative of a restaurant doing things differently. Farm-to-plate is still a good story but Barragunda goes beyond that, creating a meaningful, mutually enriching web of connections. “I’m nothing without my community,” says executive chef and farmer Simone Watts. “Restaurant cooking used to mean sourcing the best, freshest, tastiest produce. Now I’ve realised it’s not just about me and my menu. We support the environment, biodiversity and farmers because everything depends on them.”

Barragunda Dining is on a farm owned by the Morris family, which made its fortune with Computershare in the 1990s and now runs a foundation that focuses on environmental projects. “This restaurant sprang from a strong sense of purpose,” says Morris Group director Hayley Morris. Using local food was a bedrock principle but it quickly became clear that aspiring farmers lacked affordable access to land. “We thought, well, we have land, why can’t they use it? Community was the natural outcome of our ethos.”

Enter chef-turned-farmer Karl Breese, who was unable to front up the $60,000 needed to lease commercial farmland in the region. Under the banner of Morning Penni Farm, he rents land at Barragunda for $2 per square metre, within sight of the restaurant, and with access to water, pipes, pumps, tractors and a coolroom. “Without something like this, I wouldn’t be able to farm,” he says. Breese sells to Barragunda Dining and to the broader community via the restaurant’s online store.

Community also drives Farmhouse Kedron in suburban Brisbane (Meanjin). The café is in an old lettuce storage shed, the remnant of a farm store that was acquired for road projects. “It’s the most unlikely location – you turn off a very busy road into our oasis,” says owner Amanda Scott. The café had strong support from the start. “People embraced us straight away and a lot of guests we have today were here in the first week.” They’re drinking seasonal smoothies – as mangoes finish, pineapples come in – and eating the signature breakfast gnocchi with bacon and poached egg.

Scott’s central community is her staff, who are celebrated in mini-profiles on the menu and are hired for attitude rather than skills. Even the least experienced are asked their opinions. “I am always learning from them,” she says. And the connections go even further. “Our landlord’s father brings Italian parsley, a lovely man up the road brought us white eggplant from his garden and I bring in lemons for customers to take home.” Farmhouse is just one café in a large city but Scott easily finds the meaning. “We give kids their first job, we are part of the rhythm of people’s lives. I couldn’t do it if it didn’t feel worthwhile.”

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