Grand Hong Kong meets easy beachside luxury at Manly’s bustling new Cantonese spot

If you’re wondering where everyone is on a Friday afternoon, they’re here. Or at least, it seems that way at the newest offering from Artemus – the gang behind other Manly Wharf venues Felons Brewery and Felons Seafood.

This is the third Sydney venue for the Brisbane real estate and hospitality company, and it’s definitely its strongest. This is little surprise, however, with chef Louis Tikaram (formerly of Bentley Restaurant and Bar, and West Hollywood’s EP & LP) at the helm. The chef spent the past seven years running the original Stanley in Brisbane before moving his family to Sydney to take a second bite of the cherry in early September.

The look is grand Hong Kong, mixing plush late-’70s styling and chinoiserie with the approachability of Manly. Sit outside on the deck and watch the ferries come in while splitting a dim sum platter (make sure to try the luxurious scallop siu mai with gossamer-thin skins) and a cold beer (Felons lager is on tap here, naturally).

Inside, it’s absolutely packed – I don’t see an empty seat, or glass, in the house. The room is filled with energy and the sounds of people here for a good time, where chat mingles with the clatter of food being served. The persistent smell of toasted spices floats through the air, largely thanks to the fried cumin lamb ribs that hit a neighbouring table. I immediately regret not ordering them.

There’s a sense of easy luxury at this 210-seat waterside Cantonese restaurant. An opportunity to spend big in a relaxed, open-ended way that might start with a lychee martini (so fun, so daggy, so delicious) and a round of Moreton Bay bug spring rolls (is this the snack of 2026?) before settling in with something from the live tanks.

Service across the board is friendly and attentive but the wine service, led by sommelier Christian Blair, is a cut above. I ask for something that can take me from a duck pancake to a steamed crab leg. Without missing a beat, Blair suggests a textural mix of chardonnay, marsanne and roussanne from central Victorian producer, Changing Winds. Wildly, it works.

If you decide to order Peking duck for the table, know that it takes a minimum of five days of work for it to arrive there. It’s so special, the duck is prepared in its very own kitchen. It requires 24 hours of brining and a massage session, then a few days of drying out in the coolroom, getting fanned while hanging on custom racks. It’s this process that makes for the extra-crisp skin when it’s roasted. It’s high maintenance, but worth the effort for the right type of person. (Who isn’t?)

Anyway, all that kitchen pain is your ultimate gain. Juicy meat is covered in crisp, burnished and beautifully roasted skin, ready to be enveloped in a soft pancake with perfectly uniform spindles of green onion and cucumber, and a little hoisin. Order a whole duck two ways (pancakes and sang choy bao) or try the pancakes alone, if you’re hitting the tanks.

Choose your weapon when it comes to how you like your live seafood cooked: wok-tossed, deep-fried or steamed. Then choose between house-made XO, garlic butter, black pepper, Singapore chilli sauce and trusty old ginger-soy-shallot.

A West Australian snow crab, steamed and dressed in soy and ginger, lands at the table with its claws crossed, like it’s waiting patiently to be eaten. The meat is so incredibly delicate and flaky, so light on the tongue, it seems a crime to order anything else that might interrupt the experience.

But look, there’s also sweet-and-sour pork and pineapple (as bombastic and sticky as the crab is light, gentle and elegant) and eggy fried rice. Finish with star anise sugar-dusted doughnut puff balls dipped in an almost savoury Sichuan pepper-laced ganache. Or (my favourite) a refreshing lime sago pudding with diced pineapple and coconut gelato.

There are plenty of reasons to be charmed here, but a bottle of soy sauce is what ultimately steals my heart. Alongside the XO and three types of chilli (fermented, jam and fresh) on each table, there’s a proud little bottle of Kikkoman. Turns out it’s an ode to Louis Tikaram’s Fijian-Chinese grandmother, who would only use that soy sauce in her kitchen. “She taught me how to cook from an early age,” he told me, “so I guess that one’s for her.”

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