Andy Kelly works across contemporary art, collectible design and whatever else happens to end up on the desk that day, largely by convincing people to come into rooms and talk to one another. He is the Director of Collectible Design at Melbourne Art Fair, co-founder of Oigåll Projects and one half of the furniture design practice Brud Studia, a combination that has him oscillate daily between exhibitions, partnerships, prototypes and the quiet belief that most cultural problems can be solved with better lighting and a big glass of fizz.
His work champions artists and designers whose practice rewards attention, patience, and repeat encounters. He favours hospitality over hierarchy, curiosity over certainty, and the kind of quiet confidence that comes from having thought things through, even if he pretends otherwise. Much of what he builds aims to feel lived-in rather than performed: spaces and cultural experiences that are considered while still not taking themselves too seriously, and that tend to linger well after everyone has gone home.
Here’s Kelly now with what breakfast, lunch and dinner might look like amid his creative commitments.
My local is Masses Bagels. It’s new, right down the end of Smith Street, the bit you never go to, because I am very cool like that. And let me be clear: I am a morning girl now. We’re talking an iced long black and a bagel with quark. Not a Martini. Not in 2026. Not when I’m trying to lose five kilos and still retain my dignity.
I love Masses for several reasons. Firstly, the bagels are excellent, which feels like the bare minimum but is increasingly rare. Secondly, the interior is genuinely good (the same people who did that chicken shop Kokoras in Yarraville, also excellent, no notes). And thirdly, crucially, Holly on the matcha bowl is a scream. A true performer. A reason to leave the house.
I am gay. Please normalise brunch beating cocktails.
When I want to celebrate an occasion with a special meal, I go to Supernormal – like any Melburnian should. Nothing says “congratulations on graduating university” or “sorry your nanna died” quite like a lobster roll and a Lychee Martini. Supernormal is tried, true, and black-and-blue Melbourne in the best way. And to be honest I really don’t need a reason to celebrate, sometimes simply being in the city is cause enough for a bit of lamb shoulder and another LM (lychee Martini) down the SN (Supernormal).
I will say I am disappointed that special bonsai box doesn’t have a bonsai in it atm – fix that, Andy – bonsais are so in for 2026 and I’m not entirely sure if Drew is still hosting (I’m confident he is, if not in body then absolutely in spirit), but a big shout-out to Drew regardless who made me feel so at home when I first moved to Melbourne and stumbled into that joint. Icon behaviour.
When I want to show off the city to friends from out of town, I take them to Apollo Inn for a very dry vodka Martini, no garnish. I’ll be taking my friends there for a nightcap after the Melbourne Art Fair Vernissage party. I never make a reservation, so we’re forced to perch standing by the bar, which, depending on shoe choice, immediately separates the men from the gays (the gays being able to handle anything). It’s an excellent early test of character.
From there, a bit of theatre down at Di Stasio Città. Look, I’ll say it: I’m an institutions man. I know it. I own it. I’m not your girl for hot, fresh, and new. Città is the perfect restaurant to experience Melbourne: the crowd, the room, the mood. I love places that make me change how I behave, and Città does that. I walk in and immediately feel like Nicole Kidman.
I barely care what’s on the menu (though I do love it when they have the pork chop). And the flatware, oh god, the flatware. The plates. The glassware. That water jug. Yes, that one. If you know, you know. Honestly, I make them go just to meet the water jug.
My favourite place to load up on supplies is… Honestly, this implies a level of domestic competence I simply don’t possess. I am not an eat-at-home girl.
That said, I am currently very into these big jars of tiny, pickled chillies from Sonsa Markets. Obsessed. I dip them into Greek yoghurt and suddenly I’m Nigella Lawson. Effortless. Rustic. Dangerous. It’s the kind of cooking I can get behind: minimal risk, maximum flavour, and the comforting illusion that I’ve prepared something rather than merely assembled it.
There’s no better value in the city than Crab 89, the all-you-can-eat Japanese seafood buffet. My partner in life and work Mitchell Zurek and I had Christmas lunch there with two friends (who shall remain nameless, as they told their families they were overseas in order to attend). I arrived sceptical, eyebrow fully raised, unsure if it would be garbage or greatness. I can confirm: absolute greatness
Every kind of lobster you can imagine, including the Moreton Bay bug, either cooked for you or served raw so you can barbecue it back at your table. I personally did not operate the barbecue (as previously discussed, I am not to be trusted), but my anonymous friend handled that part. The damage was around $250 per head. I ate five lobsters and enough prawns and oysters to suggest I may qualify for some form of mercury poisoning. It was dinner and theatre – chaotic, excessive and deeply festive.
Look, I want to say also I know it will never be Smorgy’s (vale), but the quality of food and price, I have no choice but to stan.
And I wish more people would experience the excellence of Vanilla Lounge. Honestly, say less. Oakleigh is already flavour-town, but Vanilla Lounge is Greek bakery meets RSL meets nightclub, a total triple threat. I’ve been there for christenings, birthdays, and possibly the saddest and funniest wake of my life. This place does the full emotional spectrum with confidence.
The family who run it are icons. Proper pillars of the community. You feel it the second you walk in. Do yourself a favour: get out of Fitzroy, get out of South Yarra, get to Oakleigh. Order the kourabiedes, get a piping-hot mugachino, and simply watch the room. And if you think it’s quiet? Roll up at 10.30pm on a Tuesday night. It’s pumping. Always has been.
These are my cake people. Anyone who knows me knows I am the man who brings the cakes – big, unhinged, 1.5 metre-diameter situations. I once got them to make Melbourne Art Fair’s Mary Wenholz’s eight-year-old son a full size bridal scale croquembouche for his birthday. All from here. I’m not a gatekeeper. These are the ones.
My favourite work/image/photograph of food and drink here is… Well, I guess I’ll shamelessly plug Melbourne Art Fair here and say Charles Blackman’s study of At the Tea Party from his Alice in Wonderland series, which will be presented by Justin Miller Art at the fair this year. It’s technically a tea party but really about imagination and interior life. Blackman’s Alice isn’t interested in the tea so much as the strange, dreamlike feeling of being there, cups and tables becoming markers of scale, curiosity, and a slightly unsteady sense of self. It’s gentle, intimate, and quietly absorbing. It’s food and drink as atmosphere rather than appetite, which feels very Melbourne to me.
The best spot for a meal before or after an opening is Ladro on Gertrude Street. Our friend Ella Saddington, Mitchell and I have fallen into the habit of going post-opening, usually slightly overstimulated and in need of something grounding. It recently changed hands and, honestly, it’s so good.
The lasagne is transcendent. So good it has almost healed the trauma of the many awful ones my mother forced upon me growing up – dense, wet slabs of obligation. This one is restorative. Proof that growth is possible, and that sometimes closure comes in béchamel form.
My defining food moment in Melbourne was COVID-era Piccolina and the bake-at-home desserts. It genuinely changed the game. Those boxes gave people purpose, structure and a reason to preheat an oven when time had lost all meaning. I don’t say this lightly, but I would seriously consider advocating for a brief snap lockdown if it meant they’d bring them back. Not forever. Just long enough to restock the freezer and feel something again.
If there was one thing I could change about eating and drinking in Melbourne it would be the Janet Jackson–level yo-yo dieting required just to participate. One week it’s Martinis, late nights and heroic portions, and the next it’s electrolytes, regret and pretending I enjoy steamed things. Melbourne insists you eat everything and look effortless doing it. A city built on excess, restraint, and the quiet understanding that everyone is simultaneously celebrating and recovering. I love it dearly, but my soon-to-be-36-year metabolism would like a word.
But the thing I hope never changes here is the spirit of the pivot. Jason Jones of Entrecôte is the most nimble example I’ve seen. I never want that spirit to leave the Melbourne food scene. He can turn water into wine, and his honesty about how hard it is to run a joint is both bracing and inspiring. He’s taught me to keep my own business as agile as his, even when the maths is rude and the optimism has to do most of the heavy lifting.
I once did a few shifts hosting at Entrecôte when Jase was in a bind. What looks effortless from the other side of the room is actually hell in stilettos, and it gave me a whole new appreciation for the passion required to keep a place ticking. So yes, roundabout answer: that spirit, that adaptability, that stubborn, generous passion, that’s what I hope never leaves.
For those who want to find me: @oigall_projects is my gallery, @brud.studia is my work and @melbourneartfair is my mistress. See you when I’m looking at you.
Melbourne Art Fair runs Thursday 19 February until Sunday 22 February. For more information and to purchase tickets, visit www.melbourneartfair.com.au/tickets.