A Tribute to the Visionaries
Darling Glebe wasn’t just designed — she was dreamed.
Carved from sandstone and stitched with story, she carries the fingerprints of visionaries: an architect who gave Sydney her spires, a dentist with a chisel, a Roman stonemason, a poet of light, a silk-scarf painter, and a chef who came home.
They built, stirred, etched, stitched.
And now you’re here.
Welcome to Darling Glebe.
She’s not here to explain herself.
She’s here to delight.
Darling Glebe wasn’t just designed.
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She was dreamed.
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Darling Glebe wasn’t just designed. | She was dreamed. |
carved from stone & wild ambition
If Only These Walls Could Talk…
They’d whisper about sandstone and scandals, martinis and madness, dinners that became stories.
Darling Glebe was once the earth beneath a garden, dug by hand, dream by dream, until the room appeared.
Now she’s a brasserie carved from convict stone and wild ambition, with just the right amount of velvet.
She’s not a normal restaurant.
She never tried to be.
This is a room for those who crave a little wonder.
And perhaps a second martini.
Gadigal land
The Land Beneath Your Feet
Before martinis and menus, before stone and story, this was, and always will be, Gadigal land.
We acknowledge the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation as Traditional Custodians of this place.
We honour their Elders past and present, and all First Nations peoples who gather here.
You’re dining on ancient ground.
Their stories are beneath your feet.
Their presence continues in our care.
Before martinis and menus.
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Before stone and story.
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Before martinis and menus. | Before stone and story. |
So What’s a Glebe, Anyway?
A glebe is an old English word for land given to the church, divine turf to support a parish priest. That’s how the name got here.
But the neighbourhood refused to behave. She grew into something far more interesting.
Today, Glebe is a bohemian paradox: A tangle of Toxteth manors and council flats, leafy terraces and crumbling porches. Artists, academics, eccentrics, and old ghosts all share the footpath.
It’s a suburb that resists easy definitions.
Just like Darling Glebe.
And if this place feels like a contradiction wrapped in charm, well, that’s the point.
Enter:
Edmund Blacket
Gothic enthusiast. Overachiever.
Architect of more than 100 buildings, and one very particular house, right above your head.
Blacket designed the sandstone stunners that still shape this city:
⚬ St Andrew’s Cathedral.
⚬ The Great Hall at Sydney Uni.
⚬ Sydney Grammar School.
⚬ The original St John’s, whose bricks were salvaged to build the room you’re sitting in now.
His buildings made Oxbridge blink.
And according to Jeff, his sightlines are so precise, he would’ve made a damn good maître d’.
over a century
Two Churches,
One Brasserie
In 1857, Edmund Blacket designed a small Gothic church just behind this site:
St John’s Bishopthorpe, a father–son project with his son Cyril.
The church stood for over a century, until it burned in 1972.
But not everything sacred turns to ash.
Dr Alfred Adey, the owner of the house above, salvaged the stone and, with Roman-born stonemason Sergio Ferrari, built something new beneath the garden: a vaulted dining room from bricks that once held psalms.
The second church?
Blacket returned in 1870 to build another St John’s across the road. It’s still there, serving sermons.
This one? Serves duck and martinis.
And people like you.
A House Above & a Man with Vision
The House
The house above you was designed by Edmund Blacket in 1870, a tidy Gothic number for a local pharmacist.
It changed hands a few times, then a dentist moved in.
Dr Alfred Adey. He had a drill, a dream, and little interest in staying above ground.
In 1972, when the church behind the house burned, he salvaged the stone.
Hired a Roman stonemason. Dug out a wine cellar.
It was meant to be private.
Then it got arches. Mood lighting.
And eventually… a menu.
In 1989, Darling Mills Restaurant opened.
Fine dining, farm-to-table, and just enough madness to work.
You’re sitting in a room carved by hand and dreamt up by a dentist.
Raise your glass to that kind of thinking.
It got arches. Mood lighting.
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And eventually… a menu.
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It got arches. Mood lighting. | And eventually… a menu. |
How to grow a legacy
Darling Mills Farm
Before the Burgundy.
Before the leather banquettes.
There was good soil. And a man with a plan.
Cecil Adey, a WWI veteran, planted along Darling Mills Creek.
His son Alfred grew herbs under skylights inside the house.
His grandson Steven took the mission to Chez Panisse, learning from the growers who fed a movement.
Together, they sparked a quiet revolution.
Greens before they had a name.
Mesclun before menus could pronounce it.
Flowers before they went viral.
Still family owned. Still growing over 100 varieties.
Still sending flavour quietly into Sydney’s best kitchens.
Still on our menu, tossing their little leaves like they own the room.
A toast in stone
The Stonemason’s Arches
Sergio Ferrari was a Roman stonemason with a poet’s patience and a strict no-rush policy.
He spent 15 years shaping these vaulted ceilings and sandstone arches by hand.
One convict-chipped sandstone block at a time.
Every curve. Every quiet architectural wink.
Just rhythm, craft, and a little Roman stubbornness.
Downstairs? Same story.
The Adey Wine Cellar mirrors the rhythm above.
Vaults aligned like sheet music, each carrying tempo and weight.
We named a room for him:
The Ferrari Martini Lounge.
Semi-private. Perfectly vaulted. Impossible to rush.
Exactly like the man himself.
If the arches could talk, they’d grumble… then raise a glass to him.
Anne Dybka OAM
The Light Etcher
Anne Dybka OAM didn’t cook, serve, or mix martinis. She etched light.
With dental tools and a Baccarat résumé, she carved koi and crystal pheasants into our private dining room. Bartering art for dental care in the 1980s.
Four panels remain: koi and a hunting roundel in the jewel box Dybka Room, a champagne coupe and grapevine glowing in the wine cellar.
Even our glassware tells stories.
Two little wine glasses, one koala and one lorikeet, lounge on the crystal shelf like bush cousins at a royal wedding. No one knows how they got here. But they’re fabulous.
Darling Mills Restaurant
Unforgettable Dinners
The tables were carved from a single 13-metre coachwood tree.
The trims, Australian cedar.
The lighting was unapologetically romantic. So were the vaulted ceilings.
She wasn’t just a restaurant. She was an atmosphere. A scene.
A memory-maker with a side of oysters.
For sixteen years, this room hosted critics, secret deals, weddings and birthdays that didn’t want a fuss. Just flavour, feeling and perfect timing.
She did farm-to-plate before it had a name. Wore her chef’s hats lightly.
And the old phone line? Disconnected.
But one regular still has the number saved in his mobile, just in case.
Call it an heirloom with good posture and cold martinis.
The Apprentice Becomes the Custodian
The New Custodian
Somewhere between the last stone Sergio Ferrari laid and the first oyster shucked, a young chef named Jeff was tying the strings on his first apron.
Sydney was flirting with nouvelle cuisine. Jeff landed at Kables, where soufflés had their own postcode and Serge Dansereau ran the pass like a Parisian orchestra.
Darling Mills Farm was just getting started. Serge believed early.
Call it lettuce destiny.
Jeff climbed fast: Savoy in London. Royalton in New York. Royals, celebrities, the lot.
Then back to Sydney: Bistro Moncur. Bayswater Brasserie.
Fast forward. The stones had aged. So had the story.
In 2021, Jeff stepped into this room and opened Beckett’s.
A Darling Mills revival dinner sealed the legacy.
Then he sold it. Took a breath. Let the room rest.
But buildings like this don’t forget their people.
Sometimes, they whisper, encore.
Encore:
The Return
The lease came up. The landlord rang.
“Want to come home?” Jeff didn’t let the phone cool down.
In 2026, he returned solo and stitched a new name to an old flame: Darling Glebe. A wink to those who remember. A welcome to those who’ve never met a room like this.
The rooms? Named for the visionaries who shaped her: The Adey Private Wine Cellar: Where 2,800 bottles will rest beneath convict-chipped hush. The Ferrari Martini Lounge: Arches carved by hand. Martinis served with mischief. The Dybka Private Dining Room: Light etched in glass. Sequins optional.
These rooms don’t just hold guests. They hold legacies.
And if you listen closely…someone’s already pouring a martini.
It got arches. Mood lighting.
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And eventually… a menu.
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It got arches. Mood lighting. | And eventually… a menu. |
The Most Audacious
Art Collection in
a Restaurant
(And That’s Saying Something)
There’s silk on the walls at Darling Glebe. Signed Hermès carrés by the elusive Henri de Linares. Each one older than your last anniversary and twice as bold.
But they’re not here to match the room. They’re here to hold court. Fleurs et Gibiers greets you in geraniums and gunmetal. Gibiers watches over dinner. Belle Chasse twirls in the Martini Lounge. Fructidor ripens in the wine cellar like it knows your secrets.
And that’s just the beginning.
Every plate is a century old. Every decanter has a past. Even the waiters wear vintage Hermès bow ties chosen by lucky dip.
This isn’t just styling. It’s quiet luxury with a story, told in silk, crystal and a little mischief.
If these walls could talk…
They’d murmur about the stilettos that outdanced the decade.
They’d blush at whispered I love yous that actually stayed.
They’d swear the laughter echoing off the stone has its own vintage.
And yes, even the chips are flirting with you.
They’d name names, if they weren’t such perfect hosts.
The dentist with a dream.
The Roman with a chisel.
The artist who drew light with a fingertip.
And the chef who came home to set it alight again.
This isn’t just a restaurant.
It’s a layered little marvel tucked under Glebe,
where wine has opinions, bread plates have history,
and secrets stay put, like old friends at closing time.
So, eat the oysters. Start the scandal.
Order the dessert. Or end it. With flair.