Double Rainbow sits inside one of Perth’s most kinetic buildings. Navarre, head chef of the Rechabite’s eating house, talks to WAGFG about cooking for a live venue, the discipline of restraint, and why the daycap is more than a trend.
The Rechabite is one of WA’s most genuinely layered venues: live performance, rooftop bar, basement club, eating house. Where does Double Rainbow sit in that ecosystem, and how has that position evolved?
When we started, a lot of people came through the door because they had a show to get to. We were convenient. A place to eat before the main event. That’s shifted. People are booking for us first now, and then realising there’s a show on upstairs and staying for it. It’s become symbiotic. The programming pulls people into the building, and we give them a reason to arrive early and settle in. Each makes the other better. We still belong to the building, and we like it that way. But we’re not an afterthought anymore. We’re a reason to come.
Running a kitchen and bar program seven days a week inside a live venue is a different proposition to a standalone restaurant. What disciplines does it demand that most hospitality people never have to think about?
You have to be genuinely good at reading tempo. A comedy night is a completely different service to a live music show or a club night. The crowd, the pacing, the energy in the room shifts completely, and the kitchen has to move with it without being told to. The bar and kitchen relationship matters more than in a standalone restaurant. We’re serving the same crowd and the whole experience must feel cohesive. Seven days means there’s no coast day. The team has to be invested, not just capable.
There’s a growing conversation globally about the daycap: the late afternoon drink that’s becoming a cultural counterpoint to the late night. Is that something you’re feeling in Perth?
Yes, and I think Perth is well positioned for it. The daylight, the outdoor culture, the fact that people finish work and don’t necessarily want to commit to a big night. There’s real appetite for a well-made drink at 3pm that feels like an occasion. It’s not just a trend. It reflects a genuine shift in how people want to use hospitality.
Younger drinkers are approaching alcohol with more deliberateness: fewer drinks, better drinks, earlier in the day. How is that reshaping what you put on a drinks list?
Right now there’s a natural alignment. The food and the drinks share the same sensibility around bold flavour and considered choices, but a lot of that has happened organically rather than by design. We’re still developing what a more intentional collaboration looks like.
The new menu reads as genuinely confident: bold contrasts, a clear point of view. Where does that sensibility come from, and how has it developed?
It comes from being genuinely obsessed with Korean and Japanese food rather than just referencing them. Both cuisines have this incredible discipline around contrast: sweet, salty, fermented, fresh. That’s become the lens I cook through now, whether I’m conscious of it or not. I came into the kitchen about a year after opening, so there was already a foundation. But when I joined we were still in that discovery phase, figuring out what the food really wanted to be. It’s developed by going deeper rather than wider. The more we leaned into those specific influences instead of casting wide, the clearer the food became. The sensibility was always there. It just took time to trust it enough to let it lead.
The chef’s counter and open kitchen put the work on display. Does that visibility liberate you, or does it add a layer of pressure that never quite goes away?
Both, and I think that tension is useful. You can’t phone it in when people are watching. But you also can’t be precious. You just cook. The visibility has made me more confident in the food over time, not less. If you believe in what you’re doing, having people see it is a good thing. If you’re uncertain, that shows too. You get very good at reading people quickly. Some guests at the counter want the show with a side of banter. Others just want to eat and watch without being pulled in. Getting that read right is its own skill. It keeps the team sharp.
The menu draws from a broad sweep of Asian culinary tradition without leaning on any single one. How do you decide what belongs and what doesn’t?
The edit is everything. Broad reference is only interesting if the point of view is clear. I ask whether a dish has integrity: whether it makes sense on its own terms, not just as a gesture toward a cuisine. If it’s referencing something, that reference must be earned. I also think about contrast and balance across the whole menu: texture, temperature, weight. A dish that might be great in isolation can be wrong for where the menu needs to go at that moment. What doesn’t belong is anything I’ve put on because I felt I should, or because it would read well on paper. The menu has to be things I’d genuinely want to eat.
What’s the most significant shift in the new menu direction?
The shift is toward more restraint. Earlier menus were more maximalist: lots of components, lots of technique on show. This one trusts the ingredients more. I ate a raw scallop dish recently at Balthazar. It had three or four elements on the plate, and it reminded me how powerful simplicity is when the produce and the seasoning are right. That recalibrated things. The market plays a role too. People are more fluent now. You don’t have to explain yourself as much, which means you can strip things back and the food still communicates.
The shows upstairs set a tone for the night before anyone sits down to eat. Do you feel that energy filtering through?
Genuinely, yes. There’s a different atmosphere in the room on a big show night and you feel it in the kitchen. The pace changes, the energy is higher, people are more open. I wouldn’t say I cook differently in a literal sense. The food is the food. But the building has a pulse. When it’s going, the kitchen goes with it.
