The cellar door sits on the edge of Ballarat’s old rail line, corrugated iron glowing in late-afternoon gold. Inside, the temperature drops and the smell changes—wet oak, stone fruit, distant campfire. Barrels crowd each other like commuters who’ve missed the last train, each one busy fermenting something unrevealed. I was waved through the roller door a week before the public will see any of this, a quiet favour that feels a little like reading tomorrow’s newspaper today.
Ed and Fiona Nolle—the couple behind Dollar Bill Brewing—move between casks with the calm of people who trust wild yeast more than spreadsheets. They talk about their blends the way musicians talk about bootleg recordings: unrepeatable, sometimes risky, worth every misstep. Local honey, roadside apples, farm-gate grains—all invited to misbehave in French oak until they taste like nothing on the market shelf. The late Anthony Bourdain would have found solace here—a place where wild yeast, honest labor and borrowed family tables blur into love.
I’m handed a glass of primrose-hued beer still sleeping on fresh cherries. It bites, then blooms: complex twang, marzipan whisper, a memory of bush smoke. The barrel is only halfway through its journey. "Give it six months,” Ed says, "and it’ll finish its sentence.” He’s smiling, but he’s not joking.
The Seasonal Conspirators
The Rare Oak Society, their tiny membership program (200 slots, no more—they’re out of square footage), is built around four seasonal shipments. A simple idea, except each one is anchored by a chef who treats beer like an ingredient, not a prop.
- Spring
— Rob Kabboard
A culinary savant who treats fermentation like higher math. He creates plates like a tangle of snap-fresh greens, pickled tendrils, and goat’s-cheese snow, calibrated to crackle against a bright saison touched with finger lime.
- Summer
— Telina Menzies
Telina lives to work with whatever the season offers: charred mango, green prawns, pineapple that’s flirting with fermentation itself. Telina imagines blistered pineapple ceviche—meets a bracing wild cider; the whole pairing fizzes like saltwater on sunburned skin.
- Autumn
— David Willcocks
He can roast a beet until it tastes like an expensive burgundy. For autumn expect something like a smoky kangaroo tartare brushed with pepperberry. The beer beside it is mahogany-dark and smells faintly of sultanas and campfire wood.
- Winter
— Tim Bone
Hometown hero, toastie titan, unashamed comfort-food addict. Picture a croque-madame stacked like a novella, raclette oozing through every page, served with ale that drops cocoa and dried fig notes all over the scene.
These Chefs are here for indulgent reasons, not just "culinary collaborations.” They’re here because a passion drives them and the beer summons food that can keep up—and because sharing a drink with people who know their way around fire and acid makes the whole thing feel like a family lunch that got gloriously out of hand.
Behind the Curtain
Back in the barrel room, Fiona knocks a stave, listening for a note only she seems to hear. "This one’s ready to blend,” she says, drawing a crystal clear drop that smells of hayfields and apricots. She blends it into a sour red from another barrel, tastes, pauses. "Needs some blended notes of that cherry barrel.” It’s jazz, not classical; intuition, not formula.
None of this choreography is taken lightly as it forms a fundamental part of the small cellar-door bar they’ll open later this year. The Rare Oak Society membership is the workaround—an invitation to experience the experiments while the paint is still drying. Each shipment lands with tasting notes, culinary pairings, a music suggestion and the occasional in joke scribbled in the margins. Open a bottle and you can almost hear the barrels breathing and a moment shared.
A Gift With a Pulse
Yes, this would make a fine Father’s Day present. It’s the kind of gift that shows up quarterly, nudging whoever receives it to slow down, pour two glasses, and maybe phone the person who sent it. But the real lure is selfish: signing up means a year-long correspondence with people who refuse to let flavour be boring.
And if you snag a second box for yourself? Call it self-care, why not? Join us here.
So, if a box thuds onto your porch bearing Dollar Bill’s ornate bottles, crack one open. Call over someone whose stories you like. Taste, argue, laugh, repeat. That’s the point—of beer, of food, of family, of all the best things that take their time.
