On a road trip around Tasmania’s thriving sustainable food scene, writer Taryn Stenvei seeks to understand the profound changes that turned the once-sleepy Australian island at the end of the earth into one of the world’s must-visit culinary destinations.
“The ocean is everything,” says Alice Liang, standing in her workshop on the shores of Lutruwita/Tasmania’s pristine Southern Ocean. “It’s the source of our product, but it’s where we live as well. For us, protecting that was so important.”
Alice Liang is co-owner of Tasman Sea Salt, a boutique salt company on Lutruwita/Tasmania’s east coast—purveyors of what is allegedly the world’s purest sea salt. She’s talking me through the company’s renewable-energy-powered salt-harvesting process, which extracts pure, mineral-rich salt directly from the surrounding ocean. “Our salt tastes the way it does because of the purity of these waters. We wanted to keep it that way,” says Alice.
Tasman Sea Salt, which she runs with her partner Chris, is powered by solar and thermal energy from the ocean. The business is emblematic of a common thread in Tasmania’s food scene: Producers working with nature to create world-class products without harming the environment.
Lutruwita/Tasmania—roughly the size of Ireland but with a tenth of the population, and just an hour’s plane ride from mainland Australia—has transformed into one of Australia’s coolest and most sought-after destinations. Young road trippers, nature enthusiasts, and tastebud-conscious travellers are now charting their routes across the island, discovering a place where nature, food, and history intertwine.
So, what’s changed?
“As Aboriginal people, we’ve been sustainably maintaining these lands for thousands and thousands of years. Using the traditional foods from local areas is a really important part of Palawa culture, as is working with the seasons.”
- Kitana Mansell, palawa kipli
The answer isn’t simple. Tasmania’s profound transformation has been a slow burn, fuelled by a newfound confidence in its own identity. Tourism is now a powerhouse industry, directly and indirectly employing a whopping 13 percent of the state’s workforce—the highest percentage of any Australian state. While the island once relied on traditional industries like forestry, it now boasts thriving hospitality and tourism industries.
One major catalyst was the opening of the Museum of Old and New Art (MONA) in 2011. The boundary-pushing, privately-owned museum put Lutruwita/Tasmania on the international cultural map, drawing visitors from near and far with its provocative exhibits and weird and wonderful annual festivals like Dark Mofo. But MONA was just the spark. A deeper shift was already underway.
“Tasmania has always been amazing, and the produce has always been some of the best in the world,” says Hobart-based private chef Lilly Trewartha, my companion for a week-long all-electric road trip through the island state. “Now, we just have the self-assurance to own that.”
In a world where one fifth of food-related emissions come from transport, eating locally has never been more important—or more logical. In Lutruwita/Tasmania, it’s not just about reducing food miles; it’s a way of life.
As an island at the edge of the world (and bottom of the supply chain), Lutruwita/Tasmania has always maintained a degree of self-sufficiency. And I mean always. For the Palawa people— Tasmanian Aboriginals—celebrating traditional food practices after colonisation is an ongoing effort.
At Palawa Kipli, Lutruwita/Tasmania’s only Aboriginal-owned food business, Kitana Mansell, a proud Palawa woman, introduces us to a menu of traditional Tasmanian Aboriginal food, shaped by the land and seasons. “As Aboriginal people, we’ve been sustainably maintaining these lands for thousands and thousands of years,” Kitana says. “Using the traditional foods from local areas is a really important part of Palawa culture, as is working with the seasons.”
Our platter includes smoked wallaby salami, mealworms cooked in salt bush, and pepperberry cheese—but the experience is so much more than just a meal. It’s a lesson in history, sustainability, resilience, and the urgent need for Palawa food sovereignty in Lutruwita. “We’re not only serving up our food on a plate, we’re telling the truthful history of this place,” Kitana says.
Tasmanians have always been resourceful, but now, that ingenuity is being properly celebrated and acknowledged. Driving north towards Kanamaluka/Launceston, we visit Timbre Kitchen, a restaurant in the Tamar Valley, where chef Matt Adams sources three-quarters of his ingredients from local backyard growers. “Twenty years ago, it would be about, ‘We’ve got the greatest French cheeses on our menu,’” Matt says. “I reckon, if you want French cheeses, go to France. People are just more conscious of eating local—and that’s better for the world.”
“We have a deep responsibility to the ocean. It’s everyone’s natural environment, and we need to manage it properly—leave it better than we found it.”
- Cameron Hall, CEO Tasmanian Oyster Co.
At Timbre, there’s no set menu; dishes evolve daily, dictated by what arrives that morning. “Having parameters is amazing,” Matt says. “It’s great because it forces creativity, looking at different styles of fermentation or preservation. Plus, there’s beauty in inconsistency. The corn custard today isn’t the corn custard tomorrow. I’d rather cook like a nonna than a scientist.”
Nearby in Kanamaluka/Launceston, Mudbar is a pioneer in Tassie’s local dining scene (and where a young Matt cut his teeth as head chef). Owner Don Cameron is hellbent on fostering a heartfelt connection with his local community, sourcing much of the restaurant’s produce from his own farm, just 20 minutes away. The menu fuses Lutruwita/Tasmanian ingredients with pan-Asian flavours—think ocean trout glazed with mirin and green chili coconut sauce, or dry-aged steak with ponzu or sambal.
At its heart, Lutruwita/Tasmania’s food scene is an interplay between land and ocean. On the east coast, after our visit to Tasman Sea Salt, we head north to Bicheno’s Lobster Shack and learn about the strict state government regulations that aim to keep the state’s wild seafood industry sustainable. “It’s really important to make sure that the fisheries aren’t overfished,” says co-owner and head angler, Marcus Walkem. “We’ve got to ensure there’s a good amount of breeding stock there to keep it going for future generations.”
Later, we head out on the Tasting Trail, stopping at Tarkine Fresh Oysters to meet Cameron Hall, the CEO of its parent company, Tasmanian Oyster Co. Here, 40 million oysters grow beneath the water line, and Cameron speaks passionately about the delicate balance between farming and environmental stewardship. “We have a deep responsibility to the ocean,” Cameron says. “It’s everyone’s natural environment, and we need to manage it properly—leave it better than we found it.”
Back on land, we carry on the Tasting Trail, along which dozens of suppliers grow, harvest and sell their produce. We stock up on some artisanal cheese from La Cantara, produced from their own stock of free-range cows, some wild Takayna Tarkine Rainforest bush honey from Blue Hills Honey, and some paddock-to-plate smallgoods and sausages from Mount Gnomon Farm.
We gather our bounty onto a platter and dive in with abandon on the deck of Mount Gnomon’s new dome accommodation, the surrounding field of sunflowers aglow in the sunset’s fading light.
Visiting Lutruwita/Tasmania’s chefs and suppliers, it’s not just the quality that stands out; it’s the community. Everyone here seems to know each other, or at least know of each other. The food scene isn’t just provincial—it’s deeply personal. This is a place where reputation matters. How you treat people—whether customers, farmers, or fellow chefs—matters.
“Tasmania is a small place and you’re always running into people you know, so you can’t really be a jerk,” Lilly laughs. “Maybe in a bigger city you can get away with it, but in Tassie, the food industry seems to be full of lovely, like-minded people.”
There’s an intimacy to the food scene that’s rare elsewhere, and that’s what sticks with me long after I leave: The close-knit magic of this small, remote corner of the world. The harmony between the people, the produce, the plate in front of you. The alchemy of it all. “I don’t think I’ve tasted or seen a network of farmers and producers anywhere in Australia like I have here,” says Lilly. “There’s a real culture and community and ethos around food. It sounds cliché, but you can actually taste it.”
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Writer, editor, and sometimes music manager, Taryn Stenvei previously edited Beat Magazine and was the founding editor of travel title AWOL. She now freelances from home in Melbourne, turning records over and talking to her dog.
