It's just not good, fellas

Sep 27 2007 By Richard McComb

Don Salvo *
39-40 Temple Street, Birmingham
0121 633 3385

Some might call it pessimism but there is a lot to be said for being prepared. You never know when disaster, real disaster, might strike. Fear not though, for the publisher Collins has come up with a nifty self-help guide about "what to do if the unthinkable happens..."

Disaster Survival is pocket-sized, which means it fits nicely into your bum bag along with a gas mask, decontamination suit, jump leads and moist wipes. Remember: it's a case of when, not if.

Disaster Survival explains how to prepare for a plane crash, a dirty bomb, a tornado ("Fix hurricane straps to secure roof to walls") or a terrorist strike on the office ("Self-preservation is the order of the day" - so lawyers and accountants should act as normal).

Just about everything is covered by Disaster Survival - with one glaring omission: what to do in the event of a duff restaurant meal. Since the statistical incidence of such disasters far exceeds that of avalanche or a hijacking on Birmingham's Outer Circle bus route, I suggest the scenario should be featured in future updates.

That being said, the general rules and "stressors" of survival hold true in most situations; and as my plate of fettuccine con polipo was presented inside Don Salvo, I immediately recognised my passage into the "impact phase."

On the menu, the £12 dish was described thus: "Pasta with baby octopus, squid strips, cherry tomatoes, served with a dill & white wine saffron fish fume."

Archie had ordered a steak on the basis that you "can't really go wrong with a steak." And although you can, I knew what he meant. However, I decided to pursue a high risk strategy and took the plunge with the cephalopods, arguing that my readers would expect nothing less. Remember: I eat this stuff so you don't have to. In any case, I've been re-watching The Sopranos on DVD, starting back at series one, and was gagging for a plate of pasta.

And so the polipo arrived and looked as appetising as the contents of a deep-sea dredging bucket. Buongiorno "impact phase". According to Collins: "During this phase, individual behaviour is likely to be disorganised, with a certain degree of apathy."

This would account for the fact that I kept prodding the lifeless mass of pasta with my fork. Archie, whose face had turned pale, helpfully pointed out: "It looks like a Pot Noodle. Only they've forgotten to stir in the bottom."

As Archie lives in Nuneaton, I wasn't sure if this was a searing witticism or a culinary tip. Either way, his appraisal of the polipo was perceptive.

Jabbing one of the handful (yes, singular) of rubbery, tasteless octopus-ettes, the factors that trigger stress during the impact phase washed over me like a seafood tsunami: inner feeling of helplessness (check); dislocation from loved ones and familiar environment (yup); feelings of responsibility... and wondering if more could have been done (oh yes).

Manfully, foolishly, I ploughed on, a decision I later regretted. Don't ask me why I ate it and don't ask me to describe this dish any more. It's too depressing.

Don Salvo, which also has an outlets in Wolverhampton, opened in Temple Street a few months ago. You've got to admire its front, setting up shop opposite established Italian rival San Carlo. Perhaps its opening might lead to a grand rival of Italian cuisine, Birmingham's own "Little Italy."

It won't.

I had expected the fillet steak in my starter of Carpaccio Di Manzo (£9) to be raw, slightly warmed at most, not cooked. The oyster mushrooms which accompanied it were a dry precursor to the baby octopus. Archie's Antipasto Italiano (£9) was workmanlike without the gutsy artisan flair that description might imply. His peppered fillet steak with brandy, red wine and cream sauce tasted better than it looked. In fact, Archie said it was all right, even if the pancetta that was meant to accompany the dish had gone walkabout. Maybe it had dug a tunnel and escaped.

The dessert menu was a plastic, laminated affair, which means it never changes and is designed for the chef's convenience rather than the diners' delight. It was pudding by numbers stuff and featured the usual Italian suspects. We didn't bother.

The service can only be described as very odd. It would be comical if it wasn't so spooky. A bloke in jeans who turned up half way through the evening and looked vaguely important seemed to spend most of the time staring at us.

At the end of the meal, he and a colleague - a taller version of Tattoo ("Ze plane! Ze plane!") in TV's Fantasy Island - appeared with a bottle of grappa and something brown. We really didn't want anything but felt we were being made an offer we couldn't refuse. We thanked Tattoo and his minder and had some of the brown stuff, which was like HP sauce, without the finesse.

Plus points? The wine, a bottle of Lapia Vino Rosso di Toscano, a hearty cabernet sauvignon (£22.95) was very good and the bread and butter were nice. But these really should be givens in an Italian restaurant.

The rest of it, you can take or leave - and I'd suggest you leave it. It's just not good, fellas.

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