Glam at the Gallery but it's no place to relax
Jan 10 2008 Restaurant Review by Richard McComb
Selfridges Gallery Restaurant
and Moët Bar * * *
Selfridges, Bullring, Birmingham
You may be reading this before embarking on, or having returned from, "doing the sales." Either way, you have my sympathy. Rarely does expectation turn to disappointment so quickly. If fellow shoppers don't get you, the sales staff will.
I put in some invaluable pre-sales training by purchasing a pair of shoes in the Bullring. I am in borderline denial about my "consumer profile," or age, so foolishly I went to a young people's shop where the assistants are pierced and wear bum-crack jeans.
Here, you give a 17-year-old your shoe size (don't humiliate yourself by asking for halves), watch them disappear into the storeroom, and wait, and wait, and wait. If it wasn't for the High NRG-Acid-Megamix-Housey-Housey music blaring out, you'd be able to hear the conversation taking place back there: "THAT bloke out THERE - yeah, the one with the COAT - wants to try THESE boots! I know, I know! What's he LIKE?!"
The boots come back with cardboard and stuff in them, and are laced up in the most ridiculous manner imaginable. The assistant stares blankly, makes no effort to do what she is meant to do, i.e. assist, and sniggers as I do battle with the boots. She's thinking: "Oh my God, he actually still uses the laces!" I'm not very Snoop Dog.
As Ibiza Party Anthems 2007 smacks in, sweat begins to puddle on my head, and I throw a hissy-fit. "Sod it, I can't do it! I can't be bothered!" I scream, the knotted vein in my forehead almost breaking the skin. But there's nothing, not a blink from the bum-crack girl. Just that blank face.
Inexplicably, I start feeling bad about my outburst, and soldier on. My wife asks me to wiggle my toes, asking: "Not too tight, love?" I feel about nine.
I pay up, and leave the shop. And that's the thing about shopping: it doesn't deliver what is promised.
Which leads me nicely to the Moët Bar and Gallery Restaurant at Selfridges, where we trudge after the Battle of the Boot.
Should you believe the hype, the restaurant offers "people watching with panache." I am puzzled as to what the people are watching with such panache, or what panache is possessed by the people being watched.
When we sit down for lunch, there is a distinct panache deficit, unless panache equates with fake tans, bleached hair and over 50s squeezing themselves into the clothes of twenty-somethings. If it wasn't for the dead-muscle sheen of Botox, mothers would be indistinguishable from daughters.
Ten years ago, the Gallery might have been cutting edge, even in Birmingham. Now its clashing acid colour scheme seems tired. The snot-green floor is scuffed. The plastic bucket seats look like rejects from the set of Battlestar Galactica and the black tablecloths look like Alan Hansen's shirt material.
And it's cold. We had a "balcony" seat, over-looking the innards of the Bullring, and wished we hadn't. I almost popped down to menswear for a cashmere scarf and designer ear-muffs.
The starters were fine. My scallops with pancetta, baby spinach leaves and parsnip puree could have done without the gloopy, sweet dressing. Sally's Greek salad, conversely, had a good, light dressing, but oddly contained shredded lettuce, and no olives. The tomatoes were mushy. It was as Greek as Corporation Street.
Bread, again, was charged as extra, which is a disgrace.
The chicken chasseur with creamed/pureed potato was tasty, in an upmarket school dinners way. My fish and chips, however, was chronic.
The fish - "line caught haddock" - was so overcooked it was difficult to reconcile it with anything that once featured a pulse. The batter was almost burnt and the fish looked like it had sat in a Moto service station warming cabinet for 24 hours. The chips were all right but the tartar sauce lacked punch.
Selfridges is doing its bit to fuel the nation's binge drinking crisis. We ordered two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, which were 250cl in size, or a third of a bottle. Whatever happened to an old-fashioned glass of wine, like they still serve in France or Spain? Modern restaurants will say they are responding to consumer demands, but this is nonsense. Big glasses are an excuse to charge £5.75 a go. Have one of these glasses and drive - as you probably will after shopping - and you risk losing your licence.
For puddings, I had a treacle and pecan tart with some tasty vanilla ice cream. I was starting to ice-up and expected the tart to be warm, but it had just been retrieved from the fridge. Tarts shouldn't be stone cold. Sally's crème brûlée was arctic-fresh.
The worst sin, though, particularly for a department store restaurant, is that the service is polite but terribly slow. This is bad news for customers, who want quick, efficient service when they are shopping; and it's bad news for Selfridges' coffers. I lost count of the number of people who were turned away because the tables were clogged.
It's a shame, because with a bit of direction, and a less garish design scheme, this place could be far superior to what it currently feels like: a pimped-up shopping mall food outlet. It's panache-less.
Our lunch for two, with a small bottle of mineral water: £58.50.
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