A wise man once said that you can't polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter. Said wise man could then, for example, freeze the glistening log, attach a few bells and some ribbon and then wave it round as a distraction while his accomplices committed various atrocities in plain sight of bystanders bewitched by the bejeweled poop.
Based on recent experience, it is likely that said wise man either works at Pirata Group or, if he does not, should be taking a huge slice of credit for two of the group's restaurants, Chaiwala and Pici.
Up to now, I have been pretty happy with Pirata Group – The Optimist and Tokyo Lima are perfectly acceptable date night or birthday offerings and tread the boards nicely between affordability and low-lit glamour. There are, however, some things which are unforgivable, even from someone with a previously exemplary record. We will come to these.
But first, let me set the scene. It is a Thursday at my office and I am deciding where to go with a co-worker for lunch. "Pici"? I pipe up. "I haven't been to the Wanchai one yet". "Sure" she says. "But we best get there at 12.10, as there is always a line". Ignoring for a moment that my breakfast from Pret a Manger has barely digested, I agree. Almost simultaneously my evening plans crystallise on Whats App "How about a beer in Central and a curry at that new Chaiwala place on Whyndham?" says a friend. "Sure" I say. Because it sounds reasonable and I know not what horrors await.
Lunch begins disappointingly with a plate of cold cured ham and a couple of nuggets of un-aged parmesan. So far, so Marks & Spencer. My co-worker's truffle pasta duly arrives and, because she is normal and doesn't like eating cold truffle pasta, she starts. A few minutes pass as we discuss work and I wait for my cannelloni. A few more minutes pass. And a few more. My co-worker finishes her pasta. A waiter approaches.
"I'm so sorry. We are doing our best".
"Are you?" I query.
"Yes sir, sorry, the pasta bar just sends thing when ready".
On the next table a cannelloni and seafood pasta arrive smugly simultaneously. If we were at somewhere where you shared food, I guess this kind of "you get it when it's ready" bullshit would fly. At a very obviously one plate per person lunch affair it does not.
My cannelloni arrived via the burning hot face of the sun a few moments later. In my haste to try and eat it before lunch hour ended, I succeeded in two things: (1) burning the entire inside of my mouth so it could be removed like a single sheet of clingfilm; and (2) eating one of the worst cannelloni that has ever come out of an Italian kitchen. It was too salty (which, as someone who classes potato chips as their own food group, is quite an achievement), the béchamel was too thick and the spinach slop underneath was, incomprehensibly given the overall saltiness, completely unseasoned. The waiter offered us coffees on the house by way of an apology but neither me or my co-worker drink coffee and Pici "don't do tea". It's hot water and a fucking bag guys. Just buy some. You can even use a coffee cup to serve it if you want.
I spend the afternoon quietly seething at my desk at having being conned by Pici's cool interior design and lines out of the door, whilst being vaguely optimistic about the prospect of food I might actually like at night. I was wrong. So very wrong.
I didn't realise I was wrong on arrival at Chaiwala as I was distracted by the impressive theatre of the entry. It's all the sort of stuff that seems to come as standard now – a "secret" entry to the restaurant through a different bar, faux colonial decor and low lighting etc, but I am still enough of an idiot to find this kind of thing vaguely impressive and totally disarming. If you put old Indian newspapers on the walls of the loo and dim the lights it basically makes me think these guys know what they're doing. In fact, this is their greatest the trick. They are not masters of heavily researched and beautifully prepared Indian food; they just make you feel like they are. Let's not forget we are in a basement cave underneath party-going Wyndham Street, not a bustling cafe in Bombay. This is the ultimate glitter turd scenario. In fact, this is not just one frozen glitter turd, but hundreds of them, being artfully waved around by morris dancers to distract you from the awfulness underneath before they melt. I watched the shimmering shits and swayed to the music as others ordered.
Some time passed and then the food arrived, first little by little and then all at once which, as we were sharing, was perfectly acceptable. There were six of us, so there were some curries, an "Indian paneer taco" (god help me), a bavette steak, some fried and tandoori chicken and a whole broccoli cooked in something which made it look a bit like a dismembered brain after a particularly gruesome school shooting. There was also some naan – peshwari, garlic and truffle (yes, I know) and, because everyone loves double carb with Indian food, rice.
The best I can say is that the rice and steak were great. The rest was utter shite. The curries were bland and that weird kind of smooth you only get by putting sauces in a food processor with loads of cream, the chicken was dry and, almost without exception, the various sauces (including with the steak) were cloyingly sweet or just unconscionably bad. The weird brain broccoli stared at me without ever being appealing.
Two Pirata Group restaurants. Two duds. One day. FML.
As you might have guessed, I get pretty steamed up about Indian food being done badly. I reserve my harshest and least balanced views for it, without apology. In this case, my rage is magnified because I never saw it coming. So, for example, when a friend recommends going to Bombay Dreams I either say: (i) no, because I know from the name it will be the kind of lurid slop that was served in Coventry in 1976 before all the Indian people arrived and eating it will make me want to kill myself; or (ii) yes, because I don't care, have given up on life, and it will make my dining companion happy and will make me look less judgmental. The Chaiwala name is, unfortunately, the crown jewel on the glitter turd.
I was annoyed. I still am, in fact. My keyboard has taken an absolute pounding and is begging this one to be over. So it is. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.