It smells like it’s been made with the leftover cauliflower that comes alongside a cheap pub Sunday roast; the stuff overcooked yesterday, so that it can be eaten today without recourse to teeth.
They have a private party upstairs, so there’s no room in the cloakroom for my bag “because we have, like, 50 backpacks there already.” You can hear that crowd honking and hooting at each other at maximum volume over the mezzanine balcony into the vault at the front of the restaurant, where high mounted outdoor heaters have been fitted to fend off a chill.
The least offensive for simply being dull is the grilled, cotton-wool thump of the lemongrass chicken, which tastes of very little including either lemongrass or chicken.
It could seat 570 people and had a hilariously garish interior of sculptures and gold-effect reliefs telling the story of the Babylonian King Gilgamesh.
I’m a completist, my time on this column is coming to an end and I simply needed to know: would Gilgamesh Mk II make any more sense than the original?
