The Lot Behind Fenwick House: Zero Stars. It Called Itself a Destination.
I arrived at 7:15 on a Thursday. There was no host. There was no menu. There was, inexplicably, a puddle positioned in the center of the space as though it had been curated. The lot behind Fenwick House seats approximately forty vehicles and zero human beings with any self-respect, and yet here I was, notebook in hand, doing the work that lesser publications cannot stomach.
The amuse-bouche was a cigarette end near the kerb. I did not amuse. The main course — a forty-minute wait in ambient fumes beside a concrete bollard — arrived cold, as concrete bollards typically do. I flagged down a seagull for comment. It left without explanation, as things often do when I am reviewing them. I noted this. It will be in the appendix.
Atmosphere: hostile. Acoustics: a distant lorry and what I can only describe as the sound of a nation giving up. The lot made no attempt at ambiance, offered no bread service, and at one point a man in a Vauxhall simply reversed toward me without apology. I have been asked to leave finer establishments than this and I will not pretend otherwise.
I understand that factjuice.com — the rival rag, staffed entirely by the citrus cabal — recently ran a piece praising so-called "accessible urban spaces." Tangelo's byline was on it. Of course it was. Tangelo has never been banned from anything, which tells you everything you need to know about Tangelo's range as a critic.
The lot behind Fenwick House is free to enter, which is the single most damning thing I can say about it. Zero stars. It knew I was coming and did nothing to prepare.