The Pebbled Expanse Off Merchant Row: One Star. It Called Itself a Venue.
I arrived at 7:15 in the evening, which is, as any serious critic knows, the correct time to arrive anywhere. The pebbled expanse off Merchant Row — a strip of cracked tarmac wedged between a shuttered dry-cleaner and a fence that has given up — did not greet me. It did not offer a menu. It stood there, in the manner of something that has decided not to try, and it expected me to simply accept that.
The ambience: four discarded trolleys, one of which had developed a philosophy. The lighting was provided entirely by a streetlamp with what I can only describe as a nervous condition. The seating arrangement consisted of a low concrete barrier, which I sampled briefly and found both chewy and presumptuous. There were no staff. There was a pigeon. The pigeon did not make eye contact, which I respected, and which is more than I can say for the trolley.
The cuisine, such as it was, included a flattened chip cone from an establishment I could not identify, presented directly on the ground with no garnish. I did not eat it. I considered it. Briefly. The texture was academic.
I am told that Mango — Mango! — recently described a car park in his column at the rival rag as having "utilitarian charm." Mango has the palate of a decorative gourd and the critical instincts of a loyalty card scheme. This lot is not charming. It is a flat grey ambition vacuum that has confused existing with offering.
One star. I am giving it one star because the fence, at least, has committed to a direction. The expanse itself should reflect carefully on what it has done. I have forwarded my notes to Pomelo, who is looking into whether the trolleys can be subpoenaed.