Opus has written its name in letters six foot high outside, which is such a screaming act of narcissistic self-doubt, I wish I’d thought of it myself. I put this down to Opus being in Birmingham, a city that is stuck in low to medium self-hatred. Its roads are mad, and think they are in Miami, and wander around pointlessly with eight lanes, looking for malls and gun shows and Charlton Heston but then they realise — still Birmingham.
Opus is a ‘smart’ restaurant. I know this because a) it thinks pistachio is a good colour for things other than pistachio nuts, in this case, chairs, and b) Francis Maude is here. He is sitting with Nick Robinson of the BBC, leaning on padded pistachio tubes. I suddenly realise that Francis Maude played the Emperor in Star Wars and wonder if Nick Robinson knows this. Maybe they are in league? Obviously I spend the rest of the evening waiting for Francis Maude to attack Nick Robinson with Sith fire; when I am not doing this, I am online, looking up exactly how much money Maude claimed from the taxpayer to service a mortgage on a London property moments from his other London property. (I’m fun!) If this review seems distracted, this would be why.
It is a large, too-bright room with no atmosphere; anything that could have added atmosphere — candlelight, for instance, or Ewoks, who are really teddies with Menshevik tendencies — has been rooted out. So the effect, I am afraid, is glossy non-entity — clean, safe, dull, and all sitting in a gruesome puddle of pistachio, plus brick red. Pistachio and brick red? Who designed this? A suave baby? It looks like McDonald’s, now McDonald’s has gone ‘posh’. The lighting makes everyone look uglier. Opus may have a website with a picture of a cow, and it may boast about using local food, but if the lighting makes everyone look like Francis Maude and Nick Robinson, who cares? The staff, meanwhile, are nervous. This is a problem — in ‘smart’ restaurants, staff are rude to the customers, and ideally beat them. We expect it; that is what we pay for. These staff seem a bit flaky. Maybe they fear Sith fire. Maybe they are angry about the money Francis Maude claimed to service his mortgage — it was £35,000. I checked.
Food. It is heartsinkingly posh, no, it’s worse, it’s French — terrines and so forth. I hate terrines; it’s what happens to food when it gets depressed. The cheese soufflé (preening, tiny) is OK, but monstrously overdressed, my grandmother on a plate, and M’s fishcake is OK-ayyy. C looks suicidal in front of her three-shades-of-pink terrine, and I don’t blame her. It looks like a prop from Casualty.
At least some drug dealers have come in. I know they are drug dealers because they wear leather jackets (only drug dealers and dentists wear leather jackets) and they shout. They sit near Francis Maude. I expect Francis Maude to intervene, because of the Big Society and all that. But he doesn’t. He really is useless.
We all have steak. It’s hard to destroy a steak with bad design, with nasty, oversized black lampshades that divorced men buy because they have no one to tell them not to. It comes, three friendly brown lumps, and once C, who ordered medium, and I (rare) have swapped, it’s fine — a nice piece of Midland cow, for close to £30. Francis Maude is leaving. Nick Robinson of the BBC, and therefore you, and me, pay the bill. Is anyone surprised?
Over comes a waiter for pudding orders, swaying in the horrible bright. I ask — can I have just one scoop of ice cream? Yes, he says, but I’ll charge you for three. It takes ages to find C’s coat. The bill, if you care, is £163.
Comments