Searcy’s at the Barbican

Searcy’s at the Barbican
Thanks to all the cultural fuddery that goes on at the Barbican, it’s become a sort of carnie for a certain type of people. Whilst normal carnies have heads full of candy floss and Jade Goody, the minds of Barbican-lovers are chock full of brown corduroy and Melvyn Bragg. And whereas carnie folk can be found in noisy fields littered with cowpats and stray dogs, Barbicans choose to worship the Gods of the future in this incongruous monolithic structure.

It’s acceptable to think, therefore, that a team like Searcy’s might splatter a sense of art, culture, music and life all over the walls of their Barbican home; especially considering the surroundings and the sterling job they did of reigniting the romance of travel at their other recent development, St Pancras Grand. Disappointingly, though, this is not the case.

All that the refurbishment has managed to achieve is the addition of a bar that nobody uses, a different colour carpet and various levels of blandness. For a start, there’s no music. Which is odd for an establishment that will no doubt receive most of its custom from culture vultures hungry for a bit of Verdi, Seasick Steve or Buena Vista Social Club. There is no atmosphere, whatsoever. This could well be the very first restaurant ever to exist entirely in a vacuum. The low ceilings and thick carpets soak up most of what little sound there is, which from experience is mainly confined to the sound of customers sending back their food because they’ve been given the wrong meal. At one point we saw a waitress carrying several Bakewell tarts asking every table in turn ‘Did you order dessert?’

The time taken to clear dishes and deliver the next course equates to roughly far too long which, again, could be a problem considering that most people have a performance to catch. That, and the fact that the average age of the clientele is about 950. They haven’t got time to wait for dessert. They might not make it out of the restaurant at all.

The food itself is flamboyantly average when, or even if, it arrives. It mainly hangs around the ‘cor blimey, eh oop chuck, why eye man’ school of thought, with a general British intent and perhaps a slightly zealous obsession with tradition. Henry VIII would have feasted on similar words: smoked eel, wood pigeon, egg of duck, hare in a pie, fish in a stew, shin of beef with kidneys, bread and butter pudding. He might not have had the pleasure, however, of the such a diverse mead list. The wines on offer come from countries that Henry would’ve either married or gone to war with. Chances are he would chosen the excellent Chapel Down Bacchus (borne of Kent!) had he the opportunity.

The starters are handsomely presented and quite generous as well, so although opting for three courses at £28.50 might sound like a good deal you’ll probably be filled by two (£24.50). Plus, with three you’ll have to arrive at about 2.30 in the afternoon to get through them all before the performance at 7.30pm. Adversely, for those attempting to use the restaurant for romantic purposes, the mid-show sitting might be best suited.

Now, the view. This is probably the restaurant’s only laudable feature. Without it, Searcy’s report card would have some serious explaining to do. The 180-degree vista tunes in a whole host of things to distract you from your Searcy’s experience: the as-old-as-time-itself St Giles Cripplegate Church, the swan-less scum-layered canal, the reassuringly expensive apartment tombs and the various futuristic faculties of some girls’ school or other. It’s a bit like eating dinner on the control deck of the Starship Enterprise, looking out over the physical embodiment of an Escher drawing, had it been drawn in the 1970s.

Overall, Searcy’s at Barbican is not a young, fresh, vibrant place. The most fun to be had is the walk through the maze of bridges and walkways from Moorgate. If you have the legs, the Portuguese restaurant, Portal, is only a 10 minute walk away. If you’re an octogenarian, however, stick with Searcy’s Barbican blandness.