Bel Canto

Minister Court, Mark Lane, off Fenchurch Street, London, EC3

There are often times during a working week when the fug of an exceedingly bad day will follow you like a persistent charity mugger as you leave your place of occupation. If you then head straight out for dinner wearing that same bad head you might feel inclined to unload your tension onto your dinner guest, even though they probably didn’t deserve it. This might then lead to a heated debate, a glass of staining Rioja thrown across a table and an embarrassing silence throughout the restaurant as your guest stomps off in the direction of the exit. Dramas, dramas, dramas.

At Bel Canto, these sort of dramas happen all the time, and at regular intervals. They even expect you to pay for the privilege?! Your starter might be interrupted by a lovestruck nobleman suddenly rousing the crowd into a drinking frenzy. Your main could well be punctuated by two blokes loudly harking on about losing their girlfriends. Whilst your dessert is likely to be impeded by a beautiful Spanish temptress publicising her feelings about men (“Waiter, there’s seems to be a Bizet in my soup”). Welcome to operatic dinners where just as you sit down the barman totters over from behind the bar and starts belting out an aria. You don’t get that at All Bar One.

The Times food critic, A.A.Gill, reckons Bel Canto is “the worst concept for a restaurant” he’s ever come across, that offers “bad food with intrusive arias in a basement in the city.” Well, he’s right; about ONE thing: Bel Canto IS in a city basement. Aside from that, it appears the Great Gill got it wrong because Bel Canto is like taking a hot shower in culture juice. Anyone who believes that this restaurant is gimmicky, or somehow reduces the arts to a form of sideshow circus, is probably the kind of person that makes Piers Morgan seem like the ideal companion for a round-the-world boat expedition.

Put it this way, would you rather pay £100 to witness Radiohead play live at Wembley or, for a fraction of the cost, have them perform an intimate gig in your living room, balanced precariously on top of your sofa? So, likewise, would you rather pay several hundred notes to sit in the stalls at the Royal Opera House and watch La Traviata unfold on stage, or have it performed right next to your dinner table for just a few quid? To be fair, this analogy is not entirely accurate because the singers at Bel Canto nor the Royal Opera house write their own music - unlike Radiohead - but seeing as the original composers are hard to book (ie. dead) they are the next best thing.

When going to the opera it’s strictly a dinner-then-show affair. At Bel Canto, this pesky middle man is bypassed and the performances happen practically right on top of your table. Occasionally, you might even be lucky enough to be utilised as a prop (watch out for that floozy, Carmen, lads). The set menu is £55 for 3 courses without wine. Seems expensive; for a meal. Throw in 4 hours of quality opera and it’s difficult to see how you’d get more than a stump up in the Gods at the ROH for that price.

As you listen, mouth agog, hairs on end, eardrums bursting, many questions will enter your mind and, once they’ve completed the piece, clap dutifully and then feel at ease to ask your queries because customers are encouraged to discuss the music with the angels. It’s hard to believe these young artists are still only students with burgeoning careers and that they could actually get any better. Look out for stars of future Tyler Clarke, the unassuming tenor, and Carleen Ebbs, the Kiwi soprano, who, at times, can get so high she rattles the spare glasses on the empty tables.

The problem with Bel Canto is that the dining area is just a cave with some refined cave dwellers hanging out in it. The only thing that fills it is the gargantuan sound emanating from the amazing performers. The decorative opera posters, headless costumes and grand piano go some way to make the space look a bit exciting. What’s missing are a few throwaway balconies, some street urchin chorus kids and about 100 more customers per night.

The French cuisine is not nearly as dramatic as the performances but it’s hardly fair to expect it to be. Both food and wine tick the ‘adequate’ box and you will find yourself saying “there was food?” at the end of the evening because you were so engrossed with the ‘goosebumps guaranteed’ quartet from Verdi’s Rigoletto that you completely forgot you were eating rabbit risotto.

Tip: don’t be late and remember this is not a dinner, it’s an event. If it takes 20 minutes to get some water, it’s meant to be that way so you can enjoy more.

If opera can work this well with dining and hospitality, what’s stopping it from spreading into other vocations? Professional football? - “Refereeeeeeeeeee, are you not blind to seeeeeeeee, that that was a clear penaltyyyyyyyyyyy”. Or how about construction? How refreshing would it be to hear the chubby chaps on the building site singing out scenes from The Magic Flute instead of footie chants and sexists abuse?

Although new to London, Bel Canto has already been posturing in Paris for a decade and with a little help from us critics and you, the paying public, it can be the same over here. In these times of financial strife, those that are wary of the wallet should stand up and sing “bravo, bravo, bravo, Bel Canto”. Support a local artist, eat dinner.