We were always going to be setting ourselves up for a fall but Casamia was the last great restaurant left in Bristol that we had been putting off for that special occasion. The best in Bristol, a Michelin star restaurant on our doorsteps, what a perfect place for a 30th birthday!
Six months ago I walked past the entrance to Casamia at 9.30pm on a Friday night and they were closing up, it’s amazing what a little press and a picture of a fat man made of white tyres on your door can do for trade.
Upon arrival we were first told that there was no booking in our name, then told that our table had been sold on due to us being late, despite the fact we were still 10 minutes early.
After a pleasant little stay in the entrance and a £20 bottle of wine which I bought in Tesco for £6 last week, we were asked for our menu choices which I thought was perhaps a little premature considering that we were still wearing our coats and sat next to the front doors. Anyhow this must be how the other side lives I commented to the wife as I wondered if Elton John had his very own little VIP table next to the coat stand at Claridges.
As it was a special occasion we all decided to eat from the 10 course tasting menu for £45 with two of us taking the wine flight for an extra £35 each.
The food was predictably minuscule served on incredibly oversized plates looking like they had been attacked by Pablo Picasso with a brand new box of crayola.
As the plates got larger and the bowls got deeper the Ukrainian mafia serving took turns to practice their English by explaining what constitutes a deconstructed Caesar salad, a deconstructed tiramisu or a poor man’s truffle. What is it with chefs nowadays? Why don’t they construct anything? Perhaps they are too busy playing art attack with Pablo and his crayola.
A poor man’s truffle I was reliably informed by Dolph Lundgrens not so cheery sister was a turnip risotto with apple foam. What she neglected to tell me was that for true authenticity it was actually made using bits of a poor man, ala Sweeny Todd and Mrs Lovett’s pies. The poor man in question, Gandhi and his well travelled flip flop. A little bout of nausea followed that particularly interesting course but half the toilets were covered up with black bags and engulfed in a stench akin to Mrs Lovett’s cellar.
As the tenth and final course probably consisting of deconstructed foreign language student winged its way to our now departed table we were in the back of a cab, 350 quid lighter but safe in the knowledge that the only reason to return to Westbury-On-Trym would be for a visit to the Westbury Raj.
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