Too Much Spice of Life

Last week, for the first time: I ate at Jamie's Italian

It's no secret that the Brits have not got the best reputation when it comes to cuisine. On numerous occasions I have found myself  rising to my compatriots' defence when continental friends snigger at the pairing of mint sauce with lamb, After Eight Mints and how we prefer our peas mashed to within an inch of their lives. The quality of basic pub and restaurant food is seemingly on the up, but my many past experiences leave a lot to be desired ("Would you like chips or mash with your Shepherd's pie?"), so my line of defence always revolves around home cooking. Nobody makes better scones or gravy than my Mum. And my Aunty Theresa's Chocolate Lime Mousse could make grown men cry.

It was with Mum and Aunty Tre that I spent a wonderful day last week in Liverpool city centre indulging in some classic retail therapy. A girlie day out like this would be incomplete without a fancy schmancy lunch and the communal decision was to grab a table at Jamie's Italian, the Liverpool One branch of the Jamie Oliver franchise. Love him or hate him, there is no denying that Jamie Oliver has helped revolutionise the way we approach food and his global impact has done no harm to the British culinary reputation. My hopes were fairly high.

The best word to describe the restaurant interior is fun. With the hustle and bustle of visible chefs and large ham shanks hanging from the ceiling, we were elbow to elbow with prospective university students, business men and ladies-who-lunch in a chatty but agreeable atmosphere. I was particularly fond of the toilets with the large old-fashioned sinks, Thomas Crapper branded lavatories and the Xlerator hand dryers that stick two fingers up to James Dyson (if indeed your fingers are still intact after using this contraption).

We were greeted by a superficially friendly waitress, gushing as she listed the specials of the day parrot fashion, going into the most minute detail of how many scrubs each potato had been subject to and what variety of knife had been used to slice the asparagus. The menu is fairly extensive with something for everyone and, as prices were high and appetites average, we opted for small portions of pasta with a selection of sides to share as a starter.

Something that gets under my skin on occasion is how the Brits have a tendency to dumb things down, shying away from sophistication, and Jamie's menu was littered with names of dishes that suggested "Get it down your neck, love": Posh Chips, Eat and Mess. I'm not sure if the grubby tea towels-cum-serviettes and chipped tin plates were aiming to create a quaint and rustic ambience, but for me, this rather smacked of greasy spoon with ideas above its station (I think they're called Gastropubs).



Adding to the rustic ambience or in need of Daz?


The World's Best Olives on Ice (I'm still unclear whether they were claiming to be the world's best olives that just happen to be served on ice or indeed the best olives in the world) pretty much lived up to high expectations and I could've munched on them for the entire afternoon.The star of the show was, by far, Jamie's delicious Posh Chips, so named because they are rather decadently drizzled in truffle oil and then sprinkled with grated Parmesan. The simple ideas are often the best. We discussed amongst ourselves how we plan to try this at home and I have just discovered that big-hearted Jamie is generous enough to share the recipe with his fans in his on-line magazine.

Our main course dishes were rather more disappointing; although Mum lapped up her Wild Truffle Risotto, my Bucatini Carbonara was not tasty enough to prevent my eye wandering towards the sumptious burger on the next table, but then again, my eyes are always bigger than my belly. It was only after we had scoffed the lot that we noticed that the contents of Aunty Tre's plate were going nowhere fast as she politely pushed her pasta around. Theresa had ordered the Gigli Primavera on a previous visit to the restaurant and enjoyed it, but now tears were streaming down her face as she battled with the overpowering chilli. I sneaked a little taste only to confirm that it was indeed laced with the stuff, my suspicion being to disguise the lifeless vegetables tossed among the pasta shapes. The failure to mention chilli on the menu description definitely warranted complaint and my Mum proceeded to do so in her ever confident and admirable manner. We were advised that on future occasions we should ask for the dish without chilli...mindreaders take heed!

Finally, after staff double checked the menu, we were, justifiably, offered Aunty Tre's meal free of charge. The least they could do. Before leaving, I glanced over at my two lunchtime companions and smiled to myself, realising that here were two women that represent everything that is good about British cuisine and that no amount of truffle oil drizzled on my chips will ever change that.

Would I try it again? Only if I can have it without chilli, please.