Middling Manzi’s
A vast empty vessel of a restaurant where the lemon sole is the only soul left.
I am sitting on a two-tone blue banquette, sandwiched between chequered blue cushions, staring at a forlorn looking King Neptune emerging out of a plaster wall holding a trident in one hand and a rope attached to a fishing net light fitting in the other. King Neptune’s uncanny resemblance to Chris Hemsworth is just one of many disturbing design features in this gargantuan room.
The blue table, blue chairs, the blue velvet curtains, the candle inside a glass, wrapped in a silver squid, and the silver crab salt and pepper shakers are other subtle marine features. The space looks like Aquaman and Baz Luhrmann had a bender on Aquavit one night and decided it would be a good idea to design their own nautical dining room masterpiece. I can only imagine the design meetings.
Baz: “so Aquaman, we need lots and lots of blue shades, blue everywhere!”
“And we need shells, lots, and lots of shells; light fittings with shells, a shell shaped DJ booth, shells in the toilets; and rope, lots of rope, rope on the walls, rope in the ceiling.
And mermaids, lots, and lots of jade green mermaids sitting on every corner of the bar wearing bras made of ……. Shells! Perfect.”
You may have guessed by now that I am indeed sitting in a sparsely populated restaurant that specialises in seafood. Manzi’s is a ginormous restaurant in London’s Soho district owned by the Wolseley Hospitality Group, formally controlled by the iconic restaurateurs Chris Corbin and Jeremy King, but now owned by Minor Hotel Group, a meddling Malaysian multinational. The group owns a portfolio of celebrated restaurants including Brasserie Zedel, the Wolseley and the Delaunay. Manzi’s is their first venture since the two founders were unceremoniously ousted, and it shows. The place feels like a bridge over troubled waters. To start with, Baz would have been benched for Christoper Nolan or Kenneth Branagh if Jeremy King was still directing the show. The absence of Mr King’s keen eye for subtle detail, design sensibility and panache for all things tasteful is glaring and painful.
A few minutes after being seated, an expertly made Negroni and a wonderful non-alcoholic cocktail called a Pink Tea arrive as we peruse the menu which is an encyclopaedic list of sure-fire seafood brasserie hits. Smoked salmon, oysters, ceviche, bisque, chowder, shrimp cocktails, mussels Mariniere, Lobster Thermidor, fish stew, fish n chips and shellfish platters are all featured.
We start with a lukewarm viscous liquid which is heavy with puréed leeks and potato, but with no discernible molluscs or saline notes. It is billed as Clam Chowder but identifies as Vichyssoise and lacks any punch or flavour; the kitchen must have run out of clams and taste buds. It has the authenticity of a Tory MP’s confession.
The shellfish bisque is impressive, scented with saffron and fennel it has a luxurious depth of flavour punctuated with the iodine notes of roasted shellfish. A swirl of cognac cream dances on top of the heavenly, rust coloured elixir and the £5 baguette is perfect for swiping up every drop. A crayfish cocktail is a serviceable rendition of the bistro classic but lets itself down with a torrent of mayonnaise which drowns the hapless crustacean. The chopped crayfish still manages to sit proudly in a coupe glass, padded out with a mattress of diced avocado and shredded romaine lettuce.
The award for the worst dish of the night goes to the Sea Bream ceviche. Six curls of white fish have been swimming/curing in citrus juice for so long that they have turned grey prematurely, and the acid ratio is way off kilter. The piscine lozenges look more like old silverside trimmings and have the texture of a damp towel. The obligatory segments of lime and grapefruit are a secondary acid assault. This is the most culinary bankrupt dish since Jamie Oliver’s chorizo infected paella or his West African Jollof rice dish, aka #ricegate. The Prince of Pucker Tucker’s appeal is commensurate with his ability to offend; both are culturally widespread.
A fish pie is warm, and comforting served in an oval ceramic dish, it is sparsely filled with various anonymous fish off cuts, haddock, a bit of diced cod, and a stray prawn all clinging to a thick fish veloute, scented with chopped dill. A good squeeze of lemon and lemon zest would lift the flavour from pedestrian to pleasurable. It is topped with a golden lid of mash potato and comes with a generous serve of minted peas on the side.
Dessert is Peach Melba, it’s fun and indulgent in a childish sense the way all sundaes should be. This one arrives in a coupe glass and is chock full of poached peaches glistening in their braised liquor, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, raspberry coulis, and flakes of roasted almonds. A retro dessert that even Escoffier would admit never goes out of fashion.
Manzi’s is by no means a terrible restaurant, it is adequate, but in a city that is now one of the great global restaurant cities, reasonable or adequate does not cut it. The food pricing is sensible, the service is willing but suffocating, as the nervy wait staff tend to stalk you in a Baby Reindeeresque manner; they are all still learning the script. Wine prices are crippling, and the food can be like Eatin Mess, it is similar fare to what you would eat at an English public boarding school, without the degradation and sodomy rituals.
The last word should go to the erudite Mr. Jeremy King, the Svengali of hospitality who said, “the best way to run restaurants is from the floor, not the boardroom.”
Twas ever thus.
Manzi’s of Soho
https://manzis.co.uk/