Any colour, so long as it's Brown
Pay
Per Person
1 dish,Half bottle of red, Half dessert. €23
Basics
Contact http://perrachica.com/
In Short
Hopes? Good reasons for a waiting list some places can only dream of.
First Impressions? A wierd mix of VIP lounge plushness and post-industrial naked engineering. And blimey, the light is brown. It’s like spending an evening in a photoshop effect.
A USP? Décor and design. No arguing. It looks spectacular.
The food in three words? Tasteful not tasty.
Can they get the staff? Yep. Lots of them. Well organised. Second bottle of wine arrived in seconds. Good.
Service with a smile? No airs or graces, but not a place that would encourage chitchat.
If you could change one thing? We were put on a two-hour clock. Gets a good turnover of covers, but eating to a final whistle is never going to help the atmosphere.
Would you take your friends? Worth seeing. Once.
Rating for dating? I could feel it in my fingers. I could feel it in my toes. Love was all around us. Well, hair-flicking and bill-splitting, at any rate.
Tip? A token one to help the bill algebra.
Going back? Not likely. You can see what’s what by walking past of an evening.
In short
Tip of the day. If Whatsapping female friends. “Perrachica; Your kind of place!” needs context. And be sure to eliminate spaces between words or you might have some explaining to do. If they’re still talking to you.
So Perrachica. Life’s a bitch and then you dine? Was it all a bit of a dog’s dinner? Can I think of a third piece of feeble word play? Shhhh. Spoilers.
The menu’s extensive. Forty-odd modernised or repurposed Spanish classics, plus, for reasons that may soon become clear, half a dozen lost-looking pizzas, which might have wandered in from Gino’s across the road. So, there’s plenty to choose from. Now, you may suspect a fairly hefty however is approaching in the next sentence. However (see, your senses serve you well), if you’re V-minded you may be short of options after the first courses. As far as I could see, the hot mains consist of two options. And guess what? They’re round, proud and baked in an oven two feet off the ground. Pizza cake guessing which, then.
So 8 of us, sitting atop the kitchen on a welded metal contraption that shook like a ship in a storm when anyone climbed up the staircase to it, looking down on the masses around us. Some had been before, most not. The plan? Share dishes and desserts.
Deep-fried honeyed aubergines were honey-free. They came planted like vegetable monoliths in a field of hummus. But no laughing. The sense of hummus here is limited, and that’s no joke. No pimenton. No oil. No attention to detail.
A big table like ours required a croquetathon. Oxtail came with a meaty gravy I know I should call a reduction, but call me a rebel. A nicely presented chipirone version had an unexpected black filling and tasted appropriately fishy.
Truffle omelette was partly liquid, which is fine, but hadn’t had enough attention from the salt fairy, leaving it bland as well as blandito. Provolone baked in pastry was ideal for couples keen on a deeply cheesy affair. Steamed mussels came in slightly spicy thai green curry sauce, with hints of coconut and heat.
So, and you’re right to ask, where does a splodgette of (carrot-free) russian salad fit in to all this? Well, it sums up the adventurous-sounding but conservative-tasting menu they’re delivering. To complete that summing up, your honour, I offer exhibit B. Cocido Gyozas. A decent smidge of amusing potentially creative fusion. But would I rather go to a Chinese around Mercado Mostenses for it? And would the flavours be a damn sight more intense? My case rests.
But now the clock was ticking on that deadline. Not much time to place dessert orders before we had to follow orders and dessert the place. But time limits don’t half speed up service when there are euros to be earnt, so the Nutella-themed foamy thing arrived in seconds. It was chocolate gunge in a jar. A good cream cheese flan felt like it’d been made on the premises, but an industrial strawberry cheesecake might have come in a packet from Dia. Granny’s cake had sweetie smarties as sweet decoration. It was comforting in a chocolatey custardy way, although the fear the crunch of smartie might include broken molar can hardly be called a teething problem.
But, what’s this? Tick-tock. It’s the final countdown. We’re not leaving for Venus, but it’s a pretty hasty farewell, as the bill comes within moments of our asking for it.A visually impressive, culinarily passive evening. Avoiding offending some palates is one thing, but you end up boring the rest of the table.
Undeniably special to look at, style triumphs, so the designers might win awards, the chefs won’t.
Pay
Per Person
1 dish,Half bottle of red, Half dessert. €23
Basics
Contact http://perrachica.com/
In Short
Hopes? Good reasons for a waiting list some places can only dream of.
First Impressions? A wierd mix of VIP lounge plushness and post-industrial naked engineering. And blimey, the light is brown. It’s like spending an evening in a photoshop effect.
A USP? Décor and design. No arguing. It looks spectacular.
The food in three words? Tasteful not tasty.
Can they get the staff? Yep. Lots of them. Well organised. Second bottle of wine arrived in seconds. Good.
Service with a smile? No airs or graces, but not a place that would encourage chitchat.
If you could change one thing? We were put on a two-hour clock. Gets a good turnover of covers, but eating to a final whistle is never going to help the atmosphere.
Would you take your friends? Worth seeing. Once.
Rating for dating? I could feel it in my fingers. I could feel it in my toes. Love was all around us. Well, hair-flicking and bill-splitting, at any rate.
Tip? A token one to help the bill algebra.
Going back? Not likely. You can see what’s what by walking past of an evening.
In short
Tip of the day. If Whatsapping female friends. “Perrachica; Your kind of place!” needs context. And be sure to eliminate spaces between words or you might have some explaining to do. If they’re still talking to you.
So Perrachica. Life’s a bitch and then you dine? Was it all a bit of a dog’s dinner? Can I think of a third piece of feeble word play? Shhhh. Spoilers.
The menu’s extensive. Forty-odd modernised or repurposed Spanish classics, plus, for reasons that may soon become clear, half a dozen lost-looking pizzas, which might have wandered in from Gino’s across the road. So, there’s plenty to choose from. Now, you may suspect a fairly hefty however is approaching in the next sentence. However (see, your senses serve you well), if you’re V-minded you may be short of options after the first courses. As far as I could see, the hot mains consist of two options. And guess what? They’re round, proud and baked in an oven two feet off the ground. Pizza cake guessing which, then.
So 8 of us, sitting atop the kitchen on a welded metal contraption that shook like a ship in a storm when anyone climbed up the staircase to it, looking down on the masses around us. Some had been before, most not. The plan? Share dishes and desserts.
Deep-fried honeyed aubergines were honey-free. They came planted like vegetable monoliths in a field of hummus. But no laughing. The sense of hummus here is limited, and that’s no joke. No pimenton. No oil. No attention to detail.
A big table like ours required a croquetathon. Oxtail came with a meaty gravy I know I should call a reduction, but call me a rebel. A nicely presented chipirone version had an unexpected black filling and tasted appropriately fishy.
Truffle omelette was partly liquid, which is fine, but hadn’t had enough attention from the salt fairy, leaving it bland as well as blandito. Provolone baked in pastry was ideal for couples keen on a deeply cheesy affair. Steamed mussels came in slightly spicy thai green curry sauce, with hints of coconut and heat.
So, and you’re right to ask, where does a splodgette of (carrot-free) russian salad fit in to all this? Well, it sums up the adventurous-sounding but conservative-tasting menu they’re delivering. To complete that summing up, your honour, I offer exhibit B. Cocido Gyozas. A decent smidge of amusing potentially creative fusion. But would I rather go to a Chinese around Mercado Mostenses for it? And would the flavours be a damn sight more intense? My case rests.
But now the clock was ticking on that deadline. Not much time to place dessert orders before we had to follow orders and dessert the place. But time limits don’t half speed up service when there are euros to be earnt, so the Nutella-themed foamy thing arrived in seconds. It was chocolate gunge in a jar. A good cream cheese flan felt like it’d been made on the premises, but an industrial strawberry cheesecake might have come in a packet from Dia. Granny’s cake had sweetie smarties as sweet decoration. It was comforting in a chocolatey custardy way, although the fear the crunch of smartie might include broken molar can hardly be called a teething problem.
But, what’s this? Tick-tock. It’s the final countdown. We’re not leaving for Venus, but it’s a pretty hasty farewell, as the bill comes within moments of our asking for it.A visually impressive, culinarily passive evening. Avoiding offending some palates is one thing, but you end up boring the rest of the table.
Undeniably special to look at, style triumphs, so the designers might win awards, the chefs won’t.
