“It’s only F1 Arcade” says Mike as I tell him that I’ve had enough of the flatbread whilst removing another nugget of sinew from my mouth. And to a certain extent he is right; the arcades mantra of ‘Race Drink Eat Repeat’ puts the eating towards the bottom of the pile with only the food repeating on you afterwards any lower. In truth, the people come here because they love F1. They have managed to turn watching other people drive very fast cars into a form of tribal warfare usually reserved for medieval religion. They don’t merely support a driver; they identify with him. A man from Shirley who has never driven anything more dangerous than a Ford Focus will spend Sunday afternoon explaining the strategic incompetence of Ferrari, the aerodynamic deficiencies of Red Bull and the moral shortcomings of the FIA as though he were Toto Wolff’s deputy. Food to these people is fuel, and they refuel between two and four times a day depending on race conditions.
F1 Arcade understands the peculiar psychology of the F1 fan. For an hour they can become Senna, Schumacher or Verstappen, before returning to the office with a story about a catastrophic pit-stop strategy and how Tom from sales lost it all when he hit that wall. I’d been once prior, on a Saturday night when the service was as lousy as my driving. This time, the chap on the desk was lovely, as was the girl who served us outside on the warm Monday afternoon. Three dishes between the two of us, a beer and a glass of wine, £54. And before I get on to just how bad the food is, herein lies my issue. I can send you to twenty places in Birmingham where you’d get change from that amount and a significantly better meal. It’s not ‘only’ F1 Arcade. Not when it’s this bad.
Let’s start with that flatbread that’s really a pizza with g-force applied. A massive, cheap, biscuity thing that at least has a tomato sauce the correct shade of red, with feta and lumps of Moroccan spiced lamb that transpires to be cheap, gristly, lamb mince bound with harrissa. It’s grim and it’s also £16. There is dynamite chicken which is about as explosive as a pensioner’s orgasm. There is no dynamite. There isn’t even a firework. The chicken itself is perfectly happy, which is the problem. It has been fried and dressed up for the occasion, but the supposed heat has been so carefully negotiated away that you could feed it to someone recovering from tonsillitis. Spice should have consequences. If dynamite behaved like this, the Germans would have invaded Poland with a bowl of dipping sauce and a wetwipe.
In principle the idea of tandoori chicken tacos isn’t that wild. Indian and Mexican food have a lot of crossover, and this could easily be a Frankie; a street dish from Mumbai. The problem is the cooking; it’s awful. A snotty, slightly metallic, slightly burnt trio of mostly tasteless things with overcooked chicken that is neither Mexican or Indian. It sums up F1 Arcade. If this is your type of thing, race away, maybe even have a few drinks. Please don’t eat.
4/10
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