Bar Estillo is heaving. Like absolutely heaving. Inside from the folding doors to the darker seats by the bogs. From the terrace that looks out to the canal side bars of the Mailbox, to those slightly less glamorous seats in the concourse where we are sat. There must 400 covers in total. Where else in Birmingham is doing these kind of numbers? A friend of mine says it’s always this busy, proof that the average diner shouldn’t be allowed to choose where to eat, they should be loaded onto the back of lorries and delivered at dinner like lambs to an abattoir. I’m sorry if you didn’t like that metaphor, but thinking about it I’d rather be delivered to euthanasia than eat at Bar Estillo again. It is fucking awful.
Now in one, maybe three, reviews time I’ll be describing how Chez Bruce is what happens when you close your eyes and think of the perfect restaurant. Now do the same with a bad restaurant. It’s Bar Estillo. Whilst taking in the gigantic menu that is vaguely Spanish in its attempt at tapas whilst also taking in Greece, Italy, bits of American and occasionally France, we order Sangria and nachos. The shitgria is diluted cheap wine with fruit at £22, the nachos an assemble of bottled gloops with lettuce and olives on cheap, chalky chips. Who the fuck puts lettuce and olives on nachos? Bar Estillo do.
They took forty minutes to arrive. We ordered. Then wait another 50 minutes for the rest, they arrive en masse, slowly paraded like a funeral procession to the table for us to mourn. Some dishes have notional presentation, others look like they’ve been dropped from forty feet. At the centre are two luminous blocks pulled from reactor four of Chernobyl which crumble to repugnant dust under any pressure. They are garlic bread, allegedly. I’ve tasted it. It’s not the future.
There are quesadillas of chipotle chicken that have the bite of raw veg to make up for the lack of any chipotle, and panko prawns that have the sandiness of the versions found in the freezer aisle of the supermarket. Stuffed peppers are low-grade cosplay versions of the real thing, whilst skewers of cheap halloumi and cheaper chorizo achieve the impossible of tasting of absolutely nothing. Worst, and maybe the worst thing I’ll put in my gob all year is the lamb skewer. They are incinerated, though not enough to cook the gristle, served with a hummus that’s too competent to come from this kitchen, and dainty triangles of bread that serve no purpose other than to make me more angry.
I’m told the paella is decent but I don’t try it. There is no socarrat and the prawns look so overcooked they’d be more useful as a weapon than attempting to eat. The rice is at least bomba, and I’m told that they’ve made some attempt at cooking it properly in stock. It’s £22. With this we drink the shitgria and a bottle of champagne because it’s the best value on a quite awful list, leaving us with an inflated bill. Think of it as 40 quid a head. The worst 40 quid you could spend just about anywhere. And yet they are full; full of people happy to pay decent money whilst not giving a shit what goes into their gobs or waste two hours for it to arrive. Load me onto the truck. Get me to that abattoir. Just promise me I won’t end up a skewer of overcooked meat here.
2/10
