The Mailbox confuses me. Upfront is the premier shopping experience in Birmingham where Harvey Nichols rubs its broad shoulders against art galleries selling pieces for tens of thousands, Saville Row tailors, and shops named after the former name of comedian Joe Lycett. Out back is a sorry state of affairs in one of Brum’s prettiest waterside locations; all sorts of below average restaurants offering below average food to above average incomes. I suppose, now I am writing it, that it kind of makes sense. This isn’t destination dining, it’s destination shopping, and shopping is a tiring, laboured process. Those who have spent two hours deciding which Birkin to buy are not likely to spend a further ninety minutes waiting for food to be cooked fresh for them; they’ll want a cheeky Nandos, pre-steamed and reheated on a grill in just a matter of minutes, or a Miller and Carter steak rested on their plate whilst they eat it.
In many ways I was hopeful for Luccarelli opening in the spot where Red Peppers once served me raw chicken. Sure, the venue might have been designed with content over comfort in mind – the route to almost every table includes navigating the plastic trees that fill the spaces between the stark white walls – but the idea of good Italian food from a team mostly from the San Carlo group was promising. And much like San Carlo the menu is huge: a tired looking laminated sheet full of pasta and cicchetti and mains and pizza in type small enough to ensure it fits onto one side, with wines on the reverse. The key to San Carlo was knowing what to order and what to avoid. It is very much the same here; big menus often contain big mistakes.
A starter portion of lasagne arrives bubbling away in a metal pot so hot Frodo could have saved a finger by using it to destroy the One Ring. The pasta is overcooked and so short on mince I’ve almost unwillingly taken part in Veganuary. It’s a cheesy, tomatoey mess that is comforting if little else. I try pizza fritti, mostly because the chap who ordered had it the week before and now finds himself with a portion twice the size of that he received prior. It’s a fried calzone of sorts, a little greasy and dull but nice enough, plus the crimped edges work a treat at dredging Mount Doom of the last of the lasagne. A neighbouring burrata with mortadella goes down a treat due to some excellent shopping for ingredients.
I try a main of passable pork belly and a better one of spinach and ricotta ravioli. Given that an Italian restaurant lives and dies on the quality of its pasta I do the sacrilegious thing of going double on it by ordering cacio e pepe ravioli which transpires to be pasta filled with pecorino and black pepper in a sauce of pecorino and black pepper. It might just be the most pointless, ill-judged dish of the year; a twist on a dish that never needed twisting. The reason it is traditionally made with bucatini is so that the emulsified sauce coats the outside of the pasta and works down the centre hole. The pasta work is okay, though other than that there is very little to be excited about.
I am here for a business meeting so don’t see a bill, though I’m guessing that with the two bottles of wine between three you’re looking at circa £60-£70 a head with two courses. It’s safe to say that the cooking here was someway under the likes of Laghi’s Deli or Tropea, with a fairly identikit meal of semi-competent cookery. Not that this matters of course, as by the time we leave on Friday evening the room is full of people getting ready for dinner. Shopping, it sure does make you hungry.
6/10
