A Taste of Italy? I Beg To Differ!

On a day when the air-conditioning at the office packs up, forcing you to swelter and twitch all day like a bloated Christmas turkey, the last thing you want to deal with when you finally break free of the oversized oven that your office has become, is bad food, bad service and an all-round bad attitude.

I was on edge when I arrived at at Manuela’s on a Monday evening. First because of the nightmare day I had had, and second because of the aggressive traffic I had had to wade through to get to the restaurant. Nonetheless I replayed the rave reviews of several friends in my mind, reassuring myself that the trip would be worth it.

On my arrival I was informed that the pizzeria (the sole reason my friend had wanted us to eat at Manuela’s) was closed and that I would have to make do with either toasted sandwiches or pasta at the Gazebo. The menu wasn’t extensive and so it didn’t take long to settle on fettucine pesto for me and pasta carbonara for my friend. To keep us occupied until the food arrived, we ordered two cappuccinos and sat back to take in our surroundings.

It was my first time at Manuela’s and I was far from impressed. The décor appeared to be aiming for quaint à la Il Sorriso but fell far short of that, landing instead at outdated, fuddy-duddy and just plain cheap. The Gazebo at Manuela’s isn’t a restaurant; it’s an open-air hut with a thatched roof and adjoining bar. A space that should be intimate with small, cosy tables is instead unwelcoming and canteen-like with tables seating more than 4 people each, faded dining table chairs and cheap (yes that word again) tablecloths. The atmosphere was rendered all the more unappealing by the confusing selection of music on offer, ranging from Sean Paul to ‘80s R&B, and all the more unimpressive by the laminated menus (reminiscent of dodgy Arab cafés in London) and the lazy corn-rowed waitress dressed in full French-maid regalia, complete with frilly white apron and ridiculous head scarf.

Our waitress, the only member of staff assigned to the Gazebo, was slow and quite unpleasant, taking a good fifteen minutes to whip up two cappuccinos and making faces at us when we finally did get her attention. When the food arrived, thirty minutes into our visit, she refused to provide any parmesan or other cheese with which to eat the fettucine, stating that it was not the restaurant’s policy to serve pasta with cheese (I almost choked on my first bite of tasteless, flaccid fettucine on hearing that).

A plate of pasta costing N2,900 should be nothing short of exquisite. Sadly by my third bite of the fettucine pesto I decided I would rather go hungry and avoid adding to the day’s calorie count, than labour at eating cold, flavourless pasta minus cheese (pasta without cheese, seriously, are they smoking something?). A forkful of the slightly warmer but equally dreadful pasta carbonara led me to the conclusion that my friend and I would have been better off making the pasta ourselves than forking out a grand total of N12,650 for food that might as well have come from a can. (The price includes two plates of pasta, two cappuccinos, one side order of chips and peach juice. Hardly a feast!)

Manuela’s appears to suffer from stingy chef syndrome, whereby ingredients are mized and flavour is compromised to save the restaurant’s owners a buck or two. The pasta carbonara, instead of being doused in a rich creamy sauce teaming with bacon and parmesan, appeared to have been dipped ever so lightly in liquid and then topped with barely visible white flecks masquerading as parmesan. It was dreadful! The only saviour of the day was the side order of over-salted but well-browned and crunchy French fries, at the whopping cost of N1,500.

Annoyed and hungry we left the restaurant, only for me to find myself being forced to exchange words with an oaf of a manner-less gateman for reversing out of the parking lot in the most logical manner, which as it turned out was against their “reversing policy” – a policy that I was supposed to have acquainted myself with by making reference to their very invisible and altogether non-existent signboard.

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Two days after the article above was written, I was dragged kicking and screaming back to Manuela's by the same friend. The pizzeria was open this time. I walked in and... fell in love *sheepish grin*. A more fitting review will follow shortly.

Pesto, Salmon, Pasta And A Bucket Of Cream

Piccolo Mondo
(Italian/Lebanese/Night Club)
Idejo, Victoria Island

One of the restaurants in Lagos with which I am currently conducting a love affair is Piccolo Mondo, though it would be fair to say that our honeymoon is over and that we’re slowly getting a little sick of each other. Piccolo Mondo, like Roberts, is yet another one of my homes away from home. Perhaps the comfort is in the high-backed armchairs in bright colours ranging from dark pink to lime green with neon swirls? Or in the friendly banter with their brilliant team of very capable waiters? I’m not sure. Whatever it is, it is clearly not something that is felt by me alone, as Piccolo (well upstairs at least) is consistently full, even on a Monday night when most people are to be found at home, mourning the fact that the weekend is 5 days away.

On Monday at Piccolo, I faced a tough decision. The fettucine pesto or the pennete al salmone? At least I think that’s what they’re called. I couldn’t decide what I was in the mood for. Cream? Or cream with a bucket load of pesto thrown in for good measure?

The pennete al salmone is penne pasta, cooked to perfection (just a little softer than al dente), smothered in a creamy, lightly cheesy sauce and topped (very generously I might add) with salmon and onions. I think it is perfection! The formula never changes, and it is exactly the same each time.

The fettucine pesto on the other hand is a little more temperamental. Some days the ratio of pesto to cream is just fantastic, and the diner is presented with a deliciously moist plate of flat (but not thin) fettucine, covered in grainy, dark green cream (because the chef has been oh so generous with his dollops of pesto). And on other days, the diner’s bright red bucket (those things are neither bowls nor plates) comes bearing thin, awkward noodles interspersed with pale (and almost invisible) green flecks, that all the helpings of parmesan in the world couldn’t turn into a decent plate of pasta.

With all this running through my mind on Monday, you can no doubt imagine that the decision I had to make, was killing me softly. I was clearly in the mood for cream (heck I’m always in the mood for cream) or else I would’ve been looking to the deep fried calamari as my friend Olu was. But what I wasn’t in the mood for, was mediocre pasta. I wanted the fettucine pesto, but the fettucine at its absolute best! The little piggy in my head was teasing and taunting me, “go with the salmon pasta, you know they won’t mess that up, but… oh! the fettucine on a good day is so much more wonderful!”

The waiter arrived, and I did something I haven’t done in a while – I took a gamble and went for the fettucine. Ok it wasn’t exactly a gamble, as my friend Rukks had settled on the salmon pasta and so I knew I would be able to just lean over and dip my fork into her plate if I ended up with Grade D as opposed to Grade A fettucine.

The wait is never long at Piccolo, and so fortunately not much time was spent wringing my hands in anticipation. My huge bowl arrived shortly afterwards, and what did I find nestled within? Fettucine... just as I had dreamt it would be! Delicious, creamy, grainy pesto, making sweet sweet (and very generous) love to a helping of perfectly-cooked fettucine pasta.

Bellissima!

P.S. Did I mention that I had a caipirinha with my pasta, that I could actually drink? I was shocked out of my wits! Any Piccolo Mondies out there will appreciate just how momentous an occasion that was.