I’m not quite sure why they feel the need to have a suited and booted maître d’ to serve a group of hung(ove)ry students. Nor do I quite understand why there are six different types of cutlery on offer to eat the 11 different main options available. I mean, having four different veggie and even two vegan options is pretty impressive, but does anyone really need beef done three different ways (stir-fried, bourguignon and chilli)? It all seems a bit decadent, ridiculous and, well, frankly excessive.
Arriving near the end of lunch, I’m told that we’ll have the dregs of this superfluous feast. I opt to go for the fish Friday special, pan-fried John Dory fillet with salsa verde. Anything which even hints of individual preparation amongst the looming deep fat fryers of a college kitchen is bound to be good.
Wrong. Firstly, whoever thought that strip of fish could be given the title of ‘fillet’ must have been either a miser or completely blind. I’m hungry. I’m grumpy. I’m a finalist in need of fodder. My friend’s pork is piled up high on his plate, and I’m left with a goldfish. Secondly, ‘pan fried’ appears to have undergone a semantic shift since I last pored lovingly over the OED. There’s enough grease in my fish that it makes Hussein’s look like a salad bar. In fact, it’s all I can taste. Vastly disappointed, I move onto the salsa verde in the hope that my taste buds will have some reprieve. Call me a pleb, the northerner that I am, but I’m pretty sure a sauce or whatever the fuck salsa verde is meant to be is not meant to taste entirely of grease and vinegar. I mean, if you’re going to have 11 main options, at least get enough capers in your sauce to make it the flavour it is supposed to be.
Dessert, however, was alright. I don’t think anyone quite knew what it was, the staff telling me they “think it might be crumble.” Gooey and oaty, it at least filled some of the vast empty void left by my miserly, and rather expensive, portion of fish. Leaving at least slightly full, I take one last look at the endless sprawl of Trinity-emblazoned crockery and hope that next week’s clunch will leave me feeling less like I’d been to a failed upmarket bistro.
