Restaurant review: Upstairs at the Bluecoat

WHEN the wraps came off the £12.5m metamorphosis of Britain's oldest arts centre, you could be sure not everybody would be happy.

That particularly went for former patrons of its charming refectory, operated under the guidance of Paddy Byrne, he of the revered Everyman Bistro – both snatched from us by Progress, the merciless god of strategic development.

Thai green curry featured largely inoffensive chunks of flesh, some a little chewy, though that could not be said of the vegetables, which gave the impression of having been left on a low light while the kitchen staff took several days' annual leave

In place of the Bluecoat cafe came the anonymous Espresso coffee bar, at ground level, and the Upstairs restaurant, which is, er, upstairs.

In those days a central bar divided the first floor room between those who were there for supper and those who were there for supping. Now there is no distinction and the “restaurant” has become a, daytime only, “bistro”.

With its lofty ceilling and arched sash windows, this ought to be a great setting for a meal. But the décor, which Confidential called “swishy” back in 2008 – is showing its age. Couches have grown shabby, tables damaged, the wall next to us scuff-marked, a chunk of it missing at one corner.

A waitress pulled back a curtain to let in what would have been a welcome shaft of sunlight had it not shown up great daubs of fingermarks on the plastic chairs.

Suspended from the ceiling is a giant, rectangular light box, rather impressive but with no lid. A couple of months after its installation we had noted how it was an attraction to certain smaller species of wildlife, some of whom liked it so much they had seen out their, albeit brief, lives there.

Five years on, we gazed upwards and wondered if any of the expired insects which had made it their final, luminescent resting place were the same ones we saw last time. Try getting a vacuum cleaner up there.

Atop the bar, a line of globe-shaped paper shades leant over at an angle of 45 degrees. We're guessing this was deliberate but it was hard to tell amid a general air of dishevelment, evident in everything from the crumb-covered table that greeted our entry, to the stained, dog-eared menus we were presented with.

A few feet from us, the occupants of a table had gone but the considerable detritus of their meal remained. Like the Mary Celeste, but without the mystery. In the manner of a motorway pile-up, it grimly compelled us to keep looking. As it was still doing when we left, 90 minutes later.

Part way through lunch, one waiter, rather than take away the remnants of our starter, moved them to the other side of the table, although we could at least be grateful that there, behind the flowers and the jug of water, they were partially hidden from view.

The menu was divided, roughly speaking, into sandwiches, salads and “lighter bites”, and more substantial “winter warmers”. Confusingly, only three items were specified as “homemade” but, we were firmly informed, “everything's homemade”.

The waiter had greeted us like old friends, which is to say “matey” in my case, “my love” in Mrs Grill's. Variations on this theme included “mate” and “hun” and I half expected to be addressed as “mush” though that would risk reminding us of the vegetables in the Thai curry – but I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Vegetable spring rolls (£5.95) were as stodgy as they looked. Casings which ought to have been thin and crunchy, were instead damp, glutinous, thick and sticky. Their filling – sweetcorn, pepper and carrot included – was a little underseasoned, an accompanying chilli sauce oversweet. We mentioned we were sharing but had to make do with the one plate. “Good job I'm not with anybody important,” noted Mrs G.

“Traditional homemade scouse” (£9.95) had evidently been given the salt intended for the spring rolls, and then some. The advertised “lamb and beef” seemed to have come from the same animal – cow was our guess – but was strangely pink for meat that had presumably been cooking for some time.

Scouse and a barm cake

“Crusty bread” was a soft roll with a pat of butter perched awkwardly on top, while a sizeable sprig of parsley was sprawled across the dish when it needed chopping up and stirring through before serving.

Thai green curry (£7.95, or with chicken for another £1.50) featured largely inoffensive chunks of flesh, some a little chewy, though that could not be said of the vegetables, which gave the impression of having been left on a low light while the kitchen staff took several days' annual leave.

Oil separated out to the edges more and more the longer the curry stayed in the dish, and most of it did stay in the dish.

A shared dessert of “homemade” strawberry and cherry bakewell (£3.50) – one plate, one fork – was the best thing about the whole experience; at least they kept the best for last.

Perhaps we were missing the point about this place and wouldn't know a “creative setting” if we tripped over it. Maybe, in keeping with the Bluecoat's purpose, and taking inspiration from Tracy Emin's unmade bed, our surroundings were intended as a representation of the true artist's chaotic lifestyle. Or maybe it was just a mess.

This used to be the concert room and that's the tragedy of this waste of a great space.

Our grandmothers used to insist "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all". At Confidential we have another saying: if you can't say anything nice, you're in the wrong restaurant.

ALL SCORED CONFIDENTIAL REVIEWS ARE IMPARTIAL. Critics dine unannounced and we picks up their bills - never the restaurant, never a PR company.

Venues are rated against the best examples of their kind: fine dining against the best fine dining, British restaurants against other British restaurants etc. Following on from this the scores represent: 

1-5:     Order of the dog bowl
6-9:     Get the chippy 
10-11: It's an emergency
12-13: If you happen to be passing
14-15: Worth a trip out 
16-17: Very good to exceptional 
18-20: As good as it gets