THE first time I visited Kitchenette they chucked mud in my face.
Which still isn't the worst greeting I've had walking into a restaurant. I once walked into a pizzeria back in Grimsby to be clouted straight back out the door. They probably did me a favour.
The opening hummus and iman biyaldi tasted as though it'd come from a 5kg vat and was served with crostinis straight from the packet and designed to shave seven bells of shit from the top of your mouth.
The dirty hello wasn't really Kitchenette's fault. One of the plant pots hung above the door flipped in the wind. Still, soil in the eyes is reason enough to retreat.
I wish I'd not come back.
Kitchenette by the Mud Crab group replaced the equally dire Felicini Italian on Oxford Street in early 2014 and is one of a string of mostly below-par restaurants on the Oxford Street/Road strip: Rump'n'Ribs, Gio, Don Gio, Pizza Express, Tempus. Set off from St Peter's Square and you're mostly shafted until you reach Zouk. After that you'll be lucky to leave happy until you get to Red Chilli a mile away.
Turtle Bay? Not having it. Lax service and less reliable than the X47 bus to Kingston.
Kitchenette, Oxford Street
Kitchenette is held up by two giant cigs
It's rare you leave a restaurant with nothing good to say. There's usually one dish you'd try again, or at least, a pretty bartender or some tiles that'd look nice in the downstairs khazi. All that can really be said of Kitchenette is that I didn't want to strangle my server, the quesadillas weren't entirely crap and they serve Black Sheep ale. Aside from that it's a struggle.
The room's held up by two giant lit, upturned fags, the dull grey and brown wipe-down furniture looks as though it's been dragged from the skip outside an airport Wetherspoons, while the windows, looking out over Manchester's most piss-soaked alley, have been decorated in stickers peeled from the glass of a local public swimming baths.
On the first visit I count thirteen dead lightbulbs. Thirteen. On my second they'd replaced eight of them. During my time on the restaurant floor I remember Manchester's chief restaurateur, the notoriously eagled-eyed Tim Bacon, almost separating a hapless young manager from his bollocks for daring to overlook one extinguished table tealight. Kitchenette would turn him rabid.
Window sticker shocker
Half-lit and half-arsed
What of the food. Well, the opening hummus and iman biyaldi (which is some forgettable salsa thing with aubergine) tasted as though it'd come from a 5kg vat and was served with crostinis straight from the packet and designed to shave seven bells of shit from the top of your mouth. This came served on a board so big that both Kate AND Leo could have hopped on and waited happily for the RMS Carpathia.
The following chicken and chorizo quesadillas (£6) actually weren't too bad, in a way that lava-hot, gloopy, cheesy stuff can never be too bad. Though the chicken and chorizo still had the taste and texture of the Tesco Express stuff a five second hop over the road. The quesadillas come served with so much grease they've been known to turn steel translucent.
Alone and castaway, the crostinis had eaten the others
Quesadillas: ok but as greasy as a Tbird's fine-tooth comb
Two signs in the Kitchenette front window shout at passers-by. They read 'BEST PIZZA IN TOWN'. Well, not even close. Salvi's, Croma, Slice.. all spank this place. The second reads 'DRINK. EAT BUNS. DRINK. EAT MORE BUNS. TELL EVERYONE'. We'd stop after the first drink.
The pizza base was decent enough but ordering something with garlic, like a garlic and mushroom pizza (£9.25), means you enjoy the taste of garlic. The pizza tasted mostly of pesto. Mild pesto made from three lily-livered basil leaves. Even the rocket, which you can usually rely on for a big 'ole peppery kick up the jacksie, fell short. It was like eating a limp handshake.
Now the famous 'BUNS, BUNS, PLEASE COME EAT THE FUCKING BUNS' are something else. They're a puzzle of food revolving around Taiwanese steamed milk buns, Hirata, served in a bamboo basket with accompanying pals. Very trendy in New York in the 00s, I'm told. Hirata caught on in London sometime last year. Kitchenette is the first restaurant I've known in Manchester to have a crack at these weird, puffy, fluffy, white things.
Hirata buns with tough, chewy skirt, browning lettuce and baby jackets with a grim dollop of chive sour cream
...come on now
The buns themselves are fairly inoffensive but much like casing your food in Polyfilla grout. The chargrilled skirt steak, chewy, tough and probably the least attractive plate of food you'll see all year, came splattered with something unidentifiably green and swimming in a sauce that holds the Guinness World Record for 'Sauce With The Least Explanatory Name' - ABC Kecap Manis Glaze. Which, if you're wondering, is soy, and did little to moisten the skirt. O'er.
An accompanying lettuce side was browning to the point of being funny. The baby jackets with chive sour cream (£3) looked grim. Mess hall stuff.
Give me £25 a head and I'll show you 376 places to eat in Manchester city centre that are better Kitchenette. Three of them are Pizza Express.
Follow @David8Blake on twitter.
All scored reviews are unannounced, impartial, paid for by Confidential and completely independent of any commerical relationship.
Rating: 5.5/20
Food: 2.5/20 (hummus and iman biyaldi 3, quesadillas 3, pizza 2, skirt steak buns 3, baby jackets 3, lettuce 0)
Service: 2/5
Ambience: 1/5
David recommends: Black Sheep ale, quesadillas (at a push), taking your own garlic and lettuce
Stay clear of... Most of it
