Bistrotheque, a brasserie in Bethnal Green, east London, has become something of an institution since it opened in 2004. Dependable dinner, dependably raucous crowd. Chic chaos, steak frites, Twinkles, then downstairs to the club area to watch vagabond drag cabaret act The LipSinkers belt through songs by ABC, Kate Bush and Madonna. Or at least that’s how I remember Bistrotheque in its early days, down a back lane where mini-cabs drove gingerly. Nothing wholesome ever happened there; it was, instead, a space where renegades thrived.
Now, almost 16 years later, I find myself off to an all-new Bistrotheque in Manchester, in a former railway goods warehouse behind Piccadilly station. This new Bistrotheque is a small subsection of a vast, land-of-dreams leisure complex named Cultureplex. Created by Pablo Flack and David Waddington, the very same people who conjured up both Bistrotheque and then Hoi Polloi at the Ace hotel in Shoreditch, Cultureplex is one of those dining, eating, drinking, thinking, art-house, cocktail, coffee spaces that have emerged this year, in a similar vein to Oxford Street’s extravagant yet puzzling Arcade Food Theatre. Ah, these hyper-modern spaces that defy neat definition, or even any incredibly baggy definition. The more you gaze at Cultureplex’s website, the less fettered by earthly possibility you become. Go for a double cortado at Klatch, stay for the Bob Fosse movie, hear a piano recital by Rowan Lewis, then take an animal movement class at the gym, Blok. This is what today’s modern renegades desire.
Hidden in a corner of this cultural playground is Bistrotheque, serving the likes of sea trout with miso and confit tomatoes or pork chop with braised fennel. Similar in vibe, up to a certain point, to its London sibling, with pristine, white tablecloths, smart-casual serving staff and a cocktail list of new innovations that makes you want to clear the afternoon and kick off your shoes. I settled for just the one Joan Collins (gin, cherry liqueur, apple, lemon and soda) and a glass of cleansing mineral water, having seen myself on HDTV the previous day with a chablis-infused face the circumference of Charlie Brown’s. Actually, I also had a rather good bloody mary beforehand, while sitting in a weird no man’s land area beside a vast bar area that at 1pm was neither actually open nor completely shut.
The dilemma with enormous, “everything is possible” dining spaces is that, in reality, nothing is done properly. You’re just milling about in a glorified aircraft hangar, asking, “Is this open?” “Can I sit here?” “Who do I pay?” We had eventually perched on one of the sofas that none of the various coffee, lounge, bar, dining set-ups appeared responsible for, meaning that our dirty glasses, without coasters, stayed on the stained coffee table for more than an hour. But never mind, because no one charged us for them, anyway.
Service within Bistrotheque itself, however, is friendly and diligent; I’m just not certain the food is very good. A starter of a generous lump of cured salmon with beetroot tartare and horseradish came scattered with sea salt and capers. The fish sat in a puddle of green and burgundy jus. The plate looked like a Van Gogh. It was too cold, tasted sharp and was not wildly delicious.
A potato and comté pithivier – that’s a pie by another name – was far too heavy-handed with the comté, much of which hadn’t been given a chance to melt. The flavours of the pastry and the spud were given even less room to breathe by a thick, green mustard sauce and a fistful of crisp, fried sage. Desperate Dan could not have finished this pie. A chunky steak tartare with a neatly placed, wobbly yolk looked pretty, but was jam-packed with capers that quashed any subtlety of flavour in the meat. Sea trout was rather overcooked and came in a pool of largely forgettable, miso-laced, tomato sauce. Soft, delicate plum frangipane tart with creme fraiche, however, was glorious.
Nobody went to Bistrotheque in London entirely for the food. Or, in fact, ever. They went for the scene. They went, if they were honest, to see and be seen. The fact that they served you posh fish and chips while you sat within elbow distance of a fashion designer, a supermodel and a performance artist was merely a bonus. Cultureplex is a gargantuan space, designated purely for art, music and a semi-orderly level of anarchy, interspersed with gym sessions and wine tastings. It is currently an “everything space” in search of some actual meaning. It’s up to Manchester to deliver.
• Bistrotheque at Cultureplex, Ducie Street, Manchester M1, 0161-713 3130. Open all week, 5.30pm-10.30pm (11pm Fri & Sat); weekend brunch noon-4pm. About £35-40 a head, plus drinks and service.
Food 4/10
Atmosphere 4/10
Service 8/10
