Dismal plate of the nation
Lisa Hilton finds a disturbing metaphor in the unconvincing dining room of the House of Lords
IF EVER A RESTAURANT needed a therapist, it’s the Barry Room. Never have I eaten anywhere so painfully lacking in self-esteem, so hand-wringingly incapable of making eye contact, so desperate not to draw attention to itself.
Which is odd, because the Barry Room is the upscale dining room at the House of Lords. Whatever I was expecting as I was escorted through the magniloquent Pugin camp-fest of St Stephen’s Hall it wasn’t the gastronomic equivalent of Fanny Price.
The restaurant is reached via a crooked, corporation-carpeted staircase which absolutely doesn’t resemble a thrilling secret passage which might exclude people who didn’t know it was there; once attained the room could be very pretty, the plain stone walls a restful contrast to the hyperchromatic pageantry sprawled all over the rest of the interiors. Aside from the ugly screens informing diners of activity in the chambers and the rebarbative shrilling of the voting bells, it could really be quite soothing if only it were less apologetic.
FAUX-LEATHER MENU covers set a reassuring tone. Obviously when public money and an unelected chamber combine, the food at the Barry has to be slightly awful, but what if awfulness is elitist too? Shrivelled lamb cutlets and dry bread and butter pudding might make the Etonians feel at home, so maybe it needs to go a bit more modern Mediterranean because we’re all cosmopolitan tapas lovers who are down with small plates? But then that could shout metropolitan elitist because Tony and Gordon have still never been forgiven for Granita. And what about vegetarians — tofu-eating wokerati? Maybe curry then, everyone loves a curry but appropriation and oh please will you just stop looking at me like that!
How can the poor Barry possibly know what it’s supposed to be when every plate the kitchen sends out is fraught with political signifiers? How can a single menu attempt to map a