Bling beats bliss

Chaophraya

1 Nelson Mandela Place, Glasgow, 0141 332 0041 Lunch/Dinner Food rating

I£35.50-£50 3/10

N terms of theatricality, the Athenaeum i n Glasgow, formerly the RSAMD, has found a fitting tenant in Chaophraya, the glitzy Thai chain. The building, inspired by the Greek Athenaion, meaning temple of Athena (a place where poets gathered for readings), was established in 1887 to “provide a source of mental cultivation, moral improvement and delightful recreation to all classes”.

Its architect, JJ Burnet, had lost out to Charles Rennie Mackintosh when he tendered for the Glasgow School of Art but, inspired by French Beaux-Arts Classicism, he gave Glasgow another of its most splendid and striking buildings. Built in the pioneering “elevator” style in which height makes the most of a narrow plot, I remember loving it as a child, when I went along for drama and dance classes. Hilarious really, we skinned- knee girls flitting about the central hall, dressed in tunics to resemble mythical Greek nymphs, in an earnest attempt to learn eurythmy, the art of expressive, graceful movement. Well, that didn’t work, for me at least, but with its balconies, balustrades, pilasters, turrets, cornices, arched recesses, sculpted figures and, of course, its octagonal Tower of the Winds-style cupola, the building made the spirits soar, and encouraged you to connect with the finer things in life.

No- one could accuse Chaophraya of being indifferent to the building’s unique architectural character. It honours it, and embellishes it further, with an opulent infusion of golden buddhas, oriental lacquer and lustre, giving the place a palpable five-star resort, expense-account feel. The greeters are young women with admirable cleavages popping up from their figure-hugging dresses who look as though they have been recruited from the spa at a deluxe hotel. Bemused by the swank, I didn’t demur when one such beauty told us that she would need our table back in an hour and a half. The rich decor and clubby atmosphere conspire to create a humble “oh, how privileged we are to gain admission to this select establishment” sentiment, a feeling that quickly turned to something approaching indignation when the over-priced, third-rate reality of the food impinged.

The menu comes with some hefty price tags. A hot/sour tom yum soup, for instance, costs £8.95, while coconut rice will set you back £3.95. Most of the “main” dishes are in the £15-£18 bracket. Other than the environment – and let’s be fair here, some people will happily pay through the nose for ambience – I can’t see what this confident high pricing is based on. It’s most certainly not cutting-edge, competent Thai cooking or authenticity, for that matter.

One of the better deals on the menu is a £39 mixed grill (steak, chicken breast, king prawns and lamb chops) flambéed with whisky, served on “a stunning brochette” (note the aspirational use of French) with grilled vegetables, Panang and green curry sauces. There’s a “fondue” too. These everything-but-the-kitchen-sink dishes doubtless make good business sense, catering for diners who are intimidated by the prospect of composing a meal around foreign dishes .

CONSIDERING that our “golden baskets” (five flaky fried mouthfuls with all the heft of a crisp) came with what tasted like dull, defrosted veg, with a vague hint of curry powder, and cost £7, we weren’t impressed. The cod and coley fish cakes at least had some essential flavour.

“Street-style pan-fried crispy pork belly tossed with fresh chillies, garlic, green beans and hot basil leaves”, advertised as the chef’s signature dish, was tragic.

The pork tasted old, wasn’t crisp, and resembled the dog’s dinner. “Roasted duck with palm sugar and tamarind sauce” (£14.55) was another appetite-killer: stale tasting, dry meat, this time in a cloying, glossy sauce.

By the time I had sampled the rice noodles, which were advertised as cooked with soy sauce, bean sprouts and fried garlic, it was time to skip desserts and leave. The bland noodles stuck together like glue, lacking lubrication and the aromatics that might have brought them to life.

Maybe the chef just couldn’t be bothered, or was outside having a fag at the time, and so had devolved the task to the kitchen porter. On second thoughts, the kitchen porter might make a better job of it.