Rating: 7/10
Telephone 01273 732323
Address 95-99 Western Road, Brighton
Open All week, lunch, noon-3pm, dinner, 6pm-midnight (tapas bar/ deli, 10am-midnight)
Price Set lunch, £15 for three courses; à la carte, with wine, £35-45 a head
Wheelchair access & disabled WC.
As part of the marketing drive to marry restaurants to the needs of specific sub-strata of the readership, today's review is targeted at those contemplating divorce. In fact that isn't precise enough: it's aimed at those who, although the marriage is on the whole solid, find one thing about their spouse so irritating that they see no way of going on.
This is not because Pintxo People is in Brighton, erstwhile capital of pre-divorce preparation - the era of co-respondent shoes and flammed-up adulterous snapshots in seedy hotels is long gone; the town is, of course, now celebrated as a centre for gay culture and merriment. The reason Pintxo People (it's pronounced Pinch-O, if anyone's bothered; it's Catalan for tapas) is so suited to the broaching of divorce on a solitary ground (his use of a pervert-length fingernail as a makeshift toothpick; her insistence on having 227 cushions on the bed; his habit of weeping over football; her erotic fantasies about Emperor Bokassa... all the usual hackneyed stuff) is the matches.
On the whole, it's a most attractive place. On ground level is a nice, plain tapas bar/deli with fancy Spanish stuff on the shelves. Upstairs is a light, airy restaurant with black leather sofas at the bar, red banquettes in the dining area, slate-grey walls and hanging lamps over every table. It's presided over by a young and friendly staff - though, personally, I can live without being addressed as "guys" by South Africans half my age, but then I'm a vile, crotchety old goat. There are a few other minor flaws (the neo-R&B music is irksome, and the loos so far away that you should probably play safe and bring your passport) but the detail that did us in was the matches: ridiculously tiny things that make it impossible to light a cigarette without burning a finger, as the waiter acknowledged by offering to do it himself, "if you don't want to risk it". Why would anyone want to risk it? And why would they want anyone to risk it? It's a tiny, trivial thing - and yet, we felt, a deal-breaker.
As the perfect entrée into that difficult chat, however, the minuscule fire-givers are a godsend. Just pick up the box, borrow from that Newman and Baddiel sketch with the history dons, and say, "You see this box of unbelievably annoying miniature matches? That's you and your obsession with Bokassa, that is", and the ice will be broken.
Whether anyone's mind will be on the food after the detonation of that bombshell is unlikely but, if so, the story here is of a talented, imaginative chef compromised by a tendency to show off and a budget that doesn't stretch to the best ingredients. The menu hints at authenticity, but the cuisine darts across the Far East (chopsticks sit beside cutlery) and the technique pays homage to the school of Heston Blumenthal.
Delicate, delicious dumplings filled with rabbit came with nasty "mustard ice cream", while king prawns tempura-style were deep-fried to perfection but conjoined on skewers with overly al dente asparagus. A more convincingly Catalan collation of squid, octopus, prawn, scallop and monkfish, stir-fried with admirably crunchy vegetables, was beautifully presented and served with a good romesco sauce. The meat dishes, however, were undone by the quality of the main ingredient. Hanger steak (the cut known here as skirt) was grilled to the requested redness, and served sliced in the Italian style, but while the animal in question evidently had a long life, it can't have been a happy one filled with the finest grazing grass. As for the "baby lamb" that provided three big chops covered in coconut, "Some baby!" as a BBC boxing commentator once observed of Amir Khan, the "baby" of the UK Olympic team, as he smashed some hapless lummox to bits. Stir-fried vegetables with saffron rice looked glorious but had a peculiar aftertaste, the olive oil used bringing to mind that old quote about Doris Day (I knew her before she was a virgin).
Puddings, though, were spectacular, especially chocolate brownies studded with pistachio and served with glazed kumquats and fresh mint sorbet. For all the overelaboration and skimping on the butcher's bill, we enjoyed the meal. But those matches made in hell, oh, those pygmy matches...
