Musa Aberdeen
A universal requirement for all eating places, irrespective of the price level they’re pitching in at, should be that they get their price-ability ratio right.
I won’t complain that a restaurant is down-at-heel if the food is cheap and good value, and I’m philosophical about paying over the odds, on occasion, knowing that a proportion of my bill is paying for the flower arrangements and the meticulous laundering of table linen.
But what about places like Musa, Aberdeen’s café-restaurant, gallery and music venue? I’ve worked in a few places like this in my time and am no stranger to grungy, bohemian arts venues where every chair snags your tights, the table top feels tacky and the food is almost invariably awful. It used to be so easy: bowls of chilli and inedible iceberg leaf "salads" carefully assembled by cash-in-hand students, followed by mouth-gumming, pseudo-strawberry cheesecake, fresh from the freezer.
But aspiring Musa, with its catholic selection of art works squashed in among tables and its food-spattered menu peppered with misspelt "rockette", is in another league entirely. The food is ambitious and Musa prides itself in its "relaxed atmosphere and environment". Relaxed? When I see swordfish (an endangered species) on the menu at £19, my stress levels soar on both economic and environmental grounds. And just reading about this disappearing species’s de trop accompaniments – smoked salmon brandade, cherry tomatoes and wild garlic velouté – my blood pressure jumps another few points. The fillet steak, at £21.50, makes me twitchier still.
These are prices for Michelin-focused establishments, not shabby cafés. And blimey, look what comes with the steak. Forget tried and tested classics, at Musa you get magpie-like mix ’n’ match in the form of "black pudding Dauphinois" (spare us, please!) and, wait for it, an Anglo-Italianate "apple and espresso sauce". How can anyone do this to a presumably decent steak? Dishes here are convoluted and confused, the sort of thing you’d expect from misguided, would-be Masterchef candidates, concepts that would get weeded out instantly, even from all the dumbly original menus submitted.
If you ask me, Ready Steady Cook, known fondly in the professional chef world as Ready Steady Puke, has a lot to answer for. All those challenges like "What can you do in 10 minutes with a shopping bag of coriander, Kit Kats, meringue, spelt flour, chicken supremes and a blow torch?". It has infected fledgling chefs and cooks with an "anything goes" virus.
Chefs have to be thoroughly trained and highly experienced before they should be encouraged to innovate. The kitchen at Musa needs a great big banner above the stove reading: "If no-one has ever put Welsh rarebit together with smoked chicken and tiger prawns before, then there’s a very good reason for it!" That particular delicacy is on the menu, as is curried black pudding tempura, poached egg, devilled sauce and pancetta, at £7.25 for a starter portion. Don’t get too laid-back or chilled when you order here; the bill will bring you back to your senses like a bucket of cold water.
An Anglo-Indian, Greco-Italian offering of beetroot and apple terrine with chilli tzatziki and warm brie focaccia looked perilously like blackcurrant parfait in a pool of something unpleasant, and tasted most bizarre. Beetroot, cauliflower and ginger soup – a strange combination of ingredients – was oddly sweet, enough to make me wonder if it had been made with stem ginger in syrup, rather than the fresh rhizome.
Chickpea stew with parmesan crust, at a hefty £13.95, had a bottom-of-the-pot taste to it, and it really didn’t benefit from being served with a redundant potato mash and jarring blueberry jelly. Chickpeas and blueberry jelly? One for the Ready Steady Cook hall of infamy. Rock turbot, a firm, tasty species also known as catfish, served with a melting cheese rarebit goo on top, was a heavy number but rather better. Heavy clapshot and routine vegetables were not the accompaniments it needed.
Of the desserts, rhubarb fool with custard and balsamic ice cream pipped the apricot frangipane tart overdosed with what tasted like almond essence. Something that looked and tasted awfully like long-life aerosol cream let the side down further. Call me unreasonable, but at these prices I like to think the cook has lifted a whisk.