The Big Mamma group’s gargantuan, flamboyant, frothily decorated pleasure palaces, which have grown rapidly across London – from Gloria in Shoreditch to Circolo Popolare in Fitzrovia and from Avo Mario in Covent Garden to Jacuzzi in Marylebone, among others – not to mention across Europe in general, tend to cause earnest food sorts to sigh wearily. If the lofty scofferati could have found a way to scupper Big Mamma’s growth, they probably would have, because these restaurants are unashamedly focused on big, sexy, silly and Italian-inspired fun. The dining rooms are styled with the chaotic yet elegant detail of a big-budget movie set; no two are remotely the same, but each branch is connected by dependably over-the-top Italian serving staff, usually male and every one of them determined to be your best friend all the way from the antipasti to the sweetseven if your stiff British mentality fights their displays of chumminess.
The latest Big Mamma opening, Barbarella in Canary Wharf, east London, is no different, and features all of those elements with which we’ve become so familiar: the tall, wobbly lemon meringue pie, the camp banquettes, the huge flappy menu with 100-plus items all written in Italian and in a teensy-tiny red font. At Barbarella, there are also oversized sculptures, vintage Fiorucci in glass display cases and, vibe-wise, a large scoop of Gaga does House of Gucci.
Why are clever food people so sniffy about Big Mamma, despite its restaurants being full to the brim every night? Well, there are two reasons: first, Barbarella and her sisters are determinedly fun; almost forced fun, if we’re completely honest. Just try telling your server that you’re not here to have a laugh, but instead have come for a sparse, sensible, calorie-counting meal, so there’s no need for a double martini or to be spooned tiramisu from a huge bowl by a winking man from Sicily called Gianluca. They just won’t understand you. The second, and possibly more logical reason for the raised eyebrows is because – let’s cut to the chase – the food in all of these restaurants isn’t always terribly good and is sometimes actively awful.
Not that you’ll ever cajole any of the staff into admitting that: “This tiramisu is my favourite tiramisu in the world, even better than my own nonna’s,” is just one line directed at me at Barbarella. The staff simply cannot break character, so all the pasta is, according to them at least, “freshly made this hour” and “better than they serve in the village I come from in Italy”. Every T-bone steak is the juiciest and every brunello on the extensive wine-list is the most thoughtfully sourced. You’ve more chance of seeing Mickey Mouse at the front of a Disney parade with his headpiece off and smoking a Marlboro than hear a Barbarella server admit that this food is just OK – and hugely overpriced, too.
Not that you’d really want that, either. Barbarella, like all of these places, is about escapism, boisterous group dining and being swept up in the moment, with someone else – a lover, a boss, a father-in-law – hopefully picking up the hefty bill afterwards. Lunching here stone-cold sober is a real eye-opener. I’ve only ever been to a Big Mamma restaurant while a bit tipsy, but here I’m being served a £24 plate of “Millefogliand potatoes with tartare of beef and truffle”, or a sort of cold fried potato rösti with a spoon of unseasoned beef tartare that’s not remotely delicious. A courgette and cheese salad limps on to my table hoping for love, but it’s another hopeless state of affairs. This is not good courgette, these are not pleasant croutons.
Next up, lobster linguine for £36 in a thick, one-note bisque sauce and with half a lobster on top – fine, but nothing earth-shattering. A £38 fillet steak with green peppercorn sauce is by some distance the most delicious thing we eat, and comes with a side of actually great rosemary potatoes. Then again, it’s also probably the least Italian thing on the menu. But the tiramisu is, as ever, rich, thick, cocoa-covered and comes with that timeworn trick of offering a second scoop to denote largesse.
Upstairs is the place to sit, it being the room with all the movie-star glamour; downstairs is, dare I say, a little less exciting. But, from my seat by the till (not somewhere I wanted to linger) and having to move plates about to make them fit on a tiny table that’s about as big as one of the pizzas, there’s just something about Barbarella that left me a little cold. Perhaps glamour isn’t supposed to be practical. The wild Italian party continues in Canary Wharf regardless, but I don’t think I’ll be running back for a scoop of gelato any time soon.
Barbarella Unit 3, YY London, 30 South Colonnade, London E14 (no phone). Open all week, noon-midnight. From about £40 a head à la carte, plus drinks and service.
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