Fumo, 1, Waterloo Street, Birmingham, B2 5PG, 0121 643 8979
7/10
Mr Black, my therapist, is trying to explain how there are two parts to the brain – the primordial brain, and the other bit. I think he is talking about brains in general, rather than just my grey matter.
The other bit is to do with sophistication, but as sophistication is an alien concept I find this part of the dinner-table tutorial a struggle. This much I get: when it comes to food, the primordial brain tells you to lay waste to the bread basket within seconds of its arrival and compels you to order red meat, any meat in fact, with blood sauce – and tell the chef to hold the goddam garnishes. What does he think I am? A Paleolithic hippy?
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The other part makes you ask the waiter if the chicken’s nipples have been marinated and cooked sous vide. It challenges you to ask earnest questions about the kitchen’s sustainable sourcing of local nettles and activates your seasonality gag reflex if the menu features raspberries in December.
(Question: do chickens have nipples? And why do I care? This is why I see Mr Black.)
I know there is a point to the psychoanalysis of food and I hope to bring you further updates. However, our evening of therapeutic dining is punctuated with so much fun and laughter that my brain, both sections, is shot. This, in turn, may have something to do with the dry martini that kicked off proceedings in Fumo, the seductive little sister of Birmingham’s San Carlo restaurant. The bottle of light Falanghina del Beneventano from Campania bares some responsibility, as does the deep Sardinian Chuèrra Cannonau di Sardegna Jerzu Riserva 2007. But a lot of the blame must be apportioned to my guest and his decision to order Armagnac, particularly the second one.
I wouldn’t want you to get the impression that this is the normal state of affairs for a restaurant review but I find it terribly hard to say no, especially to a therapist, and some nights you just have to go with the flow. And it flowed a lot.
Fumo opened a few weeks back with a fraction of the marketing budget of Jamie’s Italian, at the Bullring, but it is everything that industrial restaurant is not. It’s got style, burgeoning character (certainly for somewhere so new) and some good, unfussy food. It’s only a newcomer but Fumo has pretty much established itself at the top of the pile for restaurant/bars in its market.
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Why? Because it gives customers what they want. Fancy that.
Rather than trying to impose an ambiance and a style of food on the restaurant-going public, Fumo has made itself accessible and cool without trying to be achingly trendy. The idea of offering small, sharing plates of food is the golden arrow that has slayed the competition. I’ve never been to a Venetian tapas-style restaurant but that’s what Fumo is based on. The concept of the three-course menu (often a deadening experience in uninspired dining rooms) is ripped up in favour of a procession of little plates of meat, seafood and vegetables. Whether you are a Size Zero or an Olympic weightlifter, there is plenty of scope.
Carlo Distefano, the founder of the ever-expanding San Carlo brand, first tried this concept at Cicchetti in Manchester. The place now takes up to £70,000 a week. That’s a lot of octopus salad and agnello osso bucco.
Diners, clearly, like small plates. It makes them feel less greedy and if you order a duffer you can quickly move on. The psychology works brilliantly because not all the dishes we had were brilliant, although none of them was bad. The fact a good one comes along so quickly obliterates any misgivings you might have had. With good dishes, you are left wanting more. With less good plates, you think: “Oh, well, it was only a taster.”
To succeed, this style of service relies on speed, the quick delivery of new dishes and sound ingredients. All of which you get at Fumo.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: in a city of the supposed dining enthusiasm of Birmingham (and dynamism there is) I can’t believe it took so long for someone to open a properly conceived, good quality restaurant offering pick ’n’ mix small dishes. It was an open goal and a company of Italian heritage has just creamed the ball into the back of the onion net. Now everyone is playing catch-up. Damn those Italians, they’re good. Mama mia!
Naturally, you will be waiting for the buts, so let’s get them out of the way. What didn’t I liked?
Don’t miss
The acoustics. There’s no carpet in the restaurant and little in the way of deep fabrics, which is aesthetically pleasing but means there is little to absorb the noise, so I found it hard picking up my therapist’s voice. This explains why I allowed him to order so much alcohol, so I don’t want to be overly critical. But still, canoodling lovers might have their work cut out being heard and could be forced into sexting.
I’ve no idea how you fix a problem like this but Carlo Distefano or Carmine Sacco, his franchise operations manager, will know a man who does. Things get done with people like this around. Last week, a new Cicchetti (pronounced “chi-KET-tee” in Venice and something completely different in Barnt Green) opened in Piccadilly. It had been scheduled to open in September but the management changed their mind and pressed to open in time for London 2012. They did it.
Dish-wise, the fritto Portofino was disappointing. I had enjoyed it at a previous lunch but the prawns (a few), the scallops (one) and the calamari needed deeper frying. It really was the only blip and that is very impressive.
Prosciutto San Daniele and gnocco fritto (fried dough sticks) satisfied primordial brain impulses and was perked up with a smear of the spicy Calabrian dip we pinched from the fish dish. Funghi misti, the mushrooms laced with garlic, chilli and white wine, goes to the heart of this kind of food. You could keep plates of it coming all night.
If I’m honest, it was hard deciding what we were going to leave out from ordering (tuna tartare, raviolo seabass, the pizzas, veal saltimbocca, calves’ liver with onions, prawn and monkfish kebab), so inevitably I wanted something that had been taken off the menu. A special of ravioli with truffles (£7.95) had sold out at lunch-time, announced crestfallen waiter Matteo. Matteo is an Italian version of the Laughing Policeman and I’ve never seen him look so sad.
This is where it becomes a distinct advantage owning the restaurant next door. Normal service was resumed with the reappearance of a beaming Matteo – and a plate of truffle ravioli. “They had a portion at San Carlo,” he says. “I shout over to them, through the wall!” Truffle, truffle oil, pungent melted cheese, pasta – so tasty it should be illegal.
Orecchiette is slathered in a spreadable, spicy N’duja sausage and tomato sauce but it is topped by a baked melanzane Parmigiana, melting layers of aubergine, tomato and cheese and an almost-burnt top. Sharing dishes with Mr Black can lead to Darwinian survival-of-the-quickest table-top manoeuvring, none more so than this.
Everything went primordial again. “We need red meat,” I told the therapist. “Oh, my God, yes,” he said, his eyes aflame.
Steak, as such, isn’t on the menu but Matteo said the kitchen would come up with something. Five minutes later, a piece of rare fillet steak arrived on a board with a mushroom sauce. It’s what you hoped might turn up, but feared it wouldn’t. Ah, the taste of grilled flesh. We had a platter of sweet treats, including cannoli and components of strawberries, chocolate and cream to satisfy the therapist. By now, I had gone, mentally if not physically.
The majority of the plates at Fumo are in the £3-£3.50 to £6-£7 category, so you spend as little or as much as you like. I suggest you spend a lot.
We are half way through the year and Fumo is odds-on favourite to be Birmingham’s restaurant opening of the year. A smidgen off an 8/10 for me. That’s very good. Well done, boys.
* (For me, 7/10 means “very good cooking and ambition; good attention to detail throughout” and 8/10 is “superlative cooking, abundant flair, creativity and individuality. Exemplary produce.” I’d be interested to know if you find such ratings helpful, or a load of nonsense. You can email: richard. - I’d love it if you did.)