What is the acceptable level of pretension that should be allowed in any restaurant? The Monty Python team did a great job of mocking the airs and graces of a top end restaurant, in both the “Dirty Fork” sketch and, most notably (and graphically), The Meaning of Life, when Mr Creosote is coaxed into eating a “waffer-theen mint” and (spoiler alert) promptly explodes. Mrs Nigel has coined “hipster pretentious” as being the highest acceptable level, which usually involves convoluted, nay tortured, language on the menu, some weirdness with the bread (maybe a wafer where a roll would have done), a dollop of Scandinavian wood, but still good food.

Cloche Encounters of the Worst Kind

On one famous visit to Corfe Castle we were presented with our extremely average food by a team of waiters who simultaneously revealed it from under silver cloches, in a dining room where the wearing of jeans was unacceptable (as I don’t generally wear anything else, I tried to buy a pair of dead man’s trousers from a nearby charity shop, but Mrs Nigel and the kids made me go to the next-door “Gentleman’s Outfitters” instead. Where do they think that stock came from?). That was not hipster pretentious, just pretentious.

But there is another level, rarely reached, which is “up its own hole”. And, ladies and gentlemen, let me reveal that Abantal has many flaws, but it excels at shoving its head firmly where the sun doesn’t shine.

Re-Rewind

Let me rewind.

We were in Seville for a night, en route to Cadiz, and said Seville night also coincided with my birthday. Our most favourite restaurant in Seville, possibly the world, has shut, and we are gutted about it. There are some other great restaurants in Seville that we have eaten in (just have a starter at De La O and leave), but it’s a big city, we were staying near the station and had an early start, so didn’t want to venture too far. Naturally some walking would be required, as stations and gastronomy are not usually adjacent (King’s Cross with Caravan and Parrillan being the exception), and a couple of places really stood out on the reviews, the starkest being Abantal, a staple for some 20 years and, for most of that time, the only restaurant in Seville with a Michelin star. It boasted (red flag alert) a 9 or 12 course tasting menu, wine flights and a waiting list. And a price tag to match. What could possibly go wrong?

Lost in Translation

It is not an easy place to find, buried in a block of flats on a nondescript road. A very kindly lady took pity on us as we wandered along cluelessly and said (in English), “Restaurant”, and pointed us towards the door: Clearly not the first time that had happened. However, when you do find it, it has its name splashed everywhere, probably to stop patrons being arrested for soliciting.

Everyone is clad in black, and the décor is high Scandinavian, with a lot of slatted wood, organised horizontally and vertically such that if you sit by a wall and look at the ceiling, it forms a nausea-inducing moiré pattern. Our waiter was a star. I really feel I have to point that out, because as we will see, he had a hard job on his hands.

Flight Club

Only the 9-course menu was on offer, and as the wine list was bible-sized, we went with the wine flight option (Negroni? More chance of a Big Mac, which makes this the first time in the history of this blog that the Negroni test has had to be abandoned for lack of equipment). The wine I would say was well paired with the food, except for the fact that in the main, the food all tasted the same. Which brings me on to the real crux of the matter: A bit like ballet, the entire evening was all mouth and definitely no trousers (dead man’s or others).

Flaying Nemo

As each course arrived, our poor waiter was forced to recite every, single ingredient, over and over again. But from what we could tell, the chef mainly only had access to micro-seaweed and curry powder, the former because it was described with almost every dish, and the latter because most of the dishes were swimming in it. You just know that somewhere out the back there is a pallet of micro-seaweed the size of a Seat Panda that has to be used up by Tuesday. The fish mainly tasted of very little, and to the extent it tasted of something it tasted the same. The venison? Actually quite nice, but the “main course” as it was laughably described, an Iberian pork shoulder, was just tough and a bit pointless.

Message in a Bottle

The atmosphere was, to say the least, hushed. It was supposed to be a cathedral of food, but I had a view of the car park through the back window, so that rather spoiled the effect. But what really got me was the incident of the bottle of water on the table: Or not. On arrival, we were allowed to order some water, which was poured, and then the bottle whisked away. When we asked for some more later, somewhat parched having crossed this culinary desert, the rest of the original bottle reappeared, which surprised us, as we had assumed it must have been finished long ago, this being almost an hour later. So we ordered another bottle, and as it was poured, I asked our poor waiter if he would leave the bottle on the table. He told us it was “not allowed”. I really felt for him, having to pass on such a stupid message to his customers. In the end, the management relented, and allowed it on the table, on a silver drip tray, of course.

Verdict: Waffer-Theen

Now I am sure the restaurant would say it is all us: That we shouldn’t be going to chi-chi places, that the flavours were subtle, the food beautifully presented, that it’s all art, and that riff raff like us should take our custom elsewhere. But in writing this review, I feel a little like one of the Victorian spiritualist debunkers, unmasking the medium’s assistant flicking the light switch and kicking the table. Yes, the food looked lovely, and I’ve tried to show that in the pictures (the lighting was terrible, but the pictures are an accurate representation of the food), but you can’t serve people 9 courses of seaweed curry and expect them to be happy about it. Shaun Hill (who held a proper Michelin star for 30 years, so he knows what he is talking about) said “Simple food does not hide behind a sauce of concealment, nor is it a contrived picture on a plate.” It would have cost me a lot less if they had nailed the Abantal food to the wall at the Alcázar, and I could have gone to view it, not eat it. 340 Euros is an awful lot for a series of average-at-best amuse bouches and a few glasses of wine, and as the last plate was cleared I did briefly wonder whether a waffer-theen mint might follow, but given the evening so far it would only have been described to me ingredient by ingredient, garnished with micro-seaweed and swimming in curry. Happy birthday to me.

Conclusion

• Overall Rating: 3/5
• Food: 2.5/5
• Wine: 4/5
• Service: 4/5
• Ambience: 4/5
• Value for money: 1/5
• Price: £££££
• Would we go back? Have you read the review?

Abantal: https://abantalrestaurante.es/en/