Dismal plate of the nation

Lisa Hilton finds a disturbing metaphor in the unconvincing dining room of the House of Lords

IF EVER A RESTAURANT needed a therapist, it’s the Barry Room. Never have I eaten anywhere so painfully lacking in self-esteem, so hand-wringingly incapable of making eye contact, so desperate not to draw attention to itself. Which is odd, because the Barry Room is the upscale dining room at the House of Lords. Whatever I was expecting as I was escorted through the magniloquent Pugin camp-fest of St Stephen’s Hall it wasn’t the gastronomic equivalent of Fanny Price. The restaurant is reached via a crooked, corporation-carpeted staircase which absolutely doesn’t resemble a thrilling secret passage which might exclude people who didn’t know it was there; once attained the room could be very pretty, the plain stone walls a restful contrast to the hyperchromatic pageantry sprawled all over the rest of…

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The Critic (Digital) - 1 Issue, February 2023

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