Alma de Cuba, Seel St,
Liverpool L1 4BH
0151 702 7394;
Selection of tapas and larger dishes, with wine or cocktails: £30-£35 per head
This may never replace the event to be celebrated on Tuesday as the Greatest Story Ever Told, but the safe delivery of today’s review is a Christmas miracle. For what began, when all seemed lost, with prayers to the Virgin for a sign of power from above ended triumphantly, in a building constructed for the worship of Christ.
The tale will lose some of its mystical charm with the tidings that the Virgin was Richard Branson’s train company, the prayers were for the repair of a damaged overhead power line which halted the train in its tracks, and the destination was the most unconventional house of worship in Liverpool.
The miracle, meanwhile, was this. Somehow, by luck or divine guidance, I had selected for this seasonal review one of those astoundingly rare regional restaurants that still offers its full lunch menu at teatime.
It was 3.30pm when, after a notably tense journey, we reached royal Macca’s city. Being a punctuality-obsessed weirdo, when I find myself in time trouble I panic like John Cleese in Clockwise. So thanks to my travelling companion for advising me, with the infinite sagacity of a Zen master, not to mention a keen sense of place, to let it be. There will be an answer, he continued; and so there was, in the form of a diversion via Crewe. Finally – some three hours late – we joined two other friends in a restaurant spectacular and surprising enough to slay any residual angst.
It isn’t every day one walks into a beautiful Catholic church to be assailed by loud salsa music and two swanky bars, one tucked away in the crypt. What was for two centuries St Peter’s has been reborn as Alma de Cuba, which translates as “soul of Cuba” – and somewhere in this name is an echo. For Cuban churches were also adapted to other uses after the 1959 revolution, when religious observance was banned, Catholics were persecuted, and atheism rigorously promoted Soviet-style. Whether or not the owners chose the name as a nod to their own adaptation of a church to serve less spiritual purposes, it strikes a more authentic chord than an eclectic menu which rounds up the usual suspects from various cuisines, none of them Cuban.
As it transpired the food was pretty good, but this place has so much to offer that we would have warmed to it had it served nothing but shavings of Fidel’s beard sautéed in the cigar-flavoured phlegm of his brother Raúl. “You are entering a dimly lit building,” warns a sign at the door, and once the eyes adjust to the squint-worthy glow from the untold candles dotted about this huge two-storeyed space, they fall on an imposing altar, flanked by two marble columns, and inscribed “Tu es Petrus” (Jesus’s Greco-Roman pun, ideally suited to this most big-hearted of cities, about St Peter being his rock).
This and the stained-glass windows aside, the churchiest element in the dining area upstairs was a slightly facetious menu loosely fashioned after the pages of a medieval prayer book. This is heavy on sandwiches, wraps and even a smoked-salmon bagel. Yet man cannot live on bread alone, as someone once said, so we stuck primarily to what were alleged to be (and in some cases actually were) tapas.
Although by 4pm the kitchen had run out of roasted wasabi peas, raising the prospect of a lawsuit against Branson for mental distress, “ask and ye shall be given” was the order of the day with regard to everything else. Among several voguish porky dishes (thou shalt not serve modern gammon… if Jesus can make bad puns, so can I), meatballs were rich, spicy and well textured, fat strips of chorizo juicy and properly garlicky. The one shocker was the fabled Havana classic, as rolled on the thighs of virgins, known as “sticky 'old English’ chipolatas with honey and jerk gravy”, which were undercooked and flaccid. But everything that was fried – brie with a decent cranberry salsa, croquetas filled with petit pois and mint, calamari and beer-battered tiger prawns – was fried to greaseless perfection.
More prawns arrived in a decent laksa, a Malay/ Indonesian noodle soup laden with pak choi and coconut milk; while a sticky beef salad came with a medley of fresh, crisp vegetables, and a fine chilli, soy and sesame dressing.
The portions were generous enough to leave no room for puddings, the service prompt and friendly, the mojitos and margaritas faultless.
This is a most impressive and likeable venture, serving well priced, competent cooking in a memorably grandiose and atmospheric setting. Yet even after this jolliest of lunches, I couldn’t shrug off a nagging sense of distaste. As we left, I asked one of my companions, whose seven children gently hint at her faith, how she feels about such a magnificent church being reborn as a destination joint for stag dos, hen nights, soap stars and footballers. “I do like the place,” she said, “but it makes me uneasy.” Even as a Jewish atheist (of lifelong standing – on both counts), I can’t help feeling the same. But enough with the piety. Noting that Alma de Cuba’s clever and imaginative owners go by the name of Pax Leisure, let me leave you in peace with the wish for a restful Christmas.