subsolo

I have been looking forward to eating at Subsolo since a work colleague raved about being invited to its opening night. She went on and on about the cocktails and tapas at this inner city, underground Spanish restaurant. As I've established, I do love cocktails and tapas, so it seemed like Subsolo and I were meant to be.

I was wrong.

Ready to try another Fast Festival Feast, my friend D and I went to Subsolo on a rainy Wednesday night. We're excited by the meal we're about to receive: a selection of Subsolo's signature tapas. Excellent, we think. A chance to try all the amazing things we've been hearing about this place.

When we arrive, I tell the waiter that our reservation is under "Lauren." He scans the reservations and can't find it.

"Sorry, there's nothing here for Lauren for 6.30."
"But I booked! Yesterday. I know I booked. Maybe they took my name down incorrectly," I plead.
"Mmm," he says, glancing at the book. "Is your last name Moan?"
"No," I say, before realising that I am Moan. I must have enunciation problems, because a lot of people think my name is Maureen if we've met over the phone. "Oh, actually...I think that's me. The waitress must have thought I said Moan."
By this stage, D is laughing so hard she might need stitches. "Moan? That's a good one." I feel like reminding her of her not-so-normal Indian name that people mispronounce all the time, but being benevolent and in need of tapas, I don't.

So here we are, Moan and D, ready for tasty Spanish morsels. We're seated and the waiter asks us which of the FFF drinks we'd like, the beer or wine. We both order the pinot noir. Moments later, another waiter arrives and asks us the same thing. We tell him we've already ordered our drinks, and he looks a little miffed. As if to say, "Well, excuse me for daring to give you girls some service! Next time, I'll just waltz on by." Which, of course, he does, for the next two and half hours of our meal.

Our drinks arrive. D gets her pinot noir...and I'm given the sav blanc. I didn't ask for it, but in the interests of keeping the peace (and also because I do quite enjoy a sav blanc) I don't say anything.

About 45 minutes later, our tapas boxes arrive. Oh, goody! Obviously I want to hear what each piece of tapas actually is, so I can report back to you, dear reader. But with a flourish of napkin, the waiter is gone and D and I are left to investigate our meals alone.

We decide we love the patatas bravas. The potatoes are roasted to crispy perfection, and the tomato sauce is infused with enough chilli to warrant the extra bottle of wine we order (too bad it takes 35 minutes to show up). The salt cod croquette with aioli is good, too. The chorizo is a little too oliy for D, but I love it. The texture is great and it's good and spicy. The meatballs filled with manchego cheese should, by rights, be the standout. They're on a bed of tomato sauce (which is great), but the meatballs have obviously been made and cooked hours ahead of time. The cheese doesn't ooze from them as it should - it's a hard little rock in the centre of cold, tough mince. The Portuguese chicken in peri-peri sauce is good, but again, it's cold and tough.

We decide it's time for Subsolo to redeem itself, so we order dessert (we're nice like that). While waiting for our bottle of temperanillo (did I mention it took 35 minutes to get from the bar to our table?) I settle on Spanish churros filled with dulce de leche with Spanish chocolate sauce and honey nougat icecream, and D orders the hot chocolate pudding with melting chocolate centre, chocolate sauce and vanilla bean icecream.

About 40 minutes whizzes by until finally, we're given our dessert. To be honest, it was worth the wait - the dessert was definitely the highlight and if we ever visit Subsolo again, it'll be the sole reason. My churros were fresh from the deep-fryer, and filled with the most decadently rich caramel sauce ever. It was thick, not overly sweet and just plain amazing. The chocolate sauce was a little too much with it, but the icecream worked well. D's chocolate pudding was similarly indulgent. The centre was a puddle of thick, oozing sauce and the edges were slightly crispy.

But dessert isn't enough to save a meal - especially one where the service was so ridiculously bad. Come to think of it, it's quite ironic that they misheard my name as Moan, if you catch my drift.

Subsolo
161 King St, Sydney NSW 2000
Corner Castlereagh St
9223 7000