Ed eats
Malata
Palace Square,
Valletta
Tel: 2123 3967
Food: 7/10
Service: 6/10
Ambience: 6/10
Value: 6/10
Overall: 6/10
Writing this column is usually quite a solitary affair. I sit down and a blank screen stares at me, defiantly. The late, great, Sir Terry Pratchett said that writing is the most fun you can have by yourself. I suppose he knows a thing or two about writing, having churned out a stack of wisdom that occupies two of my bookshelves after I’ve lent a few and never asked for them to be returned.
This time it was a little different. I was having a chat with my parents, two baby boomers whom I have to thank for my love of food, and mentioned that I’d be writing about Malata, knowing full well that they know much more about the place than I ever will. I was hoping my stunt would provide a little insight and it paid off in spades. They both recall the place being something of a treat when they were practically toddlers so they filled in the gaps between their first memories of the place and the time I first visited.
Back when eating out wasn’t so common and Valletta was the place to be, Malata was one of the stalwarts. The options for dining out in Valletta were limited so it was hard to find a table at Malata, especially since it hosted countless Members of Parliament who would cross the square for their fill of good food and gossip. It was the place to be seen in and had a formidable kitchen to make sure it remained central to Valletta’s social life.
I hadn’t been there for over a decade and, unfortunately, a pin-sharp memory is something both aforementioned parents decided to leave out of my genetic inheritance. I remember enjoying the time spent there though, so the food must have been good. I can’t for the life of me remember what I ate though, so it can’t have been spectacular.
One thing in favour of Malata that hasn’t changed is its location. It is hard to be more central than this. Having the Grandmaster’s Palace close enough to make out the carvings on the walls also adds unmistakeable prestige to the hallowed ground that the restaurant is built upon. If they’d charged me an entrance fee, I’d probably pay it.
The entrance is discreet and a little shabby but does nothing to blemish the symmetrical expanse that St George Square is. There are a few tables on the square itself but when we visited it was a windy night so they weren’t really an option. Down the stairs it was, into the half-underground dining space that makes up the restaurant itself.
It looks like Malata is really in love with its past
Nothing has changed. Caricatures on the wall do a few decades’ worth of work depicting Members of Parliament in a jocularly unbalanced scale, so that their heads are inflated to match the size of their egos. Bare stone walls and arches have the shine of decades of wear on them and the ceiling is held up with all sorts of aftermarket addenda. Cane furniture from the 1970s completes the picture. So far it looks like Malata is really in love with its past.
We were met by a couple of interchangeable young men, dressed all in black, who did an excellent job all night in a perfectly perfunctory way. They knew what they were meant to do and they did it, with no attempt to make the experience personal. I suspect they’ll grow up and turn into those waiters who patrol the tables outside Café Cordina, the ones who keep change in little metal tins on their trays. They could still be around. I just haven’t been there for years.
The menus, on the other hand, are quite a tasteful and modern affair. There are the classics there with a welcome touch of imagination, and vegetarian options for all courses without this having to be pointed out. Whatever hasn’t happened to the décor seems to be happening in the kitchen.
I was spoilt for choice and finally decided upon the linguini with fresh prawns and coriander followed by the monkfish in a sauternes and tarragon sauce. The better half was going to start with a fresh fish carpaccio and follow this up with the ribeye. This made our choice of wine a little awkward but we took the democratic approach and ordered a white. We had to, with all those wise people staring at us from the frames on the wall.
One of the young men who turned up to take our order showed us the fish but nothing seemed fresh. With the weather over the past few days I wasn’t surprised, and pictured the poor chef’s frustration when faced with this drought. I wasn’t surprised they’d run out of monkfish as well and quickly swapped for the mussels, knowing these are flown in regularly.
A couple of warm little buns and some butter made a simple enough start to the meal. I appreciate when a chef puts more effort into excellent bread than he would preparing a half-hearted amuse bouche. I knew I’d be paying relatively handsomely for the meal so the chef’s own butter would have added a touch here.
The fresh fish carpaccio turned out to be a duo of salmon and swordfish. Once again we were victims of the weather. The fish was attractively served and was dressed with dill, lemon and rucola but it remained a slightly tired slice of swordfish and salmon.
My pasta had been overdone so had lost all texture. The sauce had a lovely texture and adhered to the pasta nicely but too much was going on, so it all but drowned the really fresh red prawns. The fresh coriander, dill, basil, and lemon were a great idea, and a little restraint can turn this into a dish to return for.
Our main courses turned up reasonably quickly and I quickly realised it would be hard to go through the mountain of mussels in front of me without anything to put the shells in. One of the guys was with me in seconds, quickly making amends. The mussels were fresh and perfectly done so they retained their lovely texture. Dipped in the perfectly salted, savoury broth these little molluscs were the highlight of my meal.
The ribeye was a little inexpertly butchered so it was cooked through at one end but perfectly rare, as ordered, throughout the rest of it. It’s the not the kind of steak that will sear its mark on your memory but it does the trick. The baked potatoes were also just about right and were overshadowed by some delightfully sweet bell peppers.
I toyed with the idea of a dessert but realised that what I’d enjoyed most all evening was the jazz that was playing in the background. For the rest of it there’s little that’s charming about the place. I realise that charm is, to a degree, subjective, and for some reason I failed to fall in love with the place as much as I would have liked to. In a way I felt unlucky. Every time I’d heard Malata mentioned it was the charm of the front of house that was praised highly and I seem to have been there for the wrong shift. I was unlucky with the weather so I couldn’t order fish. Too much seems to have been stacked against my having the evening Malata is so legendary for.
And it is this legend, and the location, that partly justify my having paid just shy of €100 for the meal. The legend alone isn’t enough though, so it’s a good thing there’s plenty the kitchen seems to have to offer.
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