Ed eats

Angelica
134, Archbishop Street,
Valletta
Tel: 2122 2777

Food: 6/10
Service: 7/10
Ambience: 7/10
Value: 5/10
Overall: 6/10

Never have I had to tread so carefully, my fingers tip-toeing over my keyboard with the delicate attention of mating porcupines. One slip, and the consequences could be nasty.

Reviewing a venerable member of Malta’s tiny community of reviewers is a matter best approached with gloves of gossamer

Not that I am ever brash in my approach or insensitive to the possible consequences of my reviews.

It is just that reviewing a venerable member of Malta’s tiny community of reviewers is a matterbest approached with gloves ofgossamer.

I have often been asked whether I know Mona of Planetmona fame. Her reviews and insights have averitable horde of followers who hang onto every word she writes and her approach has, over the years, become distinctive and unmistakeable.

Before I was asked (forced, really) to undertake this most unlikely of ventures, I used to read her reviews, agreeing with some, disagreeing with others, entertained by some and surprised by others. The trip was eventful and quite possibly influential.

So do I know Mona? Well, I met her once, a long time ago, at a conference of some sort and we had a five-minute conversation that did not quite end as expected – I jested and she reacted. Yet whenever people ask me the question, I say I know what she looks like and respect her the way one respects a colleague.

Writing restaurant reviews is a lonely undertaking, one that involves hours with no more than a keyboard, a blank word processor document, and the entire English language for company. So the few people who bother doing it and who do it well are worthy of much of my respect.

Do I like her style, I am asked. Once again, I like style. Whether it is my style or not is irrelevant.Anyone who has the guts to stick one’s neck out and add their flavour to their writing has style.

Hitchcock and Hemingway, Lovecraft and Leonard, Rankin (Robert, naturally) and Roth all have wildly different styles, yet there is time in our lives and room on our bookshelves for all of them.

When Mona decided she’d open up her own place that would serve food to the masses in Valletta, a coffee shop called Angelica, I thought it was a singularly brave move. Having written hundreds of thousands of words (they add up, believe me) about hundreds of restaurants across the islands and beyond, puts her in a position of heightened scrutiny. She scores the first few points for bravery.

She loses these points as soon as I get to the place itself by placing a ‘planetmona ****’ four-star rating outside her own place. I am afraid reviewing yourself and awarding yourself four stars is only something you can do when you are home alone, the better half eating out with his or her friends, and you have cooked something for yourself. Other than that, you can only be judged by the people you feed.

I promised myself, however, that as soon as I stepped off Archbishop Street and into Angelica, I’d forget that the place was run by Mona and would review it as objectively as I could. And here I allowed myself to slip into the comfortable, well-worn, battle-scarred Ed Eats mode.

As I normally do, I chose excellent company for lunch. One may be fed the most delicious cupcakes by every Valkyrie in the Valhalla and hate every moment of it if in the company of someone annoying.

So, joined by a close friend, I walked past the unlikely sight of a giant inflatable structure that has decided to compete with the rather more sombre architecture of the President’s Palace and into the little café.

I like what’s been done to the place. The little front room of a typical Maltese house has been converted into quite a doll’s house of a place, with traditional wooden furniture done up in a way that is both functional and attractive.

A large dining table in the middle of the room is there to share and seats eight. Pick a seat and rub shoulders with the incongruous mix of suits and hipsters that seem to congregate here.

There is a room upstairs but I did not venture there as the communal table only had another two people seated when we walked in, so I saved myself the trouble. I’d hate to waste any precious calories before lunch.

Mona, looking rather spiffy, told us that we had to order at the bar. I could, in theory, have raised my voice slightly and they’d have heard me but I obliged, standing and walking both steps to the bar to order a beef and ale pie for myself and a goats cheese ftira for the friend who I will call Becky forseveral reasons.

I added a bottle of fizzy water, even if my pie was crying out to heaven for a beer to go with it. I’d have to return to my cell and give up another little bit of my life to make a living afterwards and can’t do so under the influence.

We chatted and chatted and realised we were quite hungry but food took a while. I presumed that, judging by the size of the place and the fact that it was serving pie and ftira for lunch in Valletta, we’d be served with appropriate alacrity.

Eventually our food made it across the room and Becky bit into her ftira, making an approving little nod. My pie was served in its own little basket of greaseproof paper and, having spent some time in close proximity with it, was reluctant to let go.

The pastry at the base had not really spent enough time in the oven and, combined with the slightly runny contents of the pie, had me eating a fair amount of greaseproof paper. Mona noticed this and apologised politely, explaining that they were still perfecting their formula. I said I quite liked the greaseproof paper but I suspect she missed the little jest because she didn’t react.

I eventually peeled the paper and put it aside because that was the most obvious thing for me to have done in the first place. The flavour was excellent, the meat slightly chewy and the portion size was just right.

I was not prepared to leave the place without trying the sweets that are tantalisingly on display at strategic points around the room.

Cupcakes, cakes and little tarts perched provokingly on most of the available surfaces and I asked Mona about the cupcakes. She told me that they were red velvet cupcakes but suggested that I try the salted caramel tart with chocolate on top. I agreed on condition that Becky helped out and added a couple of espressos to go with it.

The tart was interesting but I could not warm up to the crystalline crunch inside the caramel. I like my caramel smooth and unctuous and this was neither. The tart was topped with little shards of peanuts in caramel (think sesame snaps and swap the sesame for roasted peanuts).

This little sliver of goodness had Becky and I fighting for the last crumb and we agreed we could eat it all day. What Becky does not know is that when I pointed at the variety of interesting teas Angelica has for sale it was to steal an extra bit of sweet crunch.

Then came the bill for just over €20. The unusual tart weighed in at a fiver, costing as much as my pie and as much as Becky’s ftira. Coffee and water made up the rest.

And, quaint as the décor may be, interesting as the descriptions of the food may sound, numerous though the stars affixed to the façade happen to be, it will take a little more effort for me to spend that much time or money on lunch.

You can send e-mails about this column to ed.eatson@gmail.com or follow @edeats on Twitter. Or both.