SOMA: long on looks but short on charm
By : Franny Berry
SOMA is the "Eyes Wide Shut" of restaurants: nice to look at, tastefully scored, full of attractive people with disposable income, and never quite delivering the money shot.
As with the Kubrick movie, I really want to like the place more than I do. Every time I go, I put my conveniently short memory to good use and ruthlessly squash the little voice that says "I'd be much happier with a bottle of South African red and Tam Tam's chicken and brie salad." And inevitably, my bright-eyed optimism meets an operatic death, leaving me to walk out puzzled about why the SOMA experience is so charmless despite goodies such as:
The cocktail list. Wide-ranging and, best of all, features REAL CRANBERRY JUICE (Can you tell I missed my Cosmopolitans?).
The clientele. One of the great pleasures of dining out is the eye candy, and in that respect SOMA is Christmas, Halloween and Easter rolled into one. Everybody is Somebody, wants to be Somebody, or looks just like Somebody. One hyper-busy night, we scoped out a pocket version of Uma Thurman, a Kayah knockoff (a vast improvement on the original), and the Backstreet Boys, complete with matching white wardrobes straight out of that video spoofed by Blink 182. Portions of the restaurant seem to have been designed with the express purpose of letting your gaze wander appreciatively, which brings me to:
The couch room. Why sit and crane when you can sprawl on primary-colored couches and survey the room with minimal effort? Especially sweet when there's live music in the restaurant's cavernous right-hand-side, a Wallpaper*-designed cafeteria. You can hear the band/DJ last playing what the innocent bystander I dragged with me described as limpd**k jazz without giving up your disquisition on why it was a good thing that Larry Flynt never made it to last year's Hustler picnic.
The customer-response form. Hey, I support anything that brings SOMA closer to being the pleasure palace it was meant to be.
Consider what follows my slightly more public than usual satisfaction survey based on my last visit to the upstairs restaurant.
Service: Tiring. We had to practically mug a waitress to order drinks, a wine list arrived after three inquiries, and she had that "if I don't look at you maybe you won't ask for anything" thing down to an art. To be fair, I have had pleasant and attentive, if still slow, service at SOMA before; the place was packed; and the peripatetic clientele cheek kissing their way up and down the lounge probably made it difficult for the waitress to be quick and effective. A little feigned sparkle (lie to me, baby) would've been nice, though. A wander up to the bar for requested but forgotten ice reinforced the impression that SOMA has not escaped the Warsaw curse of the uncharismatic bartender.
Food: By the time you read this, SOMAwill have introduced a new fall menu. What I had on my last visit looked lovely and tasted like fusion bar fare with aspirations. The thick, Cajun-spiced fries were excellent, as was the juicy and flavorful tandoori chicken in phyllo pastry. The innocent bystander had some chicken gumbo comfort food with a kick if you like hot stuff and the chicken and beef satays were satisfying if unspectacular.
Prices: Reasonable, though the cocktails (zl. 16 and up) seem to have diminished in size, which is just tacky. Raise the prices, by all means, but don't serve Manhattans in those miniature martini glasses that look like training glassware for underage alcoholics looking to move up from their Easy-Bake Oven.
Atmosphere: Loudish, voyeuristic and clubby, as everybody seems to know each other, looks like they want to be more intimately acquainted, or just, well, looks. Not for the insecure or the sartorially challenged. Don't ever check your ego at the door. And thankfully, the glamour quotient of the sparse design and decorative customers will no longer be lowered by dinky multi-colored paper menus with grainy print and cover art, as I hear they'll have a real grown-up menus by the time this goes to print.
When to go: Go in the evenings when it's more likely to be buzzing. Otherwise the high ceilings and open spaces might make you feel as inconspicuous as the Pope at Paradise.
Coming back?: Sure, to toss back a Cosmopolitan or two for the day when SOMA lives up to its name (did you really think I'd pass up a Huxley reference?), and I walk out flooded with the peace and happiness that comes from having my pleasure principle properly indulged.
