Wagamama

1, The Printworks
Manchester M1

I hate complaining. Correction: my friends hate me complaining. For me, there’s a certain pleasure to be found in offering some 'constructive criticism' – sad, I know, though the potential for compensatory ‘freebies’ is endless! But Matthew and Sofia just could not appreciate that a restaurant needs to know when the food and/or the service isn’t up to much; and they certainly didn’t want to be around when I shared my views with the waiter. Before the words "was everything OK for you?" were uttered, Matt had dived under the table in search of a napkin which inevitably was never found, and Sofia had raced to the bathroom so fast, she managed to qualify for the 2012 Olympics!

But Wagamama is not a nice place and its company ethos ought to be donated to another company, because it clearly doesn’t apply here. To serve "great food in an elegant, yet simple environment," we are told, is The Way of Wagamama.

We, it seemed, must have taken a wrong turning.

Now, I consider myself to be a friendly individual. I like people. I like socialising. Just this morning, I was happy to converse with an unkempt manic-depressive who was in the same doctor’s surgery, and with each sentence breathed the contents of a small off-licence into my face. I am, generally, very accommodating.

But I do like some time to myself. We all do. The three of us had all had a very stressful week –well, it’s difficult fitting lectures around nights out (!) – so we just wanted a relaxing meal.

Wagamama failed us. Dining is communal and so might have appealed to the aforementioned manic-depressive, but it did not appeal to us. Tables are 12-feet long and are arranged in an ‘army-camp-meets-school-canteen’-style. Thus, our quiet meal, just the three of us, became an uncomfortably cramped experience when we were invited to a table in the middle of two separate parties of six. (The four empty spaces at the end of the next, quieter table were, insisted the waiter, reserved.) Drinks-wise we were immediately disappointed to learn that the French white we’d chosen was not, as the menu stated, "ripe and easy to drink," but rather out of stock and so, by definition, impossible to drink. The food had better be good.

Matthew had the Zasai Gohan (£6.95) – stir-fried chicken and shitake mushrooms in an oyster and garlic sauce, served with Japanese style rice, which sounds far better than it looked. Sofia and I both opted for a Chicken Ramen (£5.95). Ramen dishes promise to offer a nutritionally complete meal in a bowl. And if that doesn’t tempt you, then steer clear! It was exactly what you’d expect from a nutritional dish – bloody awful! Think Carol Vorderman’s Detox plan, but less tempting.

On a more positive note, the waiting staff were very attentive and we could not have asked for more from them. They were genuinely concerned that we had not enjoyed our meal and I became somewhat excited when the manager was summoned to see if something could be 'arranged'. Needless to say, we were unimpressed by his invitation to come back and enjoy 10% off the total food bill. Students get 20% off anyway.

Much cringing took place, both from Matt and Sofia, and more so from the other 12 people sitting next to me while I insisted on a more suitable compensation for our poor meal.

In the end, we paid nothing. We were ripped off.