Place: Soho, Great Marlborough Street
The Irish are renowned for three things: charm, a potato famine and Guinness (of course I’m generalising for comic effect). They are not known for their nachos, and O’Neills is no different.
I sampled the £5.95 chos with a great, and Northern Irish, friend of mine. He was satisfied, as many of the public are, with a plate of tortilla chips and a pipette squirt of soured cream, guacamole and ketchup. Yes, ketchup. The cheese was also those melted false-dairy slices you get for 99p in Tesco (other supermarkets are available) and tasted like an impoverished imposter of the lactose world. A really crap Zorro with a mask of ectoplasm. Far from being the Ultimate Nacho, these tasted like they’d been out drunk the night before, staggered back at 6am and wilted onto the plate after vomiting in a nearby bin.
This is not to mention the baldness. Oh god the baldness. We spent twice as long eating bald chos as we did eating those covered in cold ketchup. As my friend commented, “this is just not good nachiquette,” a term which will from hereonin be used with relish (pun intended) on this blog.
O’Neills? Sort yourselves out. You may not be a mexican restaurant but when I order nachos, I expect nachos. Not a drunk Antonio Banderas in a fake cheese mask. Despite the bizarre imagery, hopefully I have got my point across.
The Ultimate Nacho? Are you joking? Have you not read ANYTHING I’ve written so far? Oh. Well go back an read it. In short, no. These were barely nachos and provoked me to near-rage. 1/5