IF EVER A RESTAURANT needed a therapist, it’s the Barry Room. Never have I eaten anywhere so painfully lacking in self-esteem, so hand-wringingly incapable of making eye contact, so desperate not to draw attention to itself.
Which is odd, because the Barry Room is the upscale dining room at the House of Lords. Whatever I was expecting as I was escorted through the magniloquent Pugin camp-fest of St Stephen’s Hall it wasn’t the gastronomic equivalent of Fanny Price.
The restaurant is reached via a crooked, corporation-carpeted
