The restaurant critic looks for workers at Cafe on the Bread Factory

An interesting decision: to take over the room of Barca, which spent less than two years striving for the Premier League. So here the location sits higher in my personal list of arguments than the team itself. From the team you know what to expect, whether that's good or dull. Or will they surprise?

The terrace looks many times simpler than the previous one, which was expensive and stood out. It looks pleasant: there, it seems, people came to a cafe. Inside, though… The laptop people came to work. There are many of them. I saw coffee in front of one. He finished it at a rate rather good for a business hour: about 23 ml a minute. A latte, was it? Possibly somebody had only just finished their millilitres, I can't judge. And one worker in the middle, laptop only, no food, no drink, occupying a table for four with no order. Entitled to, apparently — but all of it changes the impression, the very intention of eating nearby. When there's a chemist's around you, you start remembering which tablets to buy.

Again they'll talk about a full house around one o'clock, and technically it is there — but how many came to the cafe itself, for pasta, rather than to the co-working to get some work done? The second thing that matters when ordering: again an uncovered display of not-cheap pastries. Sugary, fruity, tempting to more than just people. I'm sure there isn't a single fly in there, nor a hair from those leaning over to choose, but I can't help imagining. And with the desserts on the menu I asked twice, clearly: "This isn't from the display case? Is there a certificate?" Otherwise I won't say I like it, but I can understand this cold (everyone in chorus — from the press release, evidently — writes "light") interior with warehouse elements and kitchen elements, both along the longer wall and at the cooking station itself. Everyone probably likes the cafe.

The menu is excellent, with balance and the right dose of libido. Whether it's expensive or cheap I'll decide only after looking at the plates. Coffee from 300 ₽, a restaurant price at the very least; tea 450 ₽; beer from 700 ₽; lemonades 420 ₽. Still water (at 550 ₽) is simply out of stock — at least I had the wit to ask for the cooler kind.

From the breakfast menu: yes, I had to arrive ten minutes before one o'clock for the benedict on a muffin with salmon (950 ₽). Oh, we are closing in on record prices, on Moscow, on the Golden-Domed. Two round buns, soaked in something — I never worked out what — two poached eggs, herbs, excellent salmon. Interestingly, the muffin is almost inaudible in it. Is that the idea, or did it come out that interesting by accident? Tasty.

Straight away: with the first three dishes the kitchen performed splendidly — if it weren't for the offices around, I could have imagined myself in a bistro! After one o'clock it's the main menu, and on the table…

Salad with tuna confit, tomatoes and lentils (890 ₽). A mix built on kale, on which the lentils lie like black caviar. This is the case where the greens are wonderfully valuable in themselves; that is love. The salad as an illustration of my own understanding of the word "salad". The tuna could have been more noticeable, more vivid, but it would be a sin to introduce the slightest negative. Superb.

Panzanella, anchovies, cherries (850 ₽). Seemingly simpler than the previous one, and just as good! A counterweight to it and to almost everything else! It doesn't play with leaves at me, not at all; the sauce is thicker and more serious than the usual classic, and everything is knit together by it. Thicker, yet it still soaks into the dry bread. And does it properly. Everything about it is different, and like Asian cooking it attacks with every flavour at once. Not huge, but filling. A master, that's what.

Mafaldine with prawns, anchovies and lemon (890 ₽). A clever cook: a thick sauce, tenacious, bright, mad. A pity the cook's good idea ran into theft: not a gram of anchovy, not a hint of a milligram. And so I couldn't judge the harmony — salty, sweet prawn meat and sour lemon. Happiness all the same. Not happiness: the waiter, told about the complaint, didn't react in any way at all. In television series they at least say: "Sorry, bro, my condolences for your loss."

An insult to the guest, not a prank but mockery, however tiny — and I can't remember anything smaller, anywhere, ever: "Denver steak, beurre bordelais, lemon" (1,200 ₽). A little piece of some meat, around sixty grams, small, naturally cold on arrival, already sliced. Put it back together and it measures less than three fingers in length and in width; a butter sauce — that's it, get the proportion — and a lemon. A horror that blotted out every good impression. Firmly. Without hope. I… well, never mind me, but for a month since opening they have been bringing this to guests without embarrassment, without blushing. The staff know it, which is why, for the first time in six dishes, they don't ask for an opinion: who wants to listen to honest swearing? A double minus, since there is no chance of coming out in the black, the negative has piled up.

Meatballs, tomato sauce, polenta (890 ₽): dense, confident, large lumps of meat; a thick, almost homogeneous polenta as a breaded bar. Good. Simple, clear, but not quite homely. I probably wouldn't repeat it. At 405 ₽ I would.

Good pauses — but the tart with plum and vanilla ice cream (750 ₽) took twice the minutes I expected. Interesting pastry: soaked shortcrust, slightly flaky, light — I don't remember one like it. A little basket, in essence. Expensive, altogether laconic, but not bad. Not a celebration, not a disappointment. Tarts have become far cooler these days; this one is still cuckooing away in 2019.

I won't count the average breakfast bill; lunch starts at 2,800 ₽. Even with no drinks at all, given the portions, this lunch broke past 3,200 ₽ a head. If it weren't for two moments — the anchovy and the meat — there might have been a star, in spite of the prices and the setting. For now all of it is interesting rather than good. Topical, evidently. Our day as it is.