Istanbul was Constantinople, now it’s Istanbul not Constantinople, but I am pleased to find it alive and well on Bridge Street. To be fair it doesn’t look all that great from the outside. Not very Byzantine. Let’s open the box and go inside.
The map looked interesting. Leaving central Manchester on the towpath of the Bridgewater Canal, we would simply walk to Sale, a brief stroll of about 5 or 6 miles. Surely there would be friendly pubs at every bridge? No. Surely it would be an interesting walk through historic architecture and Manchester’s trading history? No. Well, perhaps a decent stroll along a pretty canal path? Thrice no.
Fortunately the walk ended at a quality pub in Sale. The tramstop is right opposite the pub. Can you guess how we got back to town?
As dark and dingy restaurants go, Simple is amongst the darkest, although to be fair not dingiest I have visited. I admit my eyesight is deteriorating with age, and I struggle to read small text at a distance closer than you would view a computer screen, but we were sat beneath the aircon unit, unlit, and whilst other tables had an odd spotlight to illuminate, even the red candle on our table couldn’t reveal to me any of the menu contents.Â
When one reaches one’s forties, birthdays are quickly forgotten. They are not anticipated with the same excitement of youth, rather the disdain and fear of middle age. Nonetheless, they are still a cause for celebration and an opportunity to go and splash a few quid on some top nosh and wine. This year we went to Linen in the lofty (metaphorically and physically) surroundings of Manchester 235 Casino.
My camera was not welcome for obvious reasons. The discretion of the clients (and I will indiscreetly mention that most of the Man United team were in that evening) is clearly important. I am also sick of getting papped by photographers from the Daily Mail who have clearly mistaken me for a footballer or some TV star (yeah right…).
Amongst the dark satanic mills of Halifax, West Yorkshire, there are indeed some green and pleasant pastures, and nestling in the hills we found Shibden Mill Inn. We once stopped for a quick Sunday lunch on a walking expedition and vowed to go back. On 1 March, Fred had just picked up a brand new Mini Cooper, so a drive out to somewhere remote seemed appropriate.
If you want to dine in a beautifully preserved piece of British Victorian architecture. If you want to eat traditional English grub like fish ‘n’ chips, corned beef hash and steak and kidney pudding. If you want to be served by professional, traditionally dressed, polite and informed waiting staff. And if you want to do this with a cracking fine wine list to choose from, there is only one place to go. Sam’s Chop House in Manchester.
If the Wolseley is the best restaurant in London, then what about the provinces? Leeds, for example, has a proud tradition of brewing beer, staffing call centres, building the world’s first Dalek shaped skyscraper, and breeding people who say “eeh bah gum!”. So surely not a place for fine dining then?
Prezzo, the Italian restaurant chain whose only USP seems to be weird artwork has opened a branch in Thame, Oxfordshire.
I went to see Private Lives, the excellent Noël Coward play, at the equally excellent Library Theatre, St Peter’s Square, Manchester. So needing sustenance to prevent my guests having to suffer the slings and arrows of my outrageous belly rumbles, we pulled in to Gio’s on Lower Mosley St, opposite the Midland Hotel.
There is a brilliant pre-theatre menu at £8.95 for two courses. I picked the Insalata Caprese and the Penne Tagliatelli alla Francesca.
Here’s a tip. When you order a pasta dish, always mix and match the pasta with the sauce.
Just down the road from the entrance to the Ritz on Arlington St, just off Piccadilly, you will find Le Caprice, a favourite haunt of the stars for several decades. This part of London is over-endowed with decent restaurants. To quaint northerners like me this seems unfair.
The Wolseley is just round the corner, as is Langan’s Brasserie, Claridge’s, Scott’s of Mayfair, and Fortnum & Mason. Meanwhile in the nearby West End, The Ivy, sister to Le Caprice, is undoubtedly one of the best restos in London despite the nouvellement célèbrés and the nouveaux riche who visit only to be seen rather than to enjoy food and wine. So was Le Caprice, part of the group that owns The Ivy, as good as its sibling?
Stumble It!