In theory Dublin should be one of the best places in the world to eat shellfish, since Dublin Bay prawns and oysters are shipped far and wide. Intrigued to see if the Irish kept any for themselves, I tracked down Ivan’s in Howth (pronounced as in “hoe” not “how”), an offshoot from legendary fish and chip emporium Beshoff’s that has been clogging Dubliners’ arteries since 1913.
“Armstrong and Miller in Gay Threesome Shocker” read the headline, admittedly only in my head, as the comedy pair walked past us with an unknown accomplice, perhaps a BBC commissioning editor?
“I didn’t know they were gay” Fred said. “They aren’t” I replied, “so far as I know anyway”, although judging by their choice of fruity shirts one cannot be 100% certain.
We had a decent table near the magnificent bay window atop the ageing Whiteley’s Shopping Centre. The stars were enveloped by the bay. The atmosphere is light and airy and the service prompt, efficient, courteous and professional. Our mop-topped waiter looked like an early 60’s Beatle, so I assumed he was French (as a nation they do like old music – I mean, walk around any public space in France and Phil Collins persists like a 1980’s itch that is weeping puss). When he described the cheese I realised his French accent was completely fake “erm….. I is Polish” he admitted. Nonetheless, serve he did, and he was knowledgeable about wine as well as food.
You may remember I visited Linen, in the lofty part of the posh casino for my last birthday. The other restaurant at Manchester 235 is Italian, on the ground floor next to the entrance and has the advantage of not having to be a member of the casino to enter and eat.
Numéro is an odd layout, with a bar in the middle and a simple opaque glass screen separating diners from the gaming tables. The service is efficient and pleasant and the food is decent. But if you do intend to go to the casino afterwards, I would recommend booking for Linen.
Linen, you see, is already the other side of painful casino security, and at meal finishing time on a Saturday there is a big queue. Secondly, the atmosphere is classier, the prices similar, there is live music, the wine list is better and perhaps most importantly, you are more likely to get your wine served at the right temperature in Linen.
As Frankie once said, I did it myyyyyyy waaaayyyyyy, but he made the mistake of singing the song in English, at least according to the owners of this Italian resto in Leeds.
It must be hard to compete against Bibi’s but Mio Modo does so with panache, at least as far as food is concerned. The wine list, however, is a different matter.
I’ve just returned from the opening night of the Opera North production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare’s play reconfigured as an opera by melody dodger, Benjamin Britten, whose proud boast seems to be never to have written an opera in a major key.
I normally love Opera North (full disclosure, I know one of the chorus quite well), but I am not a Britten fan. A Midsummer Night’s Dream reminded me of all the negative aspects of the earlier, and otherwise superior, Peter Grimes. Incessant horns and strings in deliberate discord, keeping the audience on its edge in the same way Hammer House of Horror films used organ fugues to build tension. Britten never seems to let go, though. It was like sitting on a train, delayed because of a fatality on the line. One feels sorry for the victim (or cast in this case) but I just wanted to get home as quickly as possible. Listening to a gauntlet scratching up and down a blackboard would have been more entertaining, and arguably, more musical.
The humour (what little existed) was 50 years old and could probably only have been written by a tortured homosexual of the repressed mid 20th century. There were clearly a few from that era in the audience, occasionally chortling and even applauding.  I watched with the same cringingly embarrassed feeling of watching a Carry On film from the Beatles epoch. Fortunately, to avoid total boredom, I was simply able to stare up at the awesome ceiling of Leeds Grand Theatre, the home of Opera North, and surely one of the best theatres in the world for architectural detail.
Just round the corner from the Grand Theatre is Lounge Bar and Grill, and that is where we chose to eat before the performance. With 25% off, the bill for two with a bottle of wine came to only £40 plus service. Even for Leeds that is cheap.
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?
In the restaurant world, turning a great local eaterie into a “concept” that can be rolled out across the world is a great danger. New branches often lack the authenticity, the passion of the owners, the attention to detail and the personal service. I have just discovered a text book example of failure at Sam’s Chop House in Leeds.
Sam’s Chop House in Manchester is one of my favourite places to eat in the whole world. After 130 years of success, of which, before you ask, I have only contributed to 20 or so, why the owners felt the time was right to dilute their brand is a complete mystery. Sams’ in Leeds is as far away an experience from the Manchester parent, as a wet weekend in Cleethorpes compares to a Caribbean cruise.
I’ve been sent to Coventry. Not in the metaphorical, but literal sense. On business to be precise. I have a 9:0am meeting in the morning with Barclays Bank and to travel down to get there reliably from Leeds would require me to rise and shine at 5:0am. No self-respecting wino does that.
The marvels of modern technology mean that my laptop simply connects via a 3G card to the internet, and using something called “VPN” (nothing to do with panty lines, no) I can work as if in the office, from anywhere in the world, although at 10% of the speed. All of this means that instead of finishing work at about 7pm, I am still at it at 9:30. Fortunately, La Cucina is still open on a Monday night and most of the remaining customers are Italian, which is encouraging.
After my review of Sam’s Chop House raised a bit of a storm about people’s privacy, I was reticent about reviewing the sibling, Mr Thomas’s. After waiting for about 243 minutes behind a twitcher’s tent, I finally found a moment when the coast was clear and grabbed a quick snap (below). If only the atmosphere inside was as interesting….
Stumble It!
