Confessions of a Wino

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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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….

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It used to snow more often in the north of England.  One childhood memory of Cheadle Hulme in the 1970s, had us creating a roadblock from several snowballs as big as a medium sized Yeti monster, only to get caught by one of the parents.  It took so much more effort to deconstruct the abominable frozen white barrier without the adrenalin filled laughter that drove and inspired us through the construction phase.

On Easter Sunday 2008, we looked out of the window at 7am – whiteout – awesome….let’s off to the hills for a walk!  I have one life rule on walking – I’ll do anything as long as there is a pub at the end.  And so we found ourselves at Barley, Lancashire, and the Pendle Inn.

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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. 

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In honour of “Frank” Shinawatra, glorious and noble owner of Man City Football Club, I like to dine Thai occasionally….  Chaophraya in Leeds and Manchester are amongst my favourite Thai restos, but I am always game to try something new.  In a random internet search, I found one in Wakefield which was poorly located in a ropey town square, in a one horse town, with no car park for miles around, and drab architecture all around.  The omens weren’t good.

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London restaurants generally have to work harder than in the provinces of the UK.  Standards are higher because competition is fiercer, diners are more sophisticated, more choosy, and every other idiot customer is a critic for the Sunday Times, or some amateur blog.

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