Castle Quay,
Castlefield,
Manchester
What was ever wrong with 192 Directory Enquiries? It was a simple, straightforward and effective service that you were happy to be ripped-off for using, since you could never be arsed rooting out the Yellow Pages.
Once the phone bill arrived you would, of course, vow never to dial 192 again, only to find yourself ringing that very evening in search of the nearest all-night massage parlour...or is that just me?
Well now there are around 118 different companies each with their own numbers, charging vastly different rates – ranging from the ridiculous to the "f**k me!" – and taking anywhere between 30 seconds and half an hour to find the number to keep Paris in Fame Academy. Just me again?
More choice isn’t always a good thing.
And that’s certainly true of Choice Bar and Restaurant, one of the latest additions to the Manchester food and drink scene. Housed under Key 103’s base in the plush Castle Quay building, Choice is indeed aesthetically pleasing, boasting a stylish interior of exposed brick, warmed up by smart beige suede chairs and thick navy blue carpets. With the space divided in two, bar and restaurant, this could be the perfect all-evening venue.
But never judge a restaurant by its shag pile…it’s the food that counts.
At his recent Manchester Arena gig, Peter Kay asked why triangular sandwiches always taste so much better than rectangular ones? Funny. But not when you’re dining in a place that’s apparently adopted the joke as its philosophy.
Food here is described as traditional favourites with a twist – which in reality translates as Black Pudding with a bit o’ lemongrass. And whether it’s triangular, rectangular or mysteriously resembles the Holy Countenance, it’s still the congealed blood of a pig.
Things didn’t start well. Having turned up an hour later than we would have liked so we could have a table overlooking the river, the Ukrainian and I were most annoyed to be escorted to a table against the back wall of the room and facing a fire exit. Apparently my request was not noted at the time of booking, though in reality it may have been due to the unexpected arrival of Dev from Corrie.
Don’t they know who I am?
We knew we’d really made the wrong choice when the menus arrived. The options were about as appealing as the Atkins Diet to a vegetarian. The Ukrainian’s choice of Watercress soup (£4.95) did not appeal, so after much perusing I opted for the Scallops with Cheshire Cheese Scones (£4.50). And it gets no more tempting than that.
Among the delights on offer for main course were Beef Fillet with oxtail and potato pie (£16.95), Duck with blackberry sauce (£12.95) – which was not a patch on Le Petit Blanc’s – and Monkfish with Dill batter and scallop potatoes (£14.95), which I chose.
I asked for chips to accompany my fish, which, judging by our waiter's reaction, was on a par with ordering a kosher meal on an Air Palestine flight. Appropriate, really since this was my worst dining experience below 30,000 feet. The Ukrainian felt the same, and she’s Ukrainian.
Wine-wise the selection is much more impressive and is deserving of its recent award. We decided to pass on dessert and headed home, arriving just in time to catch Edina and Patsy trying to choose a design for their Absolutely Fabulous kitchen.
"I don’t want more choice," Eddie ranted. "I just want nicer things."
Here, here.
Monday, 12 April 2004
Hard Rock Café
2 The Printworks
Manchester
Arranging lunch with Becky is not easy.
"What do you fancy?" I asked, "Indian…Italian…Chinese?"
"Dunno, but none of that lot. I don’t do foreign."
Actually, the limitations of this remark have yet to be fully investigated. Embarrassing (and now destroyed) holiday snaps reveal she was more than willing to sample a little 'Turkish delight' last summer.
"What do you mean you don’t do foreign?" I was curious. "Where do you go when you eat out? What’s your favourite?"
"McDonald’s or KFC normally. But Hard Rock Café’s well nice."
The first thing you’ll see upon arrival at the world’s newest Hard Rock Café is 80 feet of electric guitar towering high above the entrance, bringing a little of the rock ‘n’ roll experience onto the streets of Manchester. And it certainly sets the scene.
Inside, the walls are covered with a myriad of music memorabilia. Highlights include a signed Bee Gees electric guitar, another from Eric Clapton and an autographed snap of Oasis. There’s also a postcard from John Lennon, dated January 1970 and signed on the reverse "love – John Yoko." The waitress in the hideous uniform assures me that the company is still collecting.
Hard Rock Café’s philosophy – because you’ve got to have one – is simply "love all, serve all" which kinda says it all and nothing – not unusual for Americans! But we weren’t here for the philosophy; we were here because Becky needs to be able to spell what she’s eating. She passed on the Hickory Bar-B-Que Chicken (£9.95), which I chose, and opted for the Turkey Burger (£7.95).
In some restaurants (see the Living Room) if the menu simply says ‘Steak Sandwich £6.95’ you are surprised to be presented with fine fillet steak sandwiched between two pieces of warm, fresh ciabatta accompanied by a salad garnish, chunky chips and a selection of hot and cold dips. At Hard Rock, if it says ‘Turkey Burger with chips’ that’s exactly what you get. And it ain’t cheap. Our quick bite to eat with just two halves of Budweiser came to £26.40
That’s not to say the food is not good. I found the hickory chicken tasty and moist, though Becky’s burger did look dry. Not that she noticed. She was far too busy mentally undressing the latino guy on the next table.
"Hey, stop gawping," I said. "I thought you didn’t do foreign."
"Well, actually I think now's the perfect time to brush up on a little Italian!"
All in all Hard Rock Café offers a unique dining experience, surrounded by remnants of rock legends from the past and the present.
And, as someone (almost) once said: if music be the food of love, rock on.
Manchester
Arranging lunch with Becky is not easy.
"What do you fancy?" I asked, "Indian…Italian…Chinese?"
"Dunno, but none of that lot. I don’t do foreign."
Actually, the limitations of this remark have yet to be fully investigated. Embarrassing (and now destroyed) holiday snaps reveal she was more than willing to sample a little 'Turkish delight' last summer.
"What do you mean you don’t do foreign?" I was curious. "Where do you go when you eat out? What’s your favourite?"
"McDonald’s or KFC normally. But Hard Rock Café’s well nice."
The first thing you’ll see upon arrival at the world’s newest Hard Rock Café is 80 feet of electric guitar towering high above the entrance, bringing a little of the rock ‘n’ roll experience onto the streets of Manchester. And it certainly sets the scene.
Inside, the walls are covered with a myriad of music memorabilia. Highlights include a signed Bee Gees electric guitar, another from Eric Clapton and an autographed snap of Oasis. There’s also a postcard from John Lennon, dated January 1970 and signed on the reverse "love – John Yoko." The waitress in the hideous uniform assures me that the company is still collecting.
Hard Rock Café’s philosophy – because you’ve got to have one – is simply "love all, serve all" which kinda says it all and nothing – not unusual for Americans! But we weren’t here for the philosophy; we were here because Becky needs to be able to spell what she’s eating. She passed on the Hickory Bar-B-Que Chicken (£9.95), which I chose, and opted for the Turkey Burger (£7.95).
In some restaurants (see the Living Room) if the menu simply says ‘Steak Sandwich £6.95’ you are surprised to be presented with fine fillet steak sandwiched between two pieces of warm, fresh ciabatta accompanied by a salad garnish, chunky chips and a selection of hot and cold dips. At Hard Rock, if it says ‘Turkey Burger with chips’ that’s exactly what you get. And it ain’t cheap. Our quick bite to eat with just two halves of Budweiser came to £26.40
That’s not to say the food is not good. I found the hickory chicken tasty and moist, though Becky’s burger did look dry. Not that she noticed. She was far too busy mentally undressing the latino guy on the next table.
"Hey, stop gawping," I said. "I thought you didn’t do foreign."
"Well, actually I think now's the perfect time to brush up on a little Italian!"
All in all Hard Rock Café offers a unique dining experience, surrounded by remnants of rock legends from the past and the present.
And, as someone (almost) once said: if music be the food of love, rock on.
Saturday, 10 April 2004
La Tasca
74 Deansgate
Manchester M3
It seems farmers aren’t the only people to fair well from the recent switch to GMT. As they reap the benefits of the lighter mornings, there’s a cultural minority making the most of the longer, darker nights.
It isn’t every day you end up chatting to a prostitute. One minute I was stood quietly waiting for little brother to arrive, the next I was been given a detailed breakdown of how the earnings of the average "lady of the night" can more than double once the clocks have gone back.
But this lady was not just a prostitute. She was a very chatty prostitute. In fact she wouldn’t shut up and insisted on telling me her entire life story in under a minute. By the time Chris arrived, I knew all about her childhood in Spain, about her three-year-old daughter and their planned trip to Disneyland (do prostitutes get holiday pay?) and which judge I ought to drop her name to should I ever find myself in a spot of bother.
Much more interestingly, though, Miss Whiplash turned out to be a walking food and drink guide and knew all the best eateries from Princess Street to Paris. And she clearly had money to spend. Chris and I passed on her suggestion of the French Restaurant at the Midland Hotel – "Go. And have the guinea fowl –£40 each for the main course of your life" - and instead took her advice on her native cuisine: "You can’t beat a night in La Tasca."
Now my knowledge of Spain–in terms of both the food and the language – is somewhat limited. This was made apparent in Barcelona over the summer when my request for a large slice of cake - “uno gateau grande” – was met by much laughter from the waiter. Gateau or, as it should be spelled, ‘gato,’ seemingly translates as ‘cat’ rather than ‘cake’. And as this wasn’t a Japanese establishment, our feline friends were not on the menu.
But at La Tasca, everyone is easily understood. That doesn’t mean it isn’t authentic, because it is: the décor is wonderfully over-the-top, boasting incredibly ornate mirrors, mediaeval candelabras and a myriad of framed pictures and paintings. Together with the Latin music (no Ricky Martin, thank God) and the superb hospitality, La Tasca has brought the best of Spain to the heart of Manchester. Yet the food does not play second fiddle. Not by any means.
La Tasca offers an entirely unique way of eating. The extensive tapas menu allows diners to choose as little or as much as they like. But be careful – it’s easy to get carried away. Chris and I chose four dishes each, ranging from Croquetas de Pollo - croquettes of chicken served with garlic mayonnaise (£2.95) - to Cordero en Salsa - casserole of lamb with wine, potatoes, mustard & peppercorns (£3.65). No Tapas is complete without Patatas Bravas (£2.25) and the Champinones al Ajillo – mushrooms sautéed in garlic and olive oil (£2.95) - are a must. The tangy tomato and garlic bread is perfect for ‘mopping up’ the beautiful sauces, but we were too stuffed to finish it.
For the truly authentic Spanish night out, try the house Sangria. Or go for one of the carefully selected Iberian wines from the extensive list. We had both, starting first with a pitcher of the Sangria and then enjoying a bottle of the Siglo Rioja (£12.95), which is transformed into a candle-holder when empty.
All in all, La Tasca provided us with an outstanding meal in excellent surroundings, enhanced by a friendly, helpful and knowledgeable waiting team.
As a student, I’m in no position to make comparisons to The Midland French, but at least I could keep the shirt on my back.
Manchester M3
It seems farmers aren’t the only people to fair well from the recent switch to GMT. As they reap the benefits of the lighter mornings, there’s a cultural minority making the most of the longer, darker nights.
It isn’t every day you end up chatting to a prostitute. One minute I was stood quietly waiting for little brother to arrive, the next I was been given a detailed breakdown of how the earnings of the average "lady of the night" can more than double once the clocks have gone back.
But this lady was not just a prostitute. She was a very chatty prostitute. In fact she wouldn’t shut up and insisted on telling me her entire life story in under a minute. By the time Chris arrived, I knew all about her childhood in Spain, about her three-year-old daughter and their planned trip to Disneyland (do prostitutes get holiday pay?) and which judge I ought to drop her name to should I ever find myself in a spot of bother.
Much more interestingly, though, Miss Whiplash turned out to be a walking food and drink guide and knew all the best eateries from Princess Street to Paris. And she clearly had money to spend. Chris and I passed on her suggestion of the French Restaurant at the Midland Hotel – "Go. And have the guinea fowl –£40 each for the main course of your life" - and instead took her advice on her native cuisine: "You can’t beat a night in La Tasca."
Now my knowledge of Spain–in terms of both the food and the language – is somewhat limited. This was made apparent in Barcelona over the summer when my request for a large slice of cake - “uno gateau grande” – was met by much laughter from the waiter. Gateau or, as it should be spelled, ‘gato,’ seemingly translates as ‘cat’ rather than ‘cake’. And as this wasn’t a Japanese establishment, our feline friends were not on the menu.
But at La Tasca, everyone is easily understood. That doesn’t mean it isn’t authentic, because it is: the décor is wonderfully over-the-top, boasting incredibly ornate mirrors, mediaeval candelabras and a myriad of framed pictures and paintings. Together with the Latin music (no Ricky Martin, thank God) and the superb hospitality, La Tasca has brought the best of Spain to the heart of Manchester. Yet the food does not play second fiddle. Not by any means.
La Tasca offers an entirely unique way of eating. The extensive tapas menu allows diners to choose as little or as much as they like. But be careful – it’s easy to get carried away. Chris and I chose four dishes each, ranging from Croquetas de Pollo - croquettes of chicken served with garlic mayonnaise (£2.95) - to Cordero en Salsa - casserole of lamb with wine, potatoes, mustard & peppercorns (£3.65). No Tapas is complete without Patatas Bravas (£2.25) and the Champinones al Ajillo – mushrooms sautéed in garlic and olive oil (£2.95) - are a must. The tangy tomato and garlic bread is perfect for ‘mopping up’ the beautiful sauces, but we were too stuffed to finish it.
For the truly authentic Spanish night out, try the house Sangria. Or go for one of the carefully selected Iberian wines from the extensive list. We had both, starting first with a pitcher of the Sangria and then enjoying a bottle of the Siglo Rioja (£12.95), which is transformed into a candle-holder when empty.
All in all, La Tasca provided us with an outstanding meal in excellent surroundings, enhanced by a friendly, helpful and knowledgeable waiting team.
As a student, I’m in no position to make comparisons to The Midland French, but at least I could keep the shirt on my back.
The Royal Naz
Wilmslow Road
Manchester
So it’s official: we’re a nation of alcoholics. The latest survey reveals that we 18-35 year olds are downing the recommended weekly limit before Tuesday - and we haven’t even noticed. Too pissed, no doubt. This is, of course, great news for curry houses up and down Wilmslow Road, since Baltis and booze go together like Posh (Spice) and (a bottle of) Becks.
But the Royal Naz, one of the "curry mile's" most prominent eateries, is by no means a Balti and booze kind of place. As manager Fazal Parveen will tell you, – whether you ask him or you don’t – the Naz is the best on the strip; though, in all fairness, he does have the awards to back up his claim - or rather his wife Azra does having been declared Manchester Curry Chef of the Year for five years running. (See their double-decker ads on the No. 42 bus.)
It isn’t just the food that the Naz does well, though. The team has managed to achieve the perfect combination of friendly and efficient waiters, a relaxed, homely atmosphere and a bloody good curry. And the welcome is wonderfully over-the-top: en route to the table, the waiters politely stand to the side, waiting to shake your hand and wish you an enjoyable evening. We felt like celebrities. Indeed, our group of loan-holding students with a taste for Indian lager certainly took priority over the funny-looking ginger bloke on the next table. Poor Mick Hucknall.
Of course, if there’s anything to match the attentive - though never intrusive - service, it’s the food; and in terms of choice, the world is your Aloo Gobi. However, should you be unable to find anything to your liking from the 40 freshly prepared dishes on offer as standard, then talk to waiter Rashid. Simply tell him what you like and how hot you like it and you’ll be amazed at what post-Poppadum delights he delivers.
And while Rashid serves the food, Fazal serves up some entertaining insights into his culture.
"I Haven’t seen you for a while," he said to me en route to our table. "Mind you, I have been away …spending some time back home, seeing the family and all that…it’s such a poor part of the world …so much poverty…"
Ben’s social conscience was about to kick in with a rant about how the USA’s daily defence budget could feed the third world for a year when Fazal revealed that home wasn’t as close to Bombay as we’d realised. "But that's Birmingham for you!"
Back on the curry mile and after eight poppadums, a couple of Tandoori Chickens, two Samosas, four customised curries – each with Pilau rice – and a Paratha bread, we were stuffed; not in an uncomfortable, bloated way, but enough to want to relax with a refreshing Murree Beer and soak up the atmosphere.
That was another attractive feature of the Royal Naz: having spent over two hours dining, we never once felt pressurised to vacate the table, despite the growing queue at the door. In fact, Rashid seemed genuinely upset that we didn’t want dessert or coffee. To please him, we each ordered a Murree Beer…or three. Well we can’t let our age group down now, can we?
Though ironically it was the curry - and not the drink - that almost killed us. Dashing across Wilmslow Road, we failed to notice one of the Royal Naz’s sponsored buses speeding towards us, which – emblazoned with a giant picture of Fazal, his Award Winning wife and a Chicken Karahi – can normally be spotted a mile away.
We were seconds from ending up in a Korma.
Manchester
So it’s official: we’re a nation of alcoholics. The latest survey reveals that we 18-35 year olds are downing the recommended weekly limit before Tuesday - and we haven’t even noticed. Too pissed, no doubt. This is, of course, great news for curry houses up and down Wilmslow Road, since Baltis and booze go together like Posh (Spice) and (a bottle of) Becks.
But the Royal Naz, one of the "curry mile's" most prominent eateries, is by no means a Balti and booze kind of place. As manager Fazal Parveen will tell you, – whether you ask him or you don’t – the Naz is the best on the strip; though, in all fairness, he does have the awards to back up his claim - or rather his wife Azra does having been declared Manchester Curry Chef of the Year for five years running. (See their double-decker ads on the No. 42 bus.)
It isn’t just the food that the Naz does well, though. The team has managed to achieve the perfect combination of friendly and efficient waiters, a relaxed, homely atmosphere and a bloody good curry. And the welcome is wonderfully over-the-top: en route to the table, the waiters politely stand to the side, waiting to shake your hand and wish you an enjoyable evening. We felt like celebrities. Indeed, our group of loan-holding students with a taste for Indian lager certainly took priority over the funny-looking ginger bloke on the next table. Poor Mick Hucknall.
Of course, if there’s anything to match the attentive - though never intrusive - service, it’s the food; and in terms of choice, the world is your Aloo Gobi. However, should you be unable to find anything to your liking from the 40 freshly prepared dishes on offer as standard, then talk to waiter Rashid. Simply tell him what you like and how hot you like it and you’ll be amazed at what post-Poppadum delights he delivers.
And while Rashid serves the food, Fazal serves up some entertaining insights into his culture.
"I Haven’t seen you for a while," he said to me en route to our table. "Mind you, I have been away …spending some time back home, seeing the family and all that…it’s such a poor part of the world …so much poverty…"
Ben’s social conscience was about to kick in with a rant about how the USA’s daily defence budget could feed the third world for a year when Fazal revealed that home wasn’t as close to Bombay as we’d realised. "But that's Birmingham for you!"
Back on the curry mile and after eight poppadums, a couple of Tandoori Chickens, two Samosas, four customised curries – each with Pilau rice – and a Paratha bread, we were stuffed; not in an uncomfortable, bloated way, but enough to want to relax with a refreshing Murree Beer and soak up the atmosphere.
That was another attractive feature of the Royal Naz: having spent over two hours dining, we never once felt pressurised to vacate the table, despite the growing queue at the door. In fact, Rashid seemed genuinely upset that we didn’t want dessert or coffee. To please him, we each ordered a Murree Beer…or three. Well we can’t let our age group down now, can we?
Though ironically it was the curry - and not the drink - that almost killed us. Dashing across Wilmslow Road, we failed to notice one of the Royal Naz’s sponsored buses speeding towards us, which – emblazoned with a giant picture of Fazal, his Award Winning wife and a Chicken Karahi – can normally be spotted a mile away.
We were seconds from ending up in a Korma.
The Dining Room
@ The Living Room
80 Deansgate
Manchester M3
Fellow students, you know the drill: open all windows as far as possible and begin spraying vast quantities of deodorant and expensive Eau de Toilette - not even the slightest whiff of wacky or not-so-wacky 'backy' must be smelt; race around the room with the crappy hoover that spews out more than it sucks up and bin that bra that's been hanging over your computer screen since Freshers' Week - whose was that anyway? Mum and Dad are on the way!
Yet this is the least you can do. After all, there's much to be gained from their visit, not least a trip to Sainsbury's for some real food - courtesy of their credit card, of course. And there's even the chance you'll be treated to a meal in town.
We dined at The Dining Room - the Ronseal of Restaurants i.e. it does exactly what it says on the tin. Located upstairs at Deansgate's ultra-smart The Living Room, it is the perfect venue for that special family meal. The award-winning décor is modern and minimal, but still warm and cosy, and neither the food nor the service can be faulted. The Piano music (think Ally McBeal) piped in from downstairs is the perfect complement to any meal.
However, as any good economics student will tell you, there's no such thing as a free lunch - not even with your parents. Good food comes at price. Despite my insistence that we all choose something different from the extensive menu (for review purposes, of course,) the parents both opted for the same: Grilled Goats Cheese with an onion marmalade and pesto tart (£4.75) followed by Sea bass fillets, roasted onions and peppers and beurre blanc (£13.95). I chose the smoked haddock and parsley fishcakes (£4.75) and the Monkfish Loin Brochette with wok-fried noodles, coconut and coriander jus (£11.95). This isn't a seafood restaurant of any kind, and it certainly wasn't Good Friday when we visited; we just felt like having fish (despite deciding against Livebait because no-one wanted fish earlier. Families, who'd have 'em?)
But the food could not have been better. The starters were beautiful both in terms of presentation and taste. The seafood dishes were "pukka," (to steal a phrase) and the portions very substantial, though we still managed dessert. Mum's just returned from France but was pleasantly surprised by the Crème Caramel (£3.95)- "mmm not bad at all." - that's about the best you'll get out of my mum. Dad opted for the Belgian Waffles with maple syrup and vanilla ice cream (£3.50) - "superb" - which I should have had instead of the chocolate fudge cake (£3.95), which was heavy and bit dry.
We drank too many bottles of wine from the varied wine list, which incidentally changes monthly and offers grapes to suit all palates and wallets. We managed to get through a bottle each of the French Alain Geoffroy Chablis which, at £23.95 a bottle, had quite an impact on the bottom line. (It doesn't help when the bill separates the food and wine totals.) The £146.20 bill forced my Dad's eyes out of their sockets and my mum into her handbag.
As the non-paying student, though, I was able to appreciate Oscar Wilde's observation: people today know the price of everything, and the value of nothing. And for what we ate (and drank), and where we ate and drank it - Posh and Becks dined there just the week before after all- this was excellent value.
I've since been invited back by fellow students for a celebratory meal. This time, I've had to decline: "Not this side of the student loan."
80 Deansgate
Manchester M3
Fellow students, you know the drill: open all windows as far as possible and begin spraying vast quantities of deodorant and expensive Eau de Toilette - not even the slightest whiff of wacky or not-so-wacky 'backy' must be smelt; race around the room with the crappy hoover that spews out more than it sucks up and bin that bra that's been hanging over your computer screen since Freshers' Week - whose was that anyway? Mum and Dad are on the way!
Yet this is the least you can do. After all, there's much to be gained from their visit, not least a trip to Sainsbury's for some real food - courtesy of their credit card, of course. And there's even the chance you'll be treated to a meal in town.
We dined at The Dining Room - the Ronseal of Restaurants i.e. it does exactly what it says on the tin. Located upstairs at Deansgate's ultra-smart The Living Room, it is the perfect venue for that special family meal. The award-winning décor is modern and minimal, but still warm and cosy, and neither the food nor the service can be faulted. The Piano music (think Ally McBeal) piped in from downstairs is the perfect complement to any meal.
However, as any good economics student will tell you, there's no such thing as a free lunch - not even with your parents. Good food comes at price. Despite my insistence that we all choose something different from the extensive menu (for review purposes, of course,) the parents both opted for the same: Grilled Goats Cheese with an onion marmalade and pesto tart (£4.75) followed by Sea bass fillets, roasted onions and peppers and beurre blanc (£13.95). I chose the smoked haddock and parsley fishcakes (£4.75) and the Monkfish Loin Brochette with wok-fried noodles, coconut and coriander jus (£11.95). This isn't a seafood restaurant of any kind, and it certainly wasn't Good Friday when we visited; we just felt like having fish (despite deciding against Livebait because no-one wanted fish earlier. Families, who'd have 'em?)
But the food could not have been better. The starters were beautiful both in terms of presentation and taste. The seafood dishes were "pukka," (to steal a phrase) and the portions very substantial, though we still managed dessert. Mum's just returned from France but was pleasantly surprised by the Crème Caramel (£3.95)- "mmm not bad at all." - that's about the best you'll get out of my mum. Dad opted for the Belgian Waffles with maple syrup and vanilla ice cream (£3.50) - "superb" - which I should have had instead of the chocolate fudge cake (£3.95), which was heavy and bit dry.
We drank too many bottles of wine from the varied wine list, which incidentally changes monthly and offers grapes to suit all palates and wallets. We managed to get through a bottle each of the French Alain Geoffroy Chablis which, at £23.95 a bottle, had quite an impact on the bottom line. (It doesn't help when the bill separates the food and wine totals.) The £146.20 bill forced my Dad's eyes out of their sockets and my mum into her handbag.
As the non-paying student, though, I was able to appreciate Oscar Wilde's observation: people today know the price of everything, and the value of nothing. And for what we ate (and drank), and where we ate and drank it - Posh and Becks dined there just the week before after all- this was excellent value.
I've since been invited back by fellow students for a celebratory meal. This time, I've had to decline: "Not this side of the student loan."
Wagamama
1, The Printworks
Manchester M1
I hate complaining. Correction: my friends hate me complaining. For me, there’s a certain pleasure to be found in offering some 'constructive criticism' – sad, I know, though the potential for compensatory ‘freebies’ is endless! But Matthew and Sofia just could not appreciate that a restaurant needs to know when the food and/or the service isn’t up to much; and they certainly didn’t want to be around when I shared my views with the waiter. Before the words "was everything OK for you?" were uttered, Matt had dived under the table in search of a napkin which inevitably was never found, and Sofia had raced to the bathroom so fast, she managed to qualify for the 2012 Olympics!
But Wagamama is not a nice place and its company ethos ought to be donated to another company, because it clearly doesn’t apply here. To serve "great food in an elegant, yet simple environment," we are told, is The Way of Wagamama.
We, it seemed, must have taken a wrong turning.
Now, I consider myself to be a friendly individual. I like people. I like socialising. Just this morning, I was happy to converse with an unkempt manic-depressive who was in the same doctor’s surgery, and with each sentence breathed the contents of a small off-licence into my face. I am, generally, very accommodating.
But I do like some time to myself. We all do. The three of us had all had a very stressful week –well, it’s difficult fitting lectures around nights out (!) – so we just wanted a relaxing meal.
Wagamama failed us. Dining is communal and so might have appealed to the aforementioned manic-depressive, but it did not appeal to us. Tables are 12-feet long and are arranged in an ‘army-camp-meets-school-canteen’-style. Thus, our quiet meal, just the three of us, became an uncomfortably cramped experience when we were invited to a table in the middle of two separate parties of six. (The four empty spaces at the end of the next, quieter table were, insisted the waiter, reserved.) Drinks-wise we were immediately disappointed to learn that the French white we’d chosen was not, as the menu stated, "ripe and easy to drink," but rather out of stock and so, by definition, impossible to drink. The food had better be good.
Matthew had the Zasai Gohan (£6.95) – stir-fried chicken and shitake mushrooms in an oyster and garlic sauce, served with Japanese style rice, which sounds far better than it looked. Sofia and I both opted for a Chicken Ramen (£5.95). Ramen dishes promise to offer a nutritionally complete meal in a bowl. And if that doesn’t tempt you, then steer clear! It was exactly what you’d expect from a nutritional dish – bloody awful! Think Carol Vorderman’s Detox plan, but less tempting.
On a more positive note, the waiting staff were very attentive and we could not have asked for more from them. They were genuinely concerned that we had not enjoyed our meal and I became somewhat excited when the manager was summoned to see if something could be 'arranged'. Needless to say, we were unimpressed by his invitation to come back and enjoy 10% off the total food bill. Students get 20% off anyway.
Much cringing took place, both from Matt and Sofia, and more so from the other 12 people sitting next to me while I insisted on a more suitable compensation for our poor meal.
In the end, we paid nothing. We were ripped off.
Manchester M1
I hate complaining. Correction: my friends hate me complaining. For me, there’s a certain pleasure to be found in offering some 'constructive criticism' – sad, I know, though the potential for compensatory ‘freebies’ is endless! But Matthew and Sofia just could not appreciate that a restaurant needs to know when the food and/or the service isn’t up to much; and they certainly didn’t want to be around when I shared my views with the waiter. Before the words "was everything OK for you?" were uttered, Matt had dived under the table in search of a napkin which inevitably was never found, and Sofia had raced to the bathroom so fast, she managed to qualify for the 2012 Olympics!
But Wagamama is not a nice place and its company ethos ought to be donated to another company, because it clearly doesn’t apply here. To serve "great food in an elegant, yet simple environment," we are told, is The Way of Wagamama.
We, it seemed, must have taken a wrong turning.
Now, I consider myself to be a friendly individual. I like people. I like socialising. Just this morning, I was happy to converse with an unkempt manic-depressive who was in the same doctor’s surgery, and with each sentence breathed the contents of a small off-licence into my face. I am, generally, very accommodating.
But I do like some time to myself. We all do. The three of us had all had a very stressful week –well, it’s difficult fitting lectures around nights out (!) – so we just wanted a relaxing meal.
Wagamama failed us. Dining is communal and so might have appealed to the aforementioned manic-depressive, but it did not appeal to us. Tables are 12-feet long and are arranged in an ‘army-camp-meets-school-canteen’-style. Thus, our quiet meal, just the three of us, became an uncomfortably cramped experience when we were invited to a table in the middle of two separate parties of six. (The four empty spaces at the end of the next, quieter table were, insisted the waiter, reserved.) Drinks-wise we were immediately disappointed to learn that the French white we’d chosen was not, as the menu stated, "ripe and easy to drink," but rather out of stock and so, by definition, impossible to drink. The food had better be good.
Matthew had the Zasai Gohan (£6.95) – stir-fried chicken and shitake mushrooms in an oyster and garlic sauce, served with Japanese style rice, which sounds far better than it looked. Sofia and I both opted for a Chicken Ramen (£5.95). Ramen dishes promise to offer a nutritionally complete meal in a bowl. And if that doesn’t tempt you, then steer clear! It was exactly what you’d expect from a nutritional dish – bloody awful! Think Carol Vorderman’s Detox plan, but less tempting.
On a more positive note, the waiting staff were very attentive and we could not have asked for more from them. They were genuinely concerned that we had not enjoyed our meal and I became somewhat excited when the manager was summoned to see if something could be 'arranged'. Needless to say, we were unimpressed by his invitation to come back and enjoy 10% off the total food bill. Students get 20% off anyway.
Much cringing took place, both from Matt and Sofia, and more so from the other 12 people sitting next to me while I insisted on a more suitable compensation for our poor meal.
In the end, we paid nothing. We were ripped off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
