Monday, 21 July 2014

House Restaurant, Altrincham.

Walking into The House Restaurant is like walking into a circus where all the actors have been trained by the Marx Brothers and have been forced to work with butter on their fingers; for not a moment goes by when one does not hear the smashing of glass, the breaking of cups, the destruction of plates, the spilling of wine.  Or, at least, that's what it felt like as I munched my way, nay, ground my way through my fillet steak with pepper sauce and "garlic" chips.  Note, dear reader, the inverted commas around the word garlic; for the chips went as close to garlic as a catholic priest goes to legitimate sex; and they were stodgy!  Not to worry, as the drinks arrive the entertainment is ratcheted up to 100 as they are spilled all over my friend's lap who annouces that her knickers are wet.  The boss, at this point, thinks it a good idea to advise that my friend "nips over t' salon across the way and ask to use the hairdryers."  Of course! 
Another friend of mine orders gnocchi (so we must not have too much sympathy for her) but she gets penne instead.  "I ordered gnocchi," she explains; "We've run out of gnocchi; we haven't served it for weeks," responds the waitress as she accidentally throws a melon through the window.  All apart the melon incident - true.
It's time for dessert and we're looking at the board and we all think it would be nice to have this and that and then the waitress explains that the desserts board is inaccurate and that the desserts that are actually on offer are in the desserts cabinet.  "Ok," we respond.  And then the waitress smiles at us, inanely, like her brain has suddenly popped off to the fabulous beaches of Torremolinos and left her body to take the flak.  We wait but she keeps smiling.  Feeling sorry for her I ask if there is Eton Mess; there is so we all order that to reduce her burden.  The Eton Mess portions are huge; no wonder the chef took an hour to whip the cream.  But it's tasty and we all manage to finish but not without the mandatory feeling of disgust and shame that one usually feels after eating a dessert so big it could solve the world's food crises for a day at least.
Not to worry, we left with our bellies full and our bodies intact and we were well entertained.  I just wish it had all been a little less shambolic. 

Saturday, 22 October 2011

Think of Something Good

Right then Muckers!  It's been a while.  College work consumes most; university work consumes the rest; leaving this little blog, this poor miserable little fucker, to fester in the background.  And so much has happened.      Of most significance, a terrible meal at The Lead Station.  And I know their breakfast is to die for; so say all of you; but their venison pie is filled with diarrhoea from an old sheep's arse.  Who the fuck wants that?  Who wants something runny and stinky inside a pie?  And it's not venison anyway.  It's Liver, all leathery and flavourless like an old woman's tits.  Did I really put that?  Can I leave that in?  Yes!  Consider it from my point of view.  I've neglected this blog; I'm willing to write any old shit.  Now I've lost my train of thought.  So, the Pie; it's filled with shit.  What about the pastry?  A substance that should snap and crackle; a substance that should be golden and flavoursome like a young woman's... The Lead Station Pastry looks like a pancake; tastes like an undercooked omelette; and feels, in the mouth, all squidgy and spongy, like an old man's... Like an old man's what?  I bet you're all thinking cock.  And you'd be right.  Like an old man's cock.
So, you're sucking an old man's cock whilst a sheep shits diarrhoea all over your face.  That's a Lead Station pie; and that, ladies and gentlemen, is how to lose readers.
How to win you back?  How can I walk the streets without shame?  I feel a Dickensian swoon arising.  Think of something good...

Thursday, 25 August 2011

You'll Wish The Curry Mile Stretched All the Way to Brighton

It's been a while since I blogged about Manchester.  Too long!  My apologies, for I have been on my holidays and, thus, have neglected my duties as a promoter of Mancunian food.  Not to worry, for as soon as I finish this ditty about Brighton, I shall return to my home town, continuing my ventures in all things culinary.
Brighton is a god awful place for somebody who drives a car.  As everybody drives a car, one can jump quite easily to the conclusion that Brighton is a god awful place.  But stop!  That's a bit unfair.  Many good and wonderful people tell me Brighton is their favourite place in the world.  The world!  Better than Paris?  Better than Berlin?  Better than Chorlton?  Indeed.  With its beach, its cute alleyways, its endless supply of jewelry shops, its kooky vegetarian shoe shops, its sex shops (where one can buy the most graphic lampshades), its comedy clubs and night clubs, what more could you desire?  A good restaurant?  That would be my response; and fortunately, Brighton can deliver.

Thursday, 7 July 2011

An Overblown Reaction to Beech Road Festival

Give me kooky shops; give me litter; give me booze; give me men peeing up alleyways; give me men spitting up walls; give me women, giggling and fawning over home made wares and tares; give me crap music; give me a tent marketing the Manchester College; give me the tragic Beech Road festival; a festival hell bent on making money, in, of all places, Communist Chorlton.
It was a day when men fought over turf; it was a day when women wept over blood, spilt for the sake of an extra pint of beer; it was a day when the people of Chorlton, free from the shackles of their fucked up ideology, returned to the wild, hacking and crapping in the woods.  And they didn't even bother to use toilet paper.
To say I enjoyed the Beech Road Festival would be an overstatement of gargantuan proportions.  It would be comparable to a statement declaring Neil Ruddock the greatest footballer of all time.  I lasted ten minutes in its chilly atmosphere, watching fair folk go mad for cupcakes, shitty dresses, twee furniture, ice cream, more ice cream, and booze.  Ten minutes is all I could handle and I saw enough debauchery to make a nun weep for forty years.
Apparently there will be changes next year.  No longer can the council tolerate such foul behaviour.  I, for one, would be glad to see the back of it forever.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Bertie's Shed

When I told my Dad I'd be taking him to Albert's Shed for his Father's day treat, he responded with a long drawn out breath, followed by a loud guffaw, followed by something that sounded like a snort, followed by a sentence that roughly went as follows, "Who the fuck eats in a shed?"  Except, of course, there was no expletive.  That, dear readers, is my own, small embellishment.  Incidentally, never trust a writer who directly addresses his readers.
So Bertie's Shed is a lot more than a shed.  It's part of the Duke's 92 establishment and will, as chance happenstances, provide the food for my forthcoming wedding.  Impress it must, then, for I will not eat shit at such an important event; not in front of the world's press anyway.
Did it impress?  Did it manage to tickle my taste buds into a frightful frenzy?  Nope.

Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Could You Pass the Tea?

With great joy and with glee radiating through my heart and throughout my body, I recount my latest tale of adventure:  My visit to Mr Scruff's Teacup in Manchester's Northern Quarter.  I have been a fan of Mr Scruff for a long time.  As I write, I question whether that is true.  I have a couple of his records but they're nothing brilliant.  His club night has gone down hill too.  I'm getting older; his clientele are getting younger; many annoying people dancing to many annoying songs; the grumpy old man in me is revealed.

Monday, 13 June 2011

Akbars: The Ghee Monster Stampedes Through the Kitchen and Dumps its Load into Every Meal

Short follow up to Friday's post:

I was born into a world of ghee.  Ghee!  If somebody told the chefs at Akbars they were not allowed to use ghee, they'd probably kill themselves.  Jesus Christ!  There's a lot of ghee in an Akbars' meal; my balti was swimming in it; if a small child were to fall in, t'would never be seen again.  I placed my knife in, to ascertain some kind of depth, and it completely disappeared, consumed by the grease, destined to roam the murky underworld for eternity, seeking the princess who could set him free (where have I gone with this?)  The Naan bread was a victim too; covered, head to toe, in ghee; dripping in it. 
All this ghee makes a young boy sick.  I spent the night, head over toilet; I spent the next day degreasing toilet.  Nothing to do with the whiskey of course.  Oh no sir!  All to do with ghee; the vast quantities of ghee; the disgusting, repulsive ghee.