Jam Street cafe is in Whalley Range; some people, having no desire to be associated with said place, claim it's in Chorlton. "On no, I couldn't possibly go to a cafe in Whalley Range; imagine the muck on my shoulders and the stench t'would contaminate my body!" Yet, Chorlton, in full, is called Chorlton-Cum-Hardy. Cum? My Fiance has the same attitude. We don't live in Chorlton-Cum-hardy; we live in Chorlton Green; we live in a place of trees and ponds and grass and skipping children and kite flyers and quaint pubs and clock towers. Anyway, I do believe we were talking about Jam Street Cafe.
There's a problem with Jam Street: it's average. Who wants to read about an average place? Let's see how far you get through this short review before you fall asleep. There is a nice selection of booze; there's a small menu of well cooked food; the staff are pleasant; the music is on the decent side of mainstream; it's clean.
So, instead of that dull review, we'll change reality and pretend I'm some other person.
The Jam Street Cafe is Super Duper. I went with my friends, Mitsy, Disty, Pritsy and Dot and we all had a simply marvellous time. The food is scrummy. Not scrummy like ice cream but scrummy like apple cake. It makes you feel as though mummy has cooked it. Take a glance into the kitchen, for it is on display, and you'll fancy you can see her ghost, busily tossing pots and pans. Father will be in the background and he'll be tuning the radio by thumping it with his merry hands, and when he finally discovers the station of his choice he'll dance with mummy but she'll nudge him away. In short, it'll make you feel at home. We all had muffins except for Mitsy. She refuses to eat them as it "sounds rude!" Really, she is a funny devil, but nice. The muffins were made of chocolate and melted, like a glacier, as it is the wont of our times to say, in one's mouth. Inside there were little chocolate chips - erratics, to continue a theme. All was washed down with brandy; at lunch time! How naughty, but one can be naughty and relaxed in Jam Street for the service wraps you in the warmth of its welcome and drapes you in love. I must say, I took a fancy to Tim (or Andrew; I beg your pardon for forgetting your name) who would tell little anecdotes whilst he doted his muffins upon us. What a scrummy botty he had. Anyhow, you must try Jam Street. You'll simply love it.
The staff of Jam Street Cafe stink of shit and are caked in muck. I saw one, I think his name was Tim but it could've been Andrew, cleaning out his toenails into a pan of soup. He turned to me, having noticed my horrified gaze, and do you know what he said? "Croutons!" He laughed at this - heartily - as though he thought himself a prize comedienne. His smile revealed something else too: Gum disease - a disgusting mix of yellow and green puss dribbling over his teeth. Who wants a muffin served by a man whose breath stinks of the sewer; whose mouth looks like it's been up a cow? Who? You? No! And the food! Oh god; Jesus save us. Blue with mould; clotted with age; poisonous for certain! Eat here and the best you can hope for is a trip to A&E. Where is the Health and Safety Executive? Where are the police? Somebody call them! Now!!! It's not all hopeless though; the glorious, raw food vegan, One Earth Cafe is just down the road. Freedom!