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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But it's Really Cheap and the Food is Alright

Time and again I go to Akbar's and walk away pissed off.  Thus, it is with some trepidation that I return this evening, unable to convince my other half (I refrain, on this occasion, from calling her my better half) it would be better to go someplace else where they don't treat you like cattle at feeding hour.
"But it's really cheap and the food is alright," she insists.
"But they treat you like shit!"
"But it's really cheap and the food is alright," she repeats.
"But they only care about your money; quick in; quick out; food dumped on table!"
"But it's really cheap and the food is alright."
Heads banging against brick walls.
The trouble is, as I write this, I know I will have to go.  I know I will have to hold one of those ridiculous beeper things in my pocket before it finally vibrates and I walk, like an idiot, up the ramp to my table.  And then I suffer, like a pleb, the discourteous waiters.  And then I agree, like a dick wad (80s revival moment), to purchase naan bread that could feed 5,000.
And it's so loud; and it's so dark; and it's full of people having birthday parties; and every one of them thinks it necessary to sing that dreadful Hill sister's song.
And all the time, whilst I experience these thoughts of hatred, I hear the sensible voice of my better half explaining, "but it's really cheap and the food is alright."
On Monday I shall write about my experience.  You'll be able to read about it.  Rest assured, I will be taking very detailed notes.  Be warned Akbar's!  I'm coming.  You better be on your best behaviour.

Ooh, I've just remembered its name: Saahil



Banana Slop

At the weekend, I made the grand error of travelling to Southport to eat my tea.  Southport is a bit of a stinker.  It reminds me of Trafford Park; it lacks grace and elegance; it's full of coffin dodgers; and it lacks a decent restaurant.  It does have an extraordinarily long pier but who cares?  I suppose if it were shorter, Southport would have a higher suicide rate.

Alternative Realities are More Interesting

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.

The Place Leaves My Stomach in Knotts

It's Wednesday; I'm watching Channel 4; a programme called Superscrimpers.  Advice: want to book a cheap restaurant?  Check out toptable.com.  Great!  A site full of restaurant deals.   A bit of searching and I find something I like:  The Place Restaurant on Ducie Street.  To the Place we would go.  Days are spent in preparation:  I get my hair styled; I get my legs waxed and eyebrows plucked; I have scent enhancement treatment; my tongue is kept free of contaminants; I buy a suit; I buy some brogues; I invest in a taxi so I can arrive in style.  Disaster strikes; The taxi fails to turn up; a sign that events are turning bad.