Rosso

I’m not one for change. Bizarre really, given the shit I do in the name of feeding this blog (and my ever growing butt), but if I could eat at dirty old gastropubs, day in day out, I would. Vats of red wine, haunches of meat and a thickly wedged cheese board to boot would see me right to the end of my days. Nothing outstanding in terms of innovation, but here be my heart’s desire, and though I hate to consider myself judgemental – being a girl of simple pleasures and all – anything other than hearty, flavoursome food in a rough-around-the-edges package tends to send me running for the chippy.

This inverted snobbery of mine has led to me shunning many a ‘fine dining’ styled restaurant in my time. Trussed up service, polished cutlery and overcomplicated menus all give me the willies, and having been invited to review Rosso – paean to all things slick and celebrity in our fine city – I managed to postpone accepting the opportunity for months, in fear of loathing the whole experience and having to write a mean-spirited review. Manchester, how foolish I have been.

Rosso, Manchester

Rosso, without a shadow of a doubt, is smooth. Fancy pants building (grandiose, grade II listed and built in 1887), fanciable waiting staff and fantastic service, the guys and gals here know how to put on a good show.

The service as I experienced it was second to none.* Amiable men and women all, largely seen but not heard, taking care never to interrupt mid-conversation and enabling wine glasses to magically materialise a near constant level of white wine.  Given the rough and tumble of my usual type of gaffe, being wined and dined at a spiffy Italian restaurant was both a revelation and a real treat.

There were a few unnecessary flourishes. The silver tongs used to spoon ice into my water glass gave rise to a wry smile, and the purposefully papped pictures of football players adorning the walls shaved off two shades of class, but otherwise, it was a wonderful. My friend Aoife and I relaxed right into our surroundings – the watermark of any good dining experience – though completely forgetting where we were was near impossible with a live singer roving the restaurant.

Wall of Fame

Sashaying his rump round, crooning rat pack favourites and classic Italian tunes, the evening’s entertainment was a surprise success. What on first appearances seemed to be a shed load of parmesan, piled on top of an otherwise beautifully presented evening, turned out to be the umami rich mouthful of entertainment the evening needed. Usually disdainful of any unnecessary distraction from conversation, (or masticating for that matter), it was a welcome break in between the carefully timed courses to aid our digestion of the mountainous plates of food dished up.

Sweet Pepper, Mushroom and Tomato & Basil Bruschetta

Now, about that food. Slow cooked pig cheeks in Parma ham were divine. Meaty, moreish and oozing a bitter sweet black treacle jus, it took mere minutes to demolish, though Aoife’s antipasto board – a meal unto itself of artisan cheeses, pickled artichokes and a basket of bread – required a doggy bag and whole extra day to finish. Having already troughed a perfectly pitched sweet red pepper bruschetta in waiting for our starters, we were comfortably full whilst only half way through.

Antipasto

Naturally, I had ordered a plate full of pasta – chilli garlic taglierini topped with half a roasted lobster to be exact – just to keep things breezy, you know. A lip (and face) smackingly fresh dish of pasta ribbons, complete with fiddly fork to fish out every last morsel of the delicate, perfectly pink and aromatic lobster, I was simultaneously in heaven and hell as I sunk the whole dish. The shame! Resultantly, all I could stretch to was a couple of scoops of decent (though sadly not naturally flavoured) pistachio gelato despite the presence of an appetising looking tiramisu.

Lobster Taglierini

The menu is slightly overwhelming, with over 40 mains in the offing and with each dish handsomely priced, it’s a dear do, but to my mind, understandably so. Working such quality ingredients and classic service, not to mention portion sizes that are purely Northern, it works out as excellent value for money. It’s enough to tempt me back anyhow, if only to double kiss my waiter on the cheek again out of sheer gratitude and my best attempt at a belly-bursting grace. Colour me classy, ladies and gentleman. I’m a changed woman. * Given I was on a review, a little showboating was to be expected. Naturally, all is forgiven.

The Liquorists’ Gonzalez Byass Sherry Evening

Three things, when pushed, that people most commonly associate with sherry:

• Sickly sweet
• Christmas
• Nanas

Three things I associated with sherry, before I paid up to play at The Liquorists’ Gonzalez Byass sherry shindig:

• Ice cream
• Christmas
• The go to bottle at the back of the shelf when I run out of port

Wrong. We’ve all been quite wrong, apart from the ice cream association of course. Sherry kicks the crap out of fudge sauce and chocolate sprinkles any day. Trust me. It’s the thing.

Turns out, there’s far more to this finely crafted fortified wine than I ever imagined, as many hip foodies down that there London can testify, with their fancy pinxtos bars and walls of sherry bottles to sample from. This elegant wine from Southern Spain is seeing a much needed demographic shake up, and for good reason.

After sipping my way through every type of sherry Gonzalez Byass sell, from a delicate, dry fino to an intense, unctuous pedro ximenez (PX), I was blown away by the complexities of the styles on show and majorly impressed with its ability to pair with just about any flavour.

So, as a full-fledged member of the sherry fan club, here’s what I now know…

Sherry is not always sweet

Having been weaned on the sweeter PX style stuff – admittedly a whole lot more sophisticated than my earliest incarnation as a food philistine when I solely quaffed Croft – my lips went loco for the dryer fino style sherries, made from the elegant palomino grape.

With sherry being fermented first and fortified after to further boost the barrel’s ABV, the grape’s natural sugars convert completely to alcohol, so only the grape used and subsequent ageing introduce any trace of sweetness. As you can imagine, sipping a sherry akin to a dry white wine – grassy hay in colour, sharp pear flavours and fragrant almond notes – the Tio Pepe first provided was a serious revelation, and gave my palate a good kicking to prepare it for the forthcoming wines.

Wine glass followed wine glass, each gradually darkening in colour and introducing caramel and citrus nuts in the amber-hued Vina AB amontillado, and an unusual woody, nutty yet sweet toffee hit in the 10 year aged Alfonso oloroso-style sherry, despite all being made from the same grape.

Turns out, whereas lighter, younger fino sherry is biologically treated during its time in the barrel, the older, darker sherries are allowed to oxidise during the ageing process. Turning the wine attractive caramel and toffee colours as the liquid evaporates – allowing for a stronger sugar concentration – the oxidisation introduces a hint of sweetness without actually adding any extra sugar. Only when you start producing sherry with the sweeter PX and Moscatel grapes do you get the real sugar hit.

The mahogany-coloured, velvet rich Solera 1847 – made from a 75% PX and 25% oloroso sherry mix – had deep raisin and strong liquorice notes, reminiscent of bonfire night, with the creamy sweetness achieved through the six week soleo process they put the PX through, laying the freshly picked grapes out in the sun to increase their sugar level. Intense, but no more so than the pure PX-based Nectar, viscous like treacle and just as sweet.

Surprising in its variation and each glass a revelation, I’m still no sherry aficionado, but can now firmly identify as an oloroso girl, and feel safe in the knowledge that a solid sherry habit (which I fully intend to take up) won’t lead to type 2 diabetes. Huzzah!

Sherry is for life, not just for Christmas

Whilst I’d happily let someone buy me a bottle of the expensive sherry for Christmas,* I’ll no longer be consigning my sherry sipping to the most wonderful time of the year. Instead, I plan to make each and every season wonderful by drinking and pairing this fine, fine fortified wine regularly, and here’s why.

Not only did I get sloshed after two glasses, but it was the happiest session I’ve had in a long time. I found myself giggling – giggling for Christ sake – at my two companion’s banter and drifted off into a happy daze, where I dreamily contemplated the joys of life.

I now see why Nana’s hammer the Harvey’s Bristol Cream come Christmas Day. All those sugar high grandbabies running amok and turkey related tension – you need a hit of happy to see you through to New Year. I say, why wait til old age?

For a girl who comes over all Grinch like after one glug of gin, or an incoherent sack of spuds upon necking cider, the light-hearted highs of sherry drinking makes it just the tipple for me.

Sherry is not Port’s poor cousin

Yes, they’re both fortified wines, and yes, they both enjoy the lofty stature that comes with being assigned PDO status. Let’s give pause and celebrate the fact that only the white grapes grown around Jerez de la Frontera are used to create this refined drink, safeguarding the history, production and unique flavours this skilfully created sipper offers. Let us not, however, underestimate what sherry can stretch to, and automatically assume the answer to every question is port. (Just me?)

Far beyond the usual port and cheese pairings or the majesty of the red stuff as an after dinner digestif, the white grape base means a fino can be paired with everything from fish and vegetables to fruit and cheese, whilst the sweeter grape varieties understandably ally to dessert with ease.

The Liquorists’ pairing of mussels in white wine and bacon worked wonderfully with the Tio Pepe, and as we moved on through to the darker colours and caramel flavours, found the morcilla pinxtos and manchego and fig pairings a real feast for the senses. The PX paired best with crumbly, buttery richness of the most perfectly pitched rhubarb crumble I’ve ever eaten, and worked wonderfully with a dollop of dense and dreamy ice cream, natch.

Most importantly though, don’t condemn it to the dusty recesses of your drinks cupboard- or cabinet if you’re wanky like that – like you might be inclined with port. Sherry is a fortified white wine – the clue is in the name. Chill it in your fridge. Sup a fino within 4 or 5 days like you would a sauvignon blanc, though admittedly, the PX-based bottles can last a little longer.

Too much, you say? You’d be surprised at my capacity for port, which in comparison to a fino or amontillado is far more challenging to put away.

So, sherry’s secret is out. Sorry Nana.

* Any bottle of the Gonzalez Byass classic range will do, ta.

3TwentyOne

I always used to wonder why food writers were such curmudgeons. More often than not dripping with disdain for the chef’s / front of house’s / interior decorator’s efforts and whip-smart snarks following on from some lengthy prose about anything but the food.* How could you make a misery out of something so inherently joyful in a review? Then, I started a food blog.

My passion for eating out turned into a twice a week habit which, after nine months of scoffing and scribing, turns out to be just enough time to make you gag each time you gorge on the latest food trend. Having a healthier base for comparison raises your expectations beyond measure, and in the name of having something interesting to say, forage endlessly for innovative ingredients and fresh food concepts to write about. The more you indulge, the harder it becomes to find satisfaction, and after a while, it all sort of blends into one. It seems gluttony quickly runs to ingratitude.

It’s a hard life, no?

No, I don’t think so either. I can’t sympathise with anyone enjoys such privilege, myself included. I’m exceptionally lucky, not only because I can afford to eat out on a regular basis, but also because I occasionally get invited along to review restaurants for free. So, having found myself overfaced and underwhelmed of late, I’ve had to have a long hard look at myself, especially after a perfectly lovely dining experience initially left me with little to say, and the only thing left wanting was my attitude to it all.

If you keep abreast of the Manchester food scene, you may have heard something of 3TwentyOne. Just another meat mecca, I thought, albeit with its own smoker and a penchant for good liquor. An invitation to the grand opening evening for Manchester media mavens was missed on account of birthday celebrations with much loved friends, so was invited to come along at a later date when the cacophony of blogger’s gums smacking around short ribs and Singapore Slings had died down.

Sadly, they forgot I was coming, and much to mine and my friend Mal’s discomfort, asked to check my email invitation, then spent half an hour playing Chinese whispers with the waitress and owner about exactly what was included in the review. This, and the fact she harangued us until we placed our order whilst simultaneously trying to settle into our surroundings and say our hellos were the only low points of the night. The rest was just… fine and dandy.

Espresso Martini

The cocktails were a wonderful opener. My espresso martini of Kahlua, vanilla vodka and butterscotch syrup was perfectly pitched – neither overly sweet nor strong on the coffee – whilst Mal made appreciative noises over his Tommy’s Margarita. On reflection, it might be worth heading back and working my way through the cocktail menu alone, if nothing else than just to gaze on the bearded (slightly dour) hunk of a bartender, but I digress.

To its credit, the menu managed to distract me much more effectively, pared down as it was. Six starter and six dessert choices made the beginning and end of the meal fairly easy to navigate, but working your way through a list of four steaks, two types of ribs and a whole host of other hunks of meat made for a much beefier task.

Pork Ribs

The ribs weren’t bad. Both stickily coated and meaty, my barbecue pork ribs were a little fatty, though the pig happily fell off the bone and was made moreish by a boozy bourbon glaze used to jazz up the dish. Both mine and Mal’s beef short ribs were subtly smoked – a small disappointment given its billing as the main attraction – but had a decent flavour to them and were stacked high, making me grateful my eyes weren’t bigger than my belly in ordering more sides than the one that comes with – in my case crispy on the outside, fluffy within paprika-dusted fries. Perfection.

Manchester Egg

The Manchester Egg – black pudding and sausage meat wrapped round a gooey egg all deep fried in breadcrumbs – was a delight, as was the lightly smoked, tender boneless chicken wings with a creamy blue cheese sauce. Both disappeared pretty quickly (much to our waitress’ delight), though the puddings took longer to shift. A rich, fairly heady mud pie of rich chocolate ganache and Oreo biscuit base – from a fairly standard menu stretching not far beyond cheesecake – was lovely but a little too much to stomach, even with a sizeable dollop of Cheshire Farm ice cream to balance it out.

Mud Pie

If I had never enjoyed the bounteous beauty of deep fried coke or eaten ribs fresh off the back of a pit barbecue, my review might have been much more evenly tempered, but for what it’s worth, 3TwentyOne is a lovely little establishment serving up simple, hearty food. Whilst the glut of Manchester food blogs reviewing the gaffe has paid testament to the shonky service, I suspect such teething problems will be soothed over time, and with soft, modern décor and an enviable location next to the Deansgate Hilton, will attract a good crowd once the blogger rush is over and done.

So, here’s hoping they get a little more heavy-handed with the smoker. That and another espresso martini is all it would take to tempt this blogger back.

* Equally guilty on the waffling front. Do forgive me. I am but human (and a gob shite).

Albert’s Square Chop House

To my mind, it seems each and every one of us has a style of dining establishment towards which we lean. Some prefer the silver fork shininess and artistically constructed dishes of fine dining for their socially aspirational sins, whilst for others, the queue handling and heady chip fat aroma of the local chipper brings them somewhat closer to their own personal foodie nirvana.

My own particular preference sees me lean towards the modern British Gastropub, preferably with a hint of the old man’s watering hole about it. Lacquered wooden surfaces, dog-eared beer mats and pies with a crust as thick as your heel,  I relax right into my surroundings, eat and drink myself a week’s worth of calories and find that contented state we all yearn for once in a while.

Albert’s Square Chop House, Manchester

The eponymously named Albert’s Square Chop House isn’t quite that. Invited to review by Manchester Confidential, I was most excited, as going by the traditional chophouse dogma of hearty, often suet based dishes and intriguing residences brimming with architectural intrigue, I thought myself to be in for a night of fabulous fodder with one of my favourite people; my lovely brother Dan.

The exterior has something of the historic come hither about it. Gothic arches, thick wooden doors and stone steps to scale, the entrance of the Memorial Hall gives way to an intimate yet ultimately posh pub chain style décor – light wood furnishings, roughly exposed brick and soft brown leather banquettes – losing a little of the promise made on the cobbled approach over Albert’s Square. So far, so-so.

The soft leather banquettes were a little hard to squeeze into, though very comfy once in.

The à la carte reads a whole deal more refined than the group’s customary offering, which generally is no bad thing. With a nod to the seasonal and a healthy smattering of locally sourced ingredients – the delights of corn fed Goosnargh chicken and a Homity pie made wonderful with Mrs Kirkham’s Lancashire cheese – the stellar line up of dishes made better the far less exciting interior.

Though the menu for the most part read beautifully, the delivered dishes weren’t always successful. My starter of poached salmon, though delicately smoked had been left too long to soak, losing ALL the fishy potency desired. Further doused in vinegar-logged artichoke, the dish was a wash-out which no carefully balanced salad of samphire and pickled radish could save. Shame.

Salmon

A chocolate soup, recommended by our incredibly sweet and attentive waiter, had the consistency of three day old semolina, but the accompanying milk sorbet was a thing of wonder, and the Thai basil garnish – which I originally suspected to be mint – worked surprisingly well. Despite these few digestive hiccups, the rest was perfection, with clever Dan striking gold with all three dishes.

A lad of simple pleasures, he plumped for a bumper portion of pate, teetering on the terrine side of things and flecked through with the sweet tang of pickled capers to balance the sheer force of all that pork. Followed by the most perfectly pink, elegantly chargrilled sirloin with fat chips, I had serious food envy throughout, though my Mettrick’s sourced Spring lamb was pretty otherworldly itself.

Spring Lamb

Cooked just the right side of pink, served with wild garlic mash and spinach, for me it was the menu’s most redeeming feature, though Dan’s surprising dessert choice of raspberry soufflé served with vanilla bean ice cream and lemon balm sauce proved to be another highlight. Perfectly light, pink and collapsing upon touch, understandably, big sister rules meant he had to share.

Raspberry Souffle

Over and above the food, the real success of the evening was the fabulous wine cellar. As with Tom’s and Sam’s Chophouse, the wine list reads like a Shakespeare classic; impossible to decipher at first glance but eventually yielding up some serious gems to wrap your mouth around. Having a sommelier on hand, however, makes the translation a whole lot easier. Carlos was incredible, making the whole evening a real treat.

Friendly, willing to answer inane questions (me) and explain why the food pairings work (Dan), my usually non-boozing brother decided to give each recommendation a go, and proved to have an exceptional nose for flavours, identifying a rhubarb note in the 2012 Colombard Sauvignon to accompany the salmon. The 20 year old Sandeman Tawny Port paired with my dessert – like burnt toffee – is also worth a mention, and made me one seriously happy lady.

2010 Colombard Sauvignon Blanc

The drink offering alone puts Albert’s Square a step ahead of your usual gastropub – it blows my usual foodie boozer out of the water – and when executed well, the food here can be wonderful. They won’t be winning awards for originality anytime soon, though their support of local and seasonality is applaudable, and for the most part, I massively enjoyed it.

Albert’s Square Chop House has a little something for everyone it seems. Just follow your nose on the food and the sommelier’s nose on the wine, and you’ll be guaranteed to have a good time.

Pie and Ale

This, my friends, is an ode to pie; that gloriously edible artefact of humble majesty. Soft, yielding, slow-cooked meat, a few of your five a day thrown in for good measure and ALL the rich, meaty gravy just waiting to spill out… your mouth waters just to think of it.* Crowned in halo of crumbly, buttery short crust pastry, (puff pastry my arse), the pie is a thing of simple beauty that, in my embarrassingly considerable pie-eating career, you simply have to indulge in every once in a while.

Whether eaten hot from a paper bag straight from the local bakery or baked and broken out round a table filled with friends, this sometimes fast, incredibly fatty and always filling food stuff is much loved – second only the Coulman family obsession with the equally unassuming pasty – though sadly something I rarely indulge in these days, and with pretty good reason.

Most mortifyingly, one particular pie eating occasion gave rise to my second most embarrassing food encounter, ever…

Many moons ago, after a demanding day of shopping and boozing, my friend Alison and I found solace and sobriety in two hefty portions of pie. Face down for a good ten minutes, we both surfaced to find ourselves being admired by four firemen, each evidently in awe at the – lets be frank – hog-like nature in which we laid waste to our pastry-topped objects of affection. Pink cheeked, crumb-nosed and as yet, unable to physically move, they passed comment, and we near passed out with shame.

Years later, just the simple recounting makes me blush. I swore I’d never touch a pie again, but who was I kidding? A heart attack in a foil tin it may be, when complex carbohydrates are your only vice, you feed the beast as sparingly as you can, and preferably in the company of many, many others who can keep your troughing in check. Then, you go for long repentant run.

So, imagine my horror when pie was touted as one of the next big trends to follow on from last year’s burger binge, quickly followed by the news that not only would Pieminister be setting up shop in Manchester, but that Bakerie’s new venture would be paying homage to pie and ale, the other major hipster food trend of 2013. The temptation to be a pie eater and a beer-swilling lout proved too much to handle. Pie and Ale was in my sights.

Much tweeting (read stalking) ensued, politely enquiring for an opening date and many months later, the oven doors creaked opened. Such was my need, I took two friends along. There’s safety and strength in numbers, so that no-one need witness my second pie-related fall from grace…

Mercifully, I behaved myself. It’s seems boys – especially those sporting sexy beards – like pie, and I hate to learn a lesson twice. Unfortunately, this also means I won’t be visiting the gaffe again.

Whilst the pastry is excellent – thick and sturdy short crust of soft yielding crumb, chock full of that buttery flavour you yearn for – the fillings, by no means disappointing, just didn’t excite. A much anticipated lamb and potato number came in a mildly, spicy tomato based sauce, and I couldn’t get past the lack of sweet, meaty juices I was hoping to be hit with. The chicken and chorizo was a vast improvement, but slightly too sweet to contemplate the whole pie, which I will warn you was of a considerable size.

Pie and Ale, Manchester

In itself, no bad thing, but when the chef is skinny with the mash and mushy peas, both which were full of flavour and perfectly turned out, you are left with a lot of pastry to go at, which no miniature jug of red wine gravy can rescue. Thankfully, the well chosen ales on tap amply whet the whistle, most notably the Boggart Brewery Rum Porter of herbal note with a smooth and rich coffee and cocoa finish – a great brew.

Boggary Brewery Rum Porter

A pie should be a flavour-filled hug that leaves you side-bustingly satiated, and if it wasn’t for the charming, funny and friendly staff and ridiculously good value on offer – my bill came in at under £12 for a plateful of pie and two half pints – I’d have felt much less magnanimous about the experience. Other than the skewed portions sizes and fillings, Pie and Ale is a great little place, but as it turns out, a pie should be worth making a fool of yourself over, and most unfortunately, these aren’t.

Lamb and Potato Pie – one of three choices updated daily at Pie and Ale

* When it comes to pie, it has to be meat. Who chooses vegetarian pie? Unless its cheese and onion. Thick, mature cheese slick with crunchy onion and a thick pastry crust. Choosing cheese and onion is fine.

All Star Lanes Manchester

As far as fun childhood pastimes go, for me, bowling is the one most steeped in nostalgia. From my first ever game with my overly competitive Dad (where under no circumstances was I to have the advantage on account of my age) to childhood birthday soirees, where me and ten plus friends got high on Coca Cola and between us – Uncle Buck style – managed to knock down the least amount of pins in the history of the game, this imported American pastime plays host to many a happy memory.

In later years, retro dates were the order of the day, though why on earth baring your arse to your beau and showing your inability to throw a ball straight is considered attractive is beyond me. These days, the thought of hurtling a bowling ball down a well greased alley just doesn’t appeal, but when two new venues opened in Manchester, throwing a heap of fine food and drink into the mix, well… you know what happened next.

I managed to tag along (thank you North West Nosh) to the opening night of Dog Bowl, the second Manchester bowling alley to burst onto the scene in recent months from the guys behind Black Dog Ballroom. Dark and self-consciously trendy (naturally), the food was decent (bad tacos, good ribs), the Doritos mariachi band delightful and the clientele interesting to say the least – we found ourselves in a Corrie sandwich whilst on the lanes – with the great and good of Manchester turning out to posture and get papped.

Not my scene, sadly, so an invite to review the USA-inspired All Star Lanes, whose launch event I sadly missed early March was hotly anticipated. The first venue north for this London-based boutique chain – boasting an impressive location out of the imposing Great Northern – I expected all out Americana but instead encountered a far more classy rendering, with soft lighting, colourful retro decor and surprisingly un-kitsch waiters and waitresses in bow ties and ankle socks. Cool, but not doggedly so, if you catch my drift?

All Star Lanes Manchester

All Star Lanes Manchester

Rather than take a friend and get high on Coca Cola (and rum), I decided to take my brother for a sibling rivalry revival. Plenty of smack talk went down (though not about our Mother), with Dan promising an ass-whooping the size of which I had never before seen. Fat chance! Those nifty bowling shoes are levellers for all, though he did just manage to pip me to the post with a couple of strikes and a 78-70 final score. I won at the food though. I WON AT THE FOOD!*

Dan ‘man’ handling his hamburger

The menu read like a high-end American diner; classic short rib starters, southern fried chicken sandwiches and hamburgers for the main event, though the potted shrimps, mac and cheese (truffle optional) and grilled lobster with hollandaise sauce takes dining at the lanes to a whole other level. The popcorn squid with aioli was inspired – a light golden batter with a mild chilli hit was the perfect foil for the soft, yielding squid. Cutely served in a Chinese take out box and picked at with chopsticks, the dish had some serious chops.

Popcorn Squid with Aioli

Baby Back Rack of Ribs

The rest of the menu proved hard to master, but rocking out with a Josper Grill, it had to be the rack of baby back ribs. Cooked sous vide then finished off over the charcoal to make for a tender hunk of meat that falls apart under the fork, ensconced in a sticky, sweet and smoky based sauce, it was with a heavy heart that I left some to spare. The ridiculously moreish rosemary salt fries took a battering though, in no small part due to home-made hickory smoked barbecue sauce on hand to dunk them in.

The drinks menu was something else. The cocktail menu rolls out originals and classics with dexterity; a rum, lime, honey and prosecco cocktail proved just the thing, as was the much needed Woodford Reserve Mint Julep to cleanse the palate after so many intense flavours. Daniel scored a strike in tapping up the milkshake menu, though. A heart attack waiting to happen ‘peanut butter and jelly’ number – aptly named the Elvis Shake – brazenly brandishing a slick of candied bacon was the highlight. They do boozy ones too!

The infamous Elvis Shake

Whilst bowling has never been a cheap do, on first appearance, the prices seemed highly inflated. At almost £9 per person a game and averaging £17 for a main, it all seems a bit much for a trip down memory lane, but with All-American portion sizes, quality ingredients and a deft touch with flavour and heavy hand with measures, All Star Lanes bowled me away. The USA-styled service polished with a touch of northern humour and highly informed hospitality made a pretty competitive evening all the more chilled out too.

So, go, relive your youth. Throw balls around and eat stack loads of food with someone you love spending time with (and can comfortably kick their arse without causing a ruckus). And whilst I wouldn’t recommend this very grown up fun emporium to families, it’s definitely the place to relive your teenage years. Just make sure it’s with someone you don’t mind flashing your arse too, especially after a 1970’s Presley inspired shake.

* Appears my Dad taught me well.

Taste North West’s Young and Talented Host and Chef – London Carriage Works

The local food movement (should you wish to coin a phrase) has been on the agenda for years now, and quite rightly so. Since the inflammatory days of the BSE crisis back in 1996, the need to support independent producers and champion our oft maligned national food heritage has been the subtext to many a food related headline, and as our obsession with all things food continues apace, it’s unlikely to abate any time soon.

Whether its incendiary reporting of a food crisis flooding the front pages (see local butchers reaping significant rewards from the recent horse meat scandal) or tongue in cheek coverage of some high profile chef creatively interpreting long forgotten Victorian recipes (hello Heston), the message to support your local food chain, question provenance and keep our Great British food traditions alive is ever present, but does it really encourage us to be correct?

Even as a card carrying foodie loser, ever susceptible to glossy food photography and seriously concerned about the frankly worrying situation our weather beaten farmers find themselves in, my earnest endeavours to buy meat reared in the North West, enjoy artisanally produced cheeses and hunt down exciting new producers often falls short of my own ideals. Why? Well, as much as I might like to feed back into the local economy and enjoy expertly produced and incredibly tasty food, cash and convenience is king.

As much as the media and foodie elite might rail against it, as a nation we refuse to wean ourselves off fast food and ready meals for a reason. It has been highlighted time and time again, but fatty, belly-filling and quickly acquired foods are easy and cheap to get hold of. Who has the time to drive half an hour one way to your local farm shop, forking out a small fortune on a couple of high quality items that in reality could cover a weeks worth of food shopping. Lovely if you can afford it, but not everyone is so privileged.

So, for all the column inches and earnest endeavours made, unless this expertly produced local food borne of incredible passion is made more affordable and/or accessible, the local food revolution that has been threatening for years will never be fully realised, though some are having more success than others. Booths are a perfect example (and firm favourite of mine) through opening new stores across the North West and bringing some of the finest regional producers that bit closer to home… if they would just do home delivery!

The recently launched Flavour First is also showing signs of cutting through the media bullshit. This collective of our of nation’s foodie elite are aiming to educate food professionals on the great producers out there, and if this can encourage more hotels, restaurateurs and deli owners to bring local producers into their supply chain and promote them in turn, then we have another means of bringing great British produce to the fore, literally shoving this fantastic food down their throats in an affordable, accessible way.

However, unless these hospitality businesses are particularly savvy or PR friendly, it’s not always easy to trace the places supporting regional producers. Rarely making a feature of the produce on their menus, you may never know you’ve eaten a Lyth Valley Damson of hunk of Mrs Kirkham’s Lancashire cheese, though thankfully, a few local initiatives are looking to rectify this by hosting educational events or restaurant evenings bringing all things lovely about local to the fore – Meat Club Manchester as case in point.

Most recently, I attended a talented young chef and host evening at organised by Taste North West at the ever popular London Carriage Works, a long time supporter of Merseyside producers. Using a tried and tested method of not only highlighting great regional produce but developing burgeoning chef and front of house talent – not to mention giving these restaurants some much deserved publicity for their supply chain efforts – hopefully these events turn a few new food fans on to the cause.

Taste NW Talented Young Owen West

Using Anglesey Mackerel in an unusual fennel and orange salad, (a brave take on the traditional rhubarb pairing perhaps?) followed by an impeccably cooked slow braised rose veal cheek from Cumbria that fell apart as you looked at it showcased our young chef Owen West’s keen palate and deft touch with quality ingredients. Gracefully fronted by Eleanor Vacca, the evening ran beautifully, and at £25 a head including two glasses of paired wines, is a steal considering the quality of produce on show.

With these kind of events, currently organised by Taste North West across Cheshire and Merseyside (where I work), these kinds of events provide the perfect opportunity to indulge my ideals – not only do I get to put my money where my mouth is, but I also don’t have to go too far out of my way feast on the kind of food I love best. Best of both worlds really, and with an accreditation scheme to recognise those hospitality businesses making a meal of local food, I’ll no longer have to look too hard to feast well either.