A muddle of thoughts on Manchester

Life outside the Bristol bubble

A good while back, I had lunch with Bristol’s other spunky young food writer.

She listened patiently, while I grumbled on about how difficult I was finding it to live somewhere I should probably no longer be.

Sometimes… maybe… we gaslight ourselves about how good it is to live here, we said.

I’ve thought about that conversation a lot in the intervening months.

Making the decision to let go of somewhere you love isn’t simple.

It requires the kind of courage and self-belief that has been missing from me, until recently.

It has taken time.. is still taking time, to process.

I have many things to say about my reasons for leaving.

How best to distil complex personal, professional and political factors into a pithy and digestible newsletter?

I started writing it back in February, and I’m still struggling to unpick the complexity into something you’d actually manage to read.

Recently, however, a sweet man in Manchester advised me to stop thinking too much about others, and write as if no-one was reading. With his advice in hand, and many miles now standing firmly between me and Bristol, I’m getting closer to something that feels publishable.

In the meantime… you find me hiding under the air conditioning in an apartment in Bra, Piemonte.

I’ve just spent the weekend at the wedding of one of my oldest friends. It’s been both beautiful and emotional. As we drunkenly clung to each other in the swimming pool at 3am, we reflected on just how far we’ve both come.

In the last four weeks, I have packed up my life, put my things into storage, said a psychological goodbye to everything I’ve called home for the last fourteen years, and hit the road in my trusty new Honda-CV. Her name is Hilda and I adore her, even if she is both old and thirsty. Together, the boy and I have driven over 1,250 miles.

Hilda, road-side picnic, Air BnB near Lyon & Lentilli Square

We stopped in Paris for a night, a week before the Olympics (terrible idea!) Then the small town of Lentilli, outside Lyon, where we ate adequate burgers and watched teenagers play Boules, before getting soaked in a joyously torrential downpour, and falling asleep to the wildest of thunderstorms.

Next, it was onto Bergamo for a work retreat with the new herbal tea team, before a couple of nights in Turin, and finally to Bra - my University hometown - for the wedding.

As soon as it cools off - it’s a somewhat painful 35 degrees and climbing outside - we’re heading to Valli Unite - an agricultural cooperative near Alessandria, where a different friend has gifted us a home for the week.

I am minded to remember just how lucky I am to have people and places that I can call upon. Friends that support my adventures into temporary homelessness. Finally, there is space to think and feel. The edges of a plan are forming… but, it requires my focus and attention.

Before departing the UK, however, I spent the week in Manchester. Where my younger brother recently bought a house in Levenshulme. I was dropping off my dog and collecting the kids, whom I’d spared the stress of packing, by sending them to Ireland for a holiday by the sea.

It would have been rude to pass through, without exploring the local food scene. Although I caveat the ‘explore’ with - went to the places in Levenshulme that looked nice, and made it to Erst for lunch, because everybody said I should. As usual, this is by no-means a proper review. But rather, a muddle of thoughts and feelings, interspersed with some good shit I ate along the way.

First up was Nordie on Stockport Road. I’d walked up the old railway path. A lush, green meander for the dog, which finishes at a local community garden and beautiful old train station, turned c.i.c. The project, known as Station South, incorporates a bike repair shop, community space, urban garden and pub. I didn’t get to eat, but the roast dinners looked incredible.

Sadly, they were closed on the Monday, but as I walked the local high-street in search of another option, the dog (he has an excellent nose) insisted we pop-into Nordie. Their kitchen was also shut, but they offered a strong range of natural wines, happily accompanied by bags of scampi fries - pleasing to both me and my canine friend. Chatty staff happily told me about the growth of Manchester’s natural wine scene - there’s noticeably more spots than in Bristol - and I chose Judith Beck’s pinot blanc from the daily ‘specials’ board. Feeling knowledgeable, as I’d had the chance to try her wines at Karakterre in May. The green-apple notes paired beautifully with the industrially fluorescent prawn cocktail tones in a bag of scampi fries!

Food I didn’t eat & wine by Judith Beck

Hunger drove me to continue on, and armed with the recommendation of the lovely barmen, I popped down the road to a relatively new Middle Eastern café, called Sips and Dips. I settled on a garlicky schlick of babaganoush, topped with rich tomato sauce, and chicken livers in pomegranate molasses. I dipped as much puffy pitta as I could manage, then got the leftovers packed to go. I headed home extolling the friendly nature of folk up’ North.

More dips than sips

The next morning, I learn that speciality coffee has not yet made it to Levenshulme, and on the advice of this article from Manchester’s Finest head into town in search of a proper cup. Alas, the cup I find is far from special, and when the parking meter accidentally charges me twice at £4.20 for an hour, it also becomes eye-wateringly expensive.

Driving back, I spy Isca wines. Thinking it’s a deli, and with one-eye always on pushing the herbals, I park up and pop-in. They offer a nice range of naturals, craft chocolate and other bouji bits. I spy a £20-a-copy print publication, stylishly edited and full of stunning photography. I ponder upon Bristol’s limited food media, and whether we have sufficient audience to support the sale and distribution of a print zine. (I’m not sure we do.)

Isca offer eat-in or food-to-go, and after initially planning to grab quiche and run, I opt for a couple of small plates and a glass of kombucha, eaten outside in the sun.

The print publication Full & Isca small plates

Lacto fermented pickles are crunchy and sweet. The integrity of the veg still holds-up. Cherry tomatoes are slightly salty, but pop on the tongue in a way that brings me joy.

Who can resist a devilled egg? I’ve been delighted by their recent come back. Harissa-filled, topped with paprika and chives, they’re spicy, but not too spicy. They could be yokier, and again are just slightly over salted. But, overall a fine example in a crowded genre of eggs that have been devilled.

It is slightly odd sitting-out on a busy Stockport Road, nibbling on my trendy small plates, while top-of-the-bus travellers have a good stare. However, this is the thing I notice about Manchester. The diversity of the offering here seems genuinely, well, diverse. There’s hundreds of small, independent businesses. 24-hour off-licenses, sit next to chicken shops and desi-cafés. There’s pawnbrokers alongside fabric shops. Charity shops next to electrical repair places. A class of primary school children walk by, giggling and waving. Bangladeshi women cluster in gossipy groups. It feels hectic and vibrant and alive. From a Manchester perspective, I understand concerns around gentrification. Compared to Bristol, however, it feels diverse and integrated. I don’t think I’d realised just how segregated a city we really are.

As I’m sitting, a young woman carrying a tv in a plastic bag comes and plonks herself down next to me. She apologises and immediately starts chatting. She’s walked 50 minutes in the heat to take her tele-in-a-bag to the local pawnbrokers. She doesn’t have the remote control, so she’s been denied. She doesn’t know how she’s going to feed her kid… She’s 24 and the daughter is 3… I drive her home and help out best I can. After, I think a lot about what it was like to be responsible for a baby at 21, and just how much I’ve learned. I’m turning into a wise old bird, and while I’m still feeling my way into this new phase of my life, I’m clear I’d like to work with young women more.

On my final day, I head once again to town. This time to meet someone who knows Manchester’s food scene intimately. She’s suggested Pot Kettle Black, which is light and airy. All blonde wood and relaxing sofas. After an evening back at Nordie supping orange wine with the Levenhulme running club, I’m in need of caffeine and fizzy water. Everywhere in Manchester is dog friendly. We talk tea and family, and after she leaves I can’t help but order just a small taste from the breakfast menu. I opt for a slab of brioche layered thick with whipped cream-cheese, and two fat slices of good bacon. They’re cooked to perfection. No flaccid-fat to trigger my aversions here. The entire plate is drizzled with honey and two generous splodges of brown sauce. The brown sauce/sweet brioche combo is unusual, but works. This is decadent brunching at its best. I can even forgive the entirely redundant rocket topping.

Bacon, brioche and whipped cream cheese. With and without redundant rocket.

Finally, it’s onto Erst. Where service is attentive and the conversation with a Manchester food writer idles through the comparative diversity of our local food media, and the challenges of finding the necessary courage to speak our truth.

A whole artichoke is a joy to rip and dip into whipped roe (not quite to Caper & Cure’s standards, but strong nonetheless.) The insta-famous flatbread with melted lardo arrives looking a bit burnt, but reveals itself to be a perfectly puffed pillow of delight. The shining star is a dish of pork collar, clams and fermented scapes. The pork is scorched and smokey on the outside, baby pink in the middle. I don’t need to go on. It’s as good as everyone says.

Lunch at Erst, Manchester