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For the majority of us, war is a tragedy witnessed through a TV screen or a series of social media posts. We live alongside it, but not through it. We gasp and recoil at the unspeakable horrors inflicted onto innocent civilians and, eventually, become sort of numb to the unrelenting atrocities that bombard our various devices.

And while we are tragically familiar with domestic terrorism in Manchester, the imposing threat of invasion and all out war has not hung apocalyptically over us in our lifetimes. The idea of sitting down with those closest to you and deciding there and then about whether to remain in your homeland or flee to foreign shores, not knowing the languages or what awaits you, nor having any guarantees of how you will support yourselves once you land, is a situation we are, thankfully, unlikely to ever find ourselves in.

Yet on February 23rd, 2022, this is exactly the situation Serge Shcherbyna and Polina Vynohradova found themselves in. Two years removed from opening their vintage football shirt store, Stunner, in Ukraine’s capital city Kyiv (an opening which was immediately shuttered for three months due to the Covid-19 pandemic) they sat down and weighed up their options. Russian tanks and troops were amassing at the borders. US intelligence provided evidence of an impending invasion and selected military targets. Whatever Serge and Polina’s decision, Putin’s army was coming, across land and sky.

So it was to Sikorsky International Airport in Kyiv and a flight to Brussels, where the throwback football fashionistas would meet a fellow vintage kit enthusiast friend, who would put them up for two weeks. Mere hours after they landed in Belgium, a friend rung to inform them that bombs had begun to drop in Kyiv. And so began a European excursion that would, by way of northern Italy, eventually lead the couple to an empty unit on South King Street and the open arms of a neighbourhood who couldn’t be any happier to welcome them into our city.

Nestled away just off Deansgate, Serge, 29, and Polina, 27, suitably set up shop opposite Castle Gallery, displaying their own works of art, albeit well worn polyester creations, rather than anything committed to canvas. Simple clothes rails run parallel across the cosy shop floor, their hangers draped in a timeline of excitable nostalgia from across the globe. Vintage armchairs are positioned alongside a coffee table adorned with premium, heavyweight reading materials such as Mundial Magazine and the iconic rose pink Gazzetta dello Sport.

As you thumb through the rails and the magazines, you are overlooked by towering tapestries dedicated to the likes of Diego Maradona and Gabriel Batistuta, themselves both respectively resplendent in the iconic Fiorentina and Napoli kits that they became synonymous with across their legendary careers.

Stunner is a shop in the same way John Rylands is a library. To fixate on it as such a simple space is to ignore the story and the struggle behind its existence. A vintage football shirt store, originally opened in the heart of Ukraine days before a global pandemic, that was then forced to close due to a war which saw its owners avoid Russian missiles by literally a few hours. With finances barely scraping rock bottom as they traversed Europe, Serge and Polina should not, realistically, be flourishing in some of the most prime real estate in Manchester city centre.

But they are, and just the opening of the shop, regardless of what happens in the future, should be celebrated as a monumental victory. A victory of the human spirit, of endurance and endeavour and of kindness and community. Of solidarity.

Stunner is a community space, one in which memories are shared and common interests are bonded over, regardless of age, gender or ethnic or economic background. Seeing Serge and Polina’s photo diary play out across Instagram, it is impossible not to be charmed by them, bedecked in their shop’s finest wares, paintrollers in hand, cigarettes in mouths, their effortless cool immortalised on film rather than a digital camera. It speaks to the timelessness of their products and their own styles and attitudes. These are people who care deeply about not only the quality of what they sell or wear themselves, but about each other, about each and every customer who walks through their door, about their fellow shopkeepers, or the staff at Gail’s Bakery next door who kept them fuelled throughout their store fit out.

It is with all this in mind that I decided their’s was a story that needed sharing, so I was fortunate enough to grab a spare couple of hours in their company to talk football shirts, fashion, history, Macclesfield, Stone Cold Steve Austin and whether Pep is ever going to actually come in…

EATMCR: So to start, tell me a little bit about the history of Stunner. How did you get started?

Serge Shcherbyna: It started with my Instagram page, just when I was buying these shirts, I would start noticing them in like thrift stores, charity stores around 10 years ago, when the interest was not as high as it is right now. So it was fairly easy to acquire them and yeah, I started collecting them, then we engaged in our relationship, we moved in together and Polina would notice them in my closet and she would really appreciate the design as well, the aesthetics, she said, “let’s do something about it.“

Polina Vynohradova: But more like in a stylish way, because his page was pretty disastrous (laughing).

EM: So you brought that aesthetic approach to the table?

SS: Absolutely she did, because I had no idea how to properly photograph them and that kind of formed the way we collect, because when we land our hands on a proper gem like that, for example, Batistuta ’97 Fiorentina with the Nintendo sponsor, we normally shoot with film cameras, so we would wear it in a casual outfit and we take a few pictures, so as long as we did that, we considered the shirt has been collected, so now we can let it go.

And yeah, then she showed me how to sell on eBay, which was another revelation to me, but we got bored of selling online pretty quickly, because we always craved for this communication with people and then at some point we figured, let’s give it a shot and start the very first vintage football store in Ukraine, I think, because I never heard anyone doing this in Ukraine. 

PV: It was very unique to have this kind of space in Kyiv, in Ukraine, and I think before we did that, when people were asking us, “what are you guys doing?” we were like, “we are into vintage football shirts” and they were like, what is that, “what are you doing with them, why football shirts?” It’s just the two of us, nobody can understand why are we doing that, so we thought maybe if we open the physical store, it will be a place that attracts the same people with the same vision, you know, and it actually became this place.

SS: Through the store in Kyiv, we met some of our best friends, with whom we are friends still, because it basically worked like a magnet for like-minded people who are creative about football in one way or the other. Many, many people said it is basically like their childhood dream, their childhood room. 

PV: And it was really a small room, it was nine square meters, something like that. It was just a tiny, tiny room with a lot of shirts and a lot of memorabilia, with scarves, with paintings, with posters, with Panini stickers. So, this 30-year-old man, he came into the store, and his eyes look like he’s a 10-year-old, about to cry, he’s like a child looking around.

EM: And this was 2020 when you opened? Right before…

SS: (Laughing) Right before Covid struck. So, imagine that, going physical with this very risky concept, because Ukraine is not as much into football compared to England, but yeah, we opened in March, then bam!

PV: People said that we are crazy, you are dealing vintage football shirts, okay, we can live with that, but you want to open a store, really? You opened it during pandemic, are you crazy, or what? What’s wrong with you guys?

SS: It took us three months before we made our first sale!

PV: Yeah, we were closed , so we basically used the shop as a warehouse.

SS: We were online during the pandemic also. We kind of always balanced it out, even now we have a website, so everything that is present here is also present on our website. But it’s just, you know, to constantly have some income, like, almost guaranteed with online sales, whereas with having a physical presence, it normally, it’s not very balanced, because you have way more expenses compared to what you earn.

We’ll see how it goes here, it’s too early to say, it’s only been two weeks, but so far people seem to be very invested, plus now I think it’s the best time to go with this, because it’s kind of booming right now.

A lot of people started appreciating both the aesthetics and the value to them, and the emotional connection is still here, because, yeah, a lot of people of our age, or even older, they get this nostalgia kick, and they can spend hours in here, just surfing through the rails and having a chat with us.

PV: And now it’s not only for football fans, these shirts, it’s also for fashionistas. For ravers, for example, people who love raves, they appreciate these (gesturing towards a selection of particularly vibrant ’90s efforts) templates.

SS: They find a way to implement these into their wardrobes, which is really cool. We always discuss this, like, how come NBA jerseys found their way through hip-hop culture into wardrobes, but with football tops it never kind of happened, until just recently. Like, for the past four or five years, when all sorts of celebrities started appearing in public, like Drake. But then he brought this curse, like, the Drake curse. Whenever he sports one top, the team fails. And it’s still going, right? Yeah, it’s still ongoing. It’s mad, really. His streak is, like, almost like Undertaker’s streak at WrestleMania.

EM: Great reference, wrestling fans as well? You’re my favourite people now.

SS: Why do you think we’re called Stunner?

EM: (Approaching “the buffet’s open” excitement levels) Because o…..(loses power to speak briefly)

PV: Yeah it’s one of the reasons. Because of Stone Cold Steve Austin.

SS: Plus, it works on many, many levels, like, you call a fantastic volley from 40 yards a stunner, you call someone who’s very, like, (gesturing towards Polina) good-looking a stunner, and that’s how we refer to them shirts as well, like, the Zidane, she’s wearing, it’s a proper stunner. Yeah. So, once we started evolving towards more of a business, we had to sit down and come up with a name, and it was probably one of the few occasions when we didn’t argue at all.

EM: So you’ve reopened the store and got through Covid, but then Kyiv is about to be attacked by Russian forces, how and when did you decide to leave? Was that quite a bit before?

SS: We were very lucky in that regard, because obviously we understood that something is about to happen. And then we sat down, we discussed what should we do. And we came up with an idea, which ended up saving us from having to live through this experience. We reached out to our friend Damien, who runs the same sort of business, but in Brussels and we asked him, but he’s way more successful than we are. And we asked, would you host us for two weeks? We will come in, exchange experience, tell you about how it is running a physical store, because he was only present online. And at the same time, we would learn something from you. And that happened on February 23rd. So on the next day, we woke up to the news that Kyiv was getting bombed.

And that two-week long trip is still ongoing. From Brussels, we went to Italy briefly. And then from Italy, when we hit complete bottom in terms of finance, we reached out to our friend in Macclesfield, whom we also met through football, funnily enough. And yeah, we applied for this Homes for Ukraine scheme that the UK had introduced. And he was very welcoming, saying, “you can stay with me for as long as you need, guys” and he even played his major part in helping us to reopen the store here. So the quality of people that we have met throughout our journey is just unbelievable. All sorts of stories happen. It will forever remain one of the most amazing stories of my life, how helpful the people have been towards us.

Sometimes complete strangers. Sometimes barely familiar people. But even this now, the fact that we are sitting here, is mostly thanks to the host that we have here in the UK, who became our very best friend. He’s a proper guy. He believes in us. He said, “do whatever you need. I’m fully behind you.” He helped us financially. He helped us with the move. All of them did. The entire family. So crazy how it works. 

EM: And how have you found the community here in Manchester and around King Street?

SS: In terms of businesses that surround us, I never expected anything like it. 

PV: So friendly.

SS: We met pretty much everyone within the first three days when they noticed that, “who are these people who started painting this vacant property?” And we met pretty much everyone. We have Microdot over there, who are the iconic agency. They created the Oasis logo, the Verve and all that. We have Pep’s restaurant around the corner, which was obviously a deal breaker (laughing). Because we were told he parks his car there, and then he was walking by on Sunday when we were away. We missed him, so Pep, please come back. If you read this.

Gail’s Bakery as well, very friendly. We met all the staff there within a few days’ time. Pretty Green, their manager came in with a magazine for us and said “you should have this, we sell them at our place, but it will suit you perfectly.” We’ve got Mundial, which is a great magazine as well. I just bought it in a bookshop somewhere in the Northern Quarter, in Stephenson Square. I just want to fill this place, because for now all I see is empty spots on the walls. I really want to fill this with something that you would want to gaze at for a few minutes and enjoy it.

EM: Were there any other spots in town that you looked at before this one?

PV: When we were walking around Manchester, of course we started with Northern Quarter. But then we discovered this area. We saw all these beautiful cafes and galleries and I don’t know, we kind of thought that if we would have a store, it might be here. It works for us.

SS: It was like this multiple times before in our lives. Like when the idea, when this seed has been planted into your head, it’s very hard to let it go. So once we realised, okay, Northern Quarter might be a bit too noisy, let’s investigate this area and this property had been vacant for like six months. Right, OK.

And even though we were kind of scared at first, like “what we do with all this space?” But again, I think under these circumstances with your back against the wall, it’s when you tend to become more creative with your approach. So hopefully we will meet enough passionate and creative people about football to join the ship and to exhibit their stuff downstairs in a few months’ time.

EM: What’s the Ukrainian community like here in Manchester? Have you met many Ukrainians since arriving here?

PV: Yeah, we have. Funnily enough, next door in Gail’s, two Ukrainian girls work behind the counter. And we were talking to them in English for two weeks. But only a couple of days ago, Serge discovered that they speak between themselves in Ukrainian. What the hell? Why were we talking in English if we can speak Ukrainian? (Laughing)

SS: They have been here two years now. We all have our own stories. But mostly everyone that we have met from the Ukraine have ended up in the UK after the full scale war had started, whether it was a direct path or like in our case, like through a few different countries. But yeah, we’re very happy to find ourselves being here at this moment of time in this particular place. We’ll see where it leads us to.

EM: How was the journey from Ukraine to Brussels? Because you mentioned it was right before bombs were being dropped on Kyiv.

SS: Yeah, one day before. So we took the plane as normal. Just like a normal flight. And it was not even days, it was like hours before, 12 hours before. I still remember it was very quiet in the airport, like almost suspiciously quiet, you know. And yeah, like literally 12 hours after we had landed in Brussels, our friend gave us a call at 4 a.m. saying like, “you guys really made it to the last possible flight”. If it wasn’t for Stunner, we would not probably consider leaving.

PV: Yeah, we wouldn’t think about Damien in Brussels, that we need to exchange experience. We would probably not even know him.

SS: Going to another country for two weeks is something we have never done before. We would only go for like four days, five days tops, because we could only afford that long of a trip running this business. At some point we dug deeper into this and we thought that vintage football shirts kind of saved us.

PV: Stunner saved us.

SS: Stunner saved us from having to deal with war happening in actual real life, which is still something I find very hard to believe. So it’s very important through this place that we have launched here to, first of all, give local people the idea that Ukrainians who…It was not their desire to end up here at this place of time. It was just due to unfortunate circumstances that we had to. And with the store, we want to show people that we are here not just to enjoy the Job Center. Some people might even go a bit twisted in the perception of Ukrainians here as somebody whom I have to feed with my taxes, etc, but we are here to present something as well. Like we are very much a creative nation, hardworking nation, and this is something we want to translate through running Stunner here. That we are very much willing to integrate within the society and perhaps interest you with what we have to show, to sell, to communicate about.

And the other thing, obviously, is constantly reminding everyone that the war is still ongoing. It’s not over. Because I knew straight away, like within maybe like six to eight months, that overall noise about it will die out eventually. As normally happens with anything that the media tends to speak about. And yeah, it’s exactly what has been happening lately.

PV: In the UK, what surprised me compared to other countries is how pretty much everyone with whom we share the fact that we are from Ukraine had something to reply. Like, “oh, I have just been a part of this fundraising group, we bought an ambulance and it was shipped over to Ukraine just recently”, Or, “oh, at my place of work we managed to gather a few thousands of pounds that was donated to either this or that initiative”, Or some of their friends are hosting a Ukrainian family. So, it’s 100% support.

I had never heard something, like, I never had a crooked eye towards us, because we are from Ukraine. It was only support, support, support constantly throughout almost a year. And we want to say thank you for that. To all the residents here in the UK with whom we had the pleasure to speak and meet. Because, yeah, nothing but support. I already mentioned the kind of support we received from the family who are hosting us.If it wasn’t for them, there would be no Stunner in Manchester. They believed in us and we hope not to fail them.

EM: Since arriving in Manchester, where are some of your favourite places to visit and hang out?

PV: Like restaurants, bars, cafes? Just recently, Ad Hoc. Ad Hoc, yeah, that’s good. I don’t know, but it’s kind of become a place where we constantly have a video chat with our friends because it’s quiet and they have great wi-fi. And great wine.

SS: It’s the spot where we jump on video calls with our Ukrainian friends who are all over the world. Some of them are still in Kyiv, some of them are in Germany. And it’s how we maintain this contact, because obviously we haven’t seen our friends for almost two years now. Same with our families.

Oh, another place that I wanted to mention is Calcio. Do you know Calcio? On Dale Street it’s a bar, and one of our friends is one of the co-owners. So it was basically our first place that we discovered here, because we went straight away. We knew already that this place is in Manchester and we want to go there. Because of course they have all these retro shirts on the walls and retro games, consoles. It pretty much has the same effect as our place, because when I ended up there, I kind of wanted, I wish they were letting rooms as well, because I would stay there for a week playing consoles, eating burgers, having wine, and that would be it.

EM: Have you been to Libero in Altrincham yet?

SS: Libero! We really want to go there. We follow them for a long time on Instagram, and now somebody had mentioned it recently, like “have you been to Libero?” And I was like, “fucking hell! It’s really close!”

Over the course of our two hours gathered around the shop floor coffee table, the conversation twists and turns through covering games for Italian media (Stunner’s insta is a hive of exquisitely curated fan interviews outside grounds from across the UK and Europe, as well as football kit culture and history), Serge and Polina’s favourite kits (Serge is currently very partial to David Seaman’s Euro ’96 away goalkeeper’s jersey, while Polina is obsessed with a Genoa number from the early noughties), which teams are most popular with customers so far (Serge reveals that City shirts sell best, currently noticing a 60/40 split between them and United in terms of popularity) and the pair’s affinity for shooting on film and listening to vinyl. However, there is one key line that Polina tells me she wants to share with everyone above all else.

“I really would appreciate it if you could mention it in the article, the fact that UK has become our home away from home.”

That feels like quite an apt line to finish on, doesn’t it? Forza Stunner forever.

There are multiple charities currently raising money for the people of Ukraine. If you can, donate to Warchild to help Ukrainian children affected by the war

It is not long before half past six in the evening. Outside Deansgate heaves with Friday’s post-work revellers, darting decisively from one bar to the next so as not to lose their early weekend momentum. On the other side of the brickwork, inside Hawksmoor, however, the scene is serene and satisfied.

There’s bustle. Of course there’s bustle. It’s Friday evening and this is one of the finest restaurants in Manchester. Reservations are chocker and the staff are reacting appropriately. But their’s is a drift rather than a dart. Swiftly between dining room and bar, servers, bar staff and various levels of what appear to be management are operating effortlessly. The chatter between themselves and the coming-and-going customers perfect punctuation to accompany a thoroughly contented sit with a majestic dirty Martini.

I slide each Belvedere and Fino soaked kalamata from my drink via a stainless steel cocktail pick into my mouth, breathing in every ounce of atmosphere from the surrounding brass, mahogany and parquet. The bar lamps sit charmingly low, glowing up my ‘Don Draper is done for the week’ bullshit that I appear to be on.

And, truth be told, the building that houses Hawksmoor’s Mancunian outpost could quite believably be hosting sordid sixties Madison Avenue shenanigans. It could have a piano’s ivories being tickled by an undone bowtie sporting lad who’s watched La La Land too many times. The staff could be bedecked in starched whites and enough Brylcreem to make an FBI agent blush. There could be cherries jubilee on the dessert menu and a fully stocked cigar humidor presented to each table.

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In this broad shouldered late Victorian ex-courthouse, Hawksmoor could eat itself doused in nostalgia. But one Martini lit sashay through to your table and you are immediately assured that this grand old dame of a dining room has been left in good hands over the last eight years.

We are guided towards our table in the far back corner of a room teeming with date nights, family dinners, old mates catching up and post-work regulars. Not enough restaurants feel like this any more. There’s an otherworldliness to it. A bygone era that still feels up-to-date, steadfastly refusing to become drowned in an attachment to the past that borders on parody.

This is a room that immediately makes your meal feel important. You sense the enjoyment and enthusiasm radiating off every other table and realise that soon you will be vibrating in a similar manner to those around you. Your eyes are involuntarily drawn to plates of food passing within sniffing distance. The menu is neither too simplistic nor is it overblown. It is fine tuned to the very last dry-aged detail.

Hawksmoor’s aim with their Manchester expansion in 2015 was simply to serve the best steaks in the city. The reputation the group had acquired for itself from its London operations suggesting ahead of time that this would be a reasonable aim to have.

You only need to take a solitary bite from your preferred cut to know that they’ve achieved this goal and then some. And done it with a dedication and respect for the craft that has seen Hawksmoor go into Big Steak’s backyard in New York City and sweep up blinding reviews as an outsider barging into the steakhouse capital of the world. And when you can shut up discerning and doubting New Yorkers, you can be confident that no goal is too lofty for your ambitions.

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And it is this success stateside that makes the Hawksmoor experience even more irresistible. Going into Peter Luger’s territory and turning heads after you’ve already conquered London and the north of England could easily be a series of victories that would generate an aloof air to proceedings. The impatience for those among us who are not well versed in bovine variations and wine pairings.

Instead, the staff are immaculately informative and genuine. They put you at ease with a casualness that belies the fact they probably have at least another half dozen packed tables that require their attention. Recommendations are made, laughs are exchanged and no one is left intimidated by the various cuts, sauces, sides and wines that have been presented before them.

I opt for a heft of a ribeye, medium rare. My friend plumps for the fillet, rare. We both know the score when it comes to sides. Those triple cooked chips and that creamed spinach didn’t stand a chance at being left alone. A first carafe of Malbec is ordered up as we toast and survey everything. Each order, each joke cracked with a server, each clink of cutlery and fresh glasses. Each screech and scratch of stainless steel on crockery as the best steaks in Manchester are pulled apart and devoured.

We don’t wait too long before our meat arrives. Just the sight of it on my plate makes me deliriously joyful. I’m enjoying my meal before I’ve even taken a bite. And when I finally do, the steak commands all my tastebuds to groan under every robust fleck of flavour that emanates from its inch perfect char, all eye wateringly tender and delicately salted. The chips and the spinach don’t just hold their own in the ribeye’s company, they accentuate it to another level entirely. Every delicate balance of texture and taste perfectly weighted and optimised in harmony with the other elements of the meal. A big, bombastic, beefy symphony of flavour and wonder.

The second carafe of Malbec accelerates the flowing conversation about the final two seasons of Barry (go and watch it immediately if you haven’t already) and yes, of course we’re having dessert and yes, I plead with our server to extol every crunchy, gooey, salty and sweet virtue of the peanut butter shortbread to me so I can devour it in 10 gloriously delightful seconds. 

Our empty dinner plates are collected, rich with fat and blood residue. We’ve dined like Tony Soprano and Big Pussy Bonpensiero after the murder of Matt Bevilacqua, only without the vengeful post-torture and shooting glee that accompanies their steak dinner. There is immense satisfaction plastered across our faces. If there was to be one acceptable descent into Mad Men revelry right now it would be for a celebratory, top button undone, cigarette under the bar lights. But alas, we’re happy easing back into our seats with matching contented sighs and the final swigs of Argentinean red.

A dining room and bar combination such as Hawksmoor’s exudes history. In a past life, it was a courthouse attended by those who could not come to an agreement. There are no deadlocks in the present day, though. There is an overwhelmingly agreeable attitude to dining here. The aforementioned adventure to the Big Apple entirely understandable as this is a room that could be dropped into any old neighbourhood in Manhattan and immediately feel at home.

At not yet 10-years-old, Hawksmoor Manchester is a far cry from being an ‘institution’ yet if someone told you they’d been serving up curated cow parts for 100 years you wouldn’t for a single second doubt them. They’ve brought Grade II listed history into the modern day and made it feel as warm and vital as a remastered Beatles album. You could dine here 1,000 times and remember every experience in vivid detail.

With so many venues in Manchester still steadfastly refusing to let go of black and yellow chevrons and the myth that ‘we do things differently here’, Hawksmoor blending the past with the present makes for a very exciting future if similar ventures and ideas can be as successful across the city.

I’ll be honest with you, I cannot think of too many occasions where being led down a set of stone stairs into a freezing cold basement full of carcasses would fill me with anything other than abject terror. But here I am, entering the bowels of School Lane in Heaton Chapel, Stockport, being introduced to a hanging parade of ex-pigs and cows. Oh sound, there’s also loads of cleavers and butchers’ knives knocking about as well.

Fortunately, I wasn’t greeted by a frozen solid Frankie Carbone when I completed my descent into the subterranean storage area of Littlewoods Butchers. The body parts and internal organs that were carefully assembled on shelving units and on hooks hanging from the ceiling all once belonged to the farmyard. After the initial nerves had dissipated, I fancied commencing my own Rocky montage, taking jabs at the swinging, skinned, dismembered bodies, exhaling icy breath as I sprinted back up the stairs onto the shop floor and out through the door, all the way to the big Co-Op Pyramid in Stockport.

I didn’t, obviously. Anyone who’s ever met me will know that I simply don’t run. And I especially wouldn’t run away from a shop full of sausages, steaks and pork pies.

In fact, I would run. I would run to Littlewoods Butchers every single day if it didn’t result in me having an enormous asthma attack after about 20 yards. I would also urge every meat eating person reading this to do the same.

We live in an age where sustainability and eco-friendliness are at the forefront of a multitude of extremely important conversations. Yet as a society we still have disposable attitudes thrust upon us at every turn. Which is why I find myself being toured around Littlewoods by the shop’s owner and lifelong family butcher, Marcus Wilson.

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In the business since he was 11, Marcus has over 30 years experience in the family trade. Established in 1964, Littlewoods has specialised in whole carcass butchery and for Marcus, it is a non-negotiable passion that he believes has been sidelined by major supermarkets and their ‘stack it high, sell it cheap’ mentality over the last few decades. And it is a mentality that has crippled the butchering industry along the way.

“Meat in a supermarket, the social cost of that and the environmental cost of that is enormous,” begins Marcus, now in the more welcoming, warming surroundings of the upper floor of Littlewoods’ late 19th century, three story bovine and porcine emporium.

“It’s just cheap. It’s not good value flavour wise or monetary wise or socially or environmentally. I’m not going to shy away from it. There is a cost. There’s this big increase in food prices, so you can’t have this ‘stack it high, sell it cheap’ sort of stuff. We’ve had masses of that in this industry.“

“You’ve gone from the fifties where you had cattle that were slightly bigger to them being enormous in the eighties and nineties, these great big continental crosses and now they’re saying it’s really efficient having really big cattle that we can grow really quick and sell to more customers but what is the social and environmental cost of that?

“The social cost is that you’re paying butchers a pittance because you’re making a pittance on this high volume. Health and safety dropped off. Lots of butchers were having injuries, working incredibly hard, these butchers in their fifties with damaged knees and backs and stuff.

“And then you have the environmental impact. You’re basically just throwing pesticides and fertilisers on fields so you grow really fast, really luscious grass so you can grow these great big animals. What is the cost of that? Well people are starting to become a lot more educated about what those costs are. So how do we move away from that and still eat meat?“

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Given the precarious financial position of, well, almost fucking everybody in the United Kingdom right now, it’s an incredibly pertinent question. Supermarkets such as Tesco, ASDA and ALDI offer a product that is more affordable than Littlewoods. And affordability is the mantra that many families have to live by during a longstanding economic crisis.

As Marcus explains, however, the money being saved on your meat is being lost elsewhere due to the pricing structure these multinational chains employ.

“ALDI had a tomahawk on. Great, they’ve got a tomahawk on. It’s like a third the price of our Tomahawk. You’re not going to enjoy it anywhere near as much as our Tomahawk. They make their money back on that on bags of crisps and cereal and whatever else. They make costs by selling you the worst products you can buy. You’ve bought that cheap meat and you’ve enjoyed it with a salad but in essence you’ve paid however many times over and over again. And I think that’s a really important message to relay.“

Of course, as a business owner in an industry that, at the best of times, can be notoriously perilous, Marcus must always have his bottom line at the forefront of his priorities. Ignore it and everything he and his family have grafted relentlessly for over the last 59 years will disappear. But his own finances are just a slice of a pie that is filled to the brim with environmental issues as well as socio-economic impact.

Rather than merely being a craft that he began mastering in his early teens, whole carcass butchery, for Marcus, is a way of life. It is a discipline that is instilled in every one of his eight employees. But it is also one that is in woefully adequate supply across the British Isles. And it’s wreaking havoc on both the quality of meat we consume an the quality of the environment we live in.

“Where you buy your meat from is what you put back into society. I encourage people to eat 75% less meat than they do, but pay more for the meat they do buy. I tell people all the time to eat much less meat, but really enjoy it. I say to them “you don’t need that much” and they don’t. Instead of having a massive steak every Friday night, why not share it between three of you and appreciate it a lot more? Have it as a treat.

“We don’t throw anything away. Bones go to restaurants to use for stocks or we’ll give them to customers in the shop. If you want bones, you can have them. We encourage you to take them. You can buy a couple of lamb chops and take some bones and just make a soup. Make a noodle soup. Then the next night, don’t have any meat and have yourself a really good veggie noodle soup. You can get bones off us for free. It’s a free meal. And it means that we have no waste. That’s really important to us, that we waste absolutely nothing.”

Combined with their zero waste ethos is one of education at Littlewoods. Marcus and his team want their customers to know where their meat is coming from. They want to share the journey from farm-to-table with a few meal suggestions along the way. And they want to do so by offering a variety of cuts that wouldn’t be stacked into the fridges at Tesco or Sainbury’s. Aligned with a personable service and a genuine duty of care, it isn’t difficult to surmise why Littlewoods have forged such a strong sense of community for themselves over the years.

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One glance at Littlewoods Instagram account can, at first, be a tad startling. After all, it’s not unusual for their stories to feature the skinning and expert dismantling of an entire cattle carcass. Blood splattered tools may make a regular appearance. It is not for the weak of heart, but nor is it an ostentatious display of macho bullshit. It’s a lesson. It’s a step-by-step guide of the painstaking expert skill that it takes to ensure no part of the animal goes to waste.

When supermarkets persist with loading up their fridges with prime cuts at prices that undercut your local butcher, they essentially kill the desire for anything other than the most basic of choices. They also place a much higher value on profit than they do the quality of the meat they’re selling while also effectively de-skilling an entire industry as less importance is put on whole carcass butchery.

“I think at last count, in the UK, there were just 800 butchers in the UK who were doing whole carcass butchery. You just don’t really get many people doing it any more. 800 out of 10,000 outlets. So it’s really hard to get butchers. It’s like being a baker who knows how to do all of the bread and all of the patisserie. You can’t just do one or the other, it’s everything.“

“We’ve got eight staff in total. Six butchers and two apprentices. We do all that in house. So the apprentices start by assisting the butchers. Serving, making burgers, simple butchery, simple trimming and then we just work from there. 

“With the whole carcasses we make pies, sausages, we cure bacon and we’re doing charcuterie as well. So the great thing is you can take them through every single aspect from making a burger or a sausage to cutting a chicken up and slicing the bacon to helping a chef figure out how they’re gonna cook whole carcass. How are they going to use better quality provenance?

“That’s influenced me in every way in how I approach things here. In how I approach the animal from the farm to the carcass to everything we make from the charcuterie to the pies to the terrines, the paté, it gives you so much more that you can do, that added value element.“

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In a telling changing of perceptions, Marcus assures me when I ponder about it that he receives little to no negative feedback regarding the more barbaric looking posts. A sign of a more enlightened generation, where the expertise and dedication is admired and appreciated. It also helps that these shots sit side-by-side with a procession of almost magical photos detailing the stock available on any given day. All of which is made in house. From the gorgeous Merguez sausages that may just be the most aesthetically pleasing meat in tube form you’ll ever lay your eyes on to saliva inducing pork pies and sausage rolls. The scents of which fill the air during the more than three hours I spend talking to Marcus on this early spring morning.

But the quality of Littlewoods’ produce runs far deeper than beautifully marbled aesthetics. Ask any of the countless establishments across Greater Manchester who regularly fill their menus with Marcus’ produce. Whether it be Erst or Edinburgh Castle or Another Hand. They were also the butcher of choice for the dearly departed Creameries/Campagna and District. The depth of flavour in every morsel of their chops, their flank steak, their oxtail. This is the produce a chef dreams of at night. Excess fat is trimmed from carcasses to make burgers that you would happily pen a love sonnet for. There’s shin on the bone, there’s feather blade oh, and they’ve even got their own charcuterie on the go as well.

A dedication to zero waste is a dedication to better physical, financial and environmental health. Marcus repeatedly states during our chat that he wishes people would eat less meat. In refusing to venture down the route of purchasing enormous cattle loaded up on fertiliser and pesticides, he maintains a higher quality of produce while giving back to Mother Nature.

“It’s not the cow, it’s the how. How do we change these habits, how do we make it better? There’s a Dexter hung up downstairs. There’s two cattle there. There’s a Limousin crossed with an Aberdeen Angus, so you’ve got the Angus and then the much better continental it’s been crossed with and then you’ve got this tiny little Dexter next to it, that’s probably about a third the size of these continental crosses.

“And these animals have evolved in such a way that they can just eat really rough pasture, so you can put them out all year round and you don’t need to use fertilisers, you don’t need to use pesticides, they’ll just eat really rough. They’ll plod along, all weathers. You don’t need to stick them in a barn over winter and feed them a load of cereal or concentrate or anything like that. They just eat grass and that’s it. And they’re really healthy animals. They’re really good for rearing their calves, they’re nice cattle to deal with, in every aspect it’s really good.

“Then also, on top of that you might have the regenerative aspect of what they’re doing within the farm itself. So Jane, who’s farm they’ve come from out near Tarporley, she’s regenerating the farm. It had fertilisers and pesticides for years. Now, she’s not doing any of that. She’s just putting the cattle on and turning it over. The cows are eating grasses and clovers and a really varied diet and what they’re putting back in is carbon. That’s the reality of what you’re building there. Building really good soil which you can then use to grow things at a later date without all these things that are so damaging to the environment.

“That is the way forward. The diversity that you’re going to bring back. Nothing’s being taken out of anything. It’s not going to be carbon negative meat. Sometimes it’s adding far more back than its taking away and that is the future. But that future is only sustainable if you’re using whole carcass butchery. Because the other system is producing great big animals and selling it really cheap, where you’re going to need all these phosphates, you’re going to need all the stuff from the petro-chemical industry. But you’ve got to use every part of these Dexters. You can’t throw the fat away. You’re gonna have to do a really good burger with it, you’re gonna have to produce some really good sausages with it. You’re gonna have to sell every aspect of it. You can’t just turf away the no-good cuts“

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It is these ‘no-good cuts’ that are now becoming more in vogue thanks to the championing of professionals like Marcus, but also TV chefs and presenters who have extolled their virtues in recent years on various cookery and travel programmes and documentaries. This additional education through television and social media is convincing younger generations to be more adventurous in their approach to life, when it comes to holiday destinations and the cuisines they opt for when dining out. All of which is tailor made for whole carcass butchery.

“You go to Spain and you’re gonna have pig cheeks, aren’t you? So then you come back and say ‘I want that’. And you’re not going to get those specific cuts in the supermarket. You have to come to places like us,” explains Marcus as we peruse every inch of his eye catching front window display and then his shop counter.

“People are really into nose-to-tail and because we have all the cuts we have customers travelling quite a distance because they know they can get it. People are really into that. It’s been a massive change. I reckon about 20 years ago I was really pushing it, we were really educating people when they came in the shop, ‘ah look at the size of that cow’ ‘it’s a lamb’. They couldn’t connect from the cow they saw a few hundred metres away in a field to when its in the butcher’s shop. But now people are coming in and they recognise the carcasses and they recognise the cuts.

“Especially with something like oxtail, we sell so much of it now. We’ve had customers come in saying stuff like ‘my friend’s over from Jamaica and they have this oxtail stew. How do I make it, what is it? You get a lot of that.”

A more tolerant and diverse approach to dining is a combination that the staff at Littlewoods thrive on. Again, scrolling through their Instagram feed, there are meal recommendations, recipes and preparation guidelines. A variety of cuts being cooked in a variety of manners that leave you slack jawed and drooling like Homer Simpson discovering that gummy Venus de Milo on the back of the babysitter’s jeans.

These recommendations hark back to the education process mentioned earlier. Staff are educated themselves in which cuts of meat are suited to which types of dish. There is a creative license given to all Marcus’ butchers about the best ways in which to serve the seemingly countless cuts of their whole carcass offerings. If a customer requires a specific cut that isn’t available, there will always be an alternative forthcoming, complete with serving suggestion if necessary. An extra personal touch not available from your nearest Sainsbury’s.

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While I depart from my morning at Littlewoods admittedly a bit gutted that I never got to have a go on the sausage making machine (not a euphemism, I assure you. Albeit a good one), I could not have been any more impressed by the knowledge, passion, dedication and skill that I’d encountered in my four hours there from Marcus and his butchers.

During a period in which we need to be more switched on than ever to how our economy and environment are crumbling around us, to have people as dedicated to their craft as the team at Littlewoods – providing a level of care and awareness to not only the food they prepare, but the sustainability and regenerative aspects surrounding it – is a wave of relief that allows you to believe that things can and will actually get better.

Granted, the work of one butcher shop in Stockport may not seem like much in the grand scheme of the chaos surrounding us all, but it’s a small part of what is becoming a much bigger movement. And it’s one we should all get behind. Shop local. Buy the oxtail, take the bag of bones, support your local butcher.

Late in the morning of New Year’s Eve, 2021, my wife and I sat in the back of an Uber en route to St.Mary’s hospital at the top end of Oxford Road. My wife was set to undergo her 20 week pregnancy scan, where we would also discover the sex of our second child. Slightly tense, as most people so often are ahead of any hospital visit, I gazed through the back window across a cityscape that was merging between the past and the present to create what I hoped would be a furiously exciting future for my kids to make the most of.

While the final day of 2021 wasn’t one in which we were beholden to lockdowns or covid restrictions, the recent Omicron variant had pummelled an already exhausted hospitality industry almost beyond breaking point. The mass closures that had been predicted since the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic in March 2020 now feeling like impending doom, ringing in the new year in the bleakest manner imaginable.

Following the relief laden hysteria that, not only was everything absolutely fine with my wife’s pregnancy, but that we were also just five months away from welcoming our first son into the world to join our then two-year-old daughter, I made an impassioned plea that we instil a proper sense of hometown pride and knowledge into our children. To ensure they are wholly familiar with their city’s history and culture.

The aforementioned closures didn’t materialise at the time, but the enormous strain that so many proud institutions in the city had been placed under had provided a sense of urgency. Disasters can strike at any given moment. Covid robbed us all of so many months of our lives. It ripped away loved ones and livelihoods. It also shifted into focus my own personal desire to no longer take for granted the city I had called home for the past decade and that my children will more than likely spend their most formative years.

Almost 15 months later, however, and it already feels as if the character and charm that makes so many people fall in love with Manchester is being ruthlessly stripped away by opportunistic property developers, landlords and an uncaring, incompetent government.

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One-by-one longstanding independents are closing and new, inventive ventures failing. District, the pulsating Neo-Thai sensation on Oldham Street, didn’t manage to see out 2022 before shuttering, despite a raft of rave reviews and some of the most mind blowingly great plates and cocktails that have ever graced the city. Mary-Ellen McTague helmed The Creameries tragically shut up shop in Chorlton in the first half of the year, even after a rapturously received rebranding as ragu and focaccia led Campagna.

This was just the beginning.

Since the calendar rolled over into 2023, it seems as if every other news story regarding Mancunian hospitality is on the subject of more closures. Energy bills are long past unmanageable. Food costs are soaring and customers don’t have as much money left over in their bank accounts for meals out as a result of their own bottom lines being catastrophically impacted.

Independent businesses are in a chokehold. And as many of them enter their death throes, they breath life into the scourge of the depleted. Property developers, eager to capitalise on tenants that are unable to sustain another financial shit kicking move without conscience. They force out the Cafe Metros and fuck over the McCall’s vegetables and Manchester Book Buyers. They’d gentrify their own fucking gran if they could.

As I type, the Northern Quarter’s sartorial overlords Oi Polloi are announcing their closure. Bought by JD Sports in 2021, this past week has brought with it the news many have feared since that sale two years ago. A JD owned Hip Store is expected to take the place of a proud Mancunian institution. A corporate hiding in plain sight as an independent. Essentially one big, massive ‘we don’t give a fuck’ from a high street chain with about as much charm and character as a dinner date with Nadine Dorries.

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With the conservatives shit scared of standing up to record profit setting oil companies because, y’know, that would require having an ounce of self belief or a shred of backbone and compassion, most traders, regardless of success, are finding it nigh on impossible to scrape together rent each month. When your energy bills more than double almost overnight, that is an inevitability.

Through no fault of their own, and completely avoidably (TAX THE FUCKING OIL COMPANIES. IT’S REALLY NOT THAT FUCKING DIFFICULT) restaurants, cafes, pubs and bars are plummeting helplessly into the abyss. And what is taking their place?

What do you think?

During Manchester’s seemingly ceaseless regeneration over the last two decades, Victorian brickwork has been shouldered into the middle distance by glass fronted uniformity. By white boxes with varying numbers of bedrooms. By ‘quirky’ offices and co-working spaces (banging a neon sign on the wall, putting out a few boxes of cereal and having a ping-pong table isn’t quirky. It’s needless shite for £15-a-day). Multinational chains have taken over historical spaces, in case you really need some frozen, flavourless TGI’s mozzarella sticks before taking in a matinee at the Royal Exchange theatre. And news incessantly breaks about London transplants moving Northwards, gripped to the coattails of the monumental Hawksmoor.

Of course, it must be said that Hawksmoor has been a resounding success story in Manchester. A move executed flawlessly by all involved. It is, deservedly, one of the most widely respected and ruthlessly enjoyed restaurants in the city. Food, service, decor, it is utterly unstoppable, feeling as though it has stood proudly on Deansgate for decades. A rare example of a London establishment slotting into the heart of Manchester seamlessly and being welcomed with open arms while doing so.

But then came the rumours of Sexy Fish, at one point believed to be taking over the Armani space in Spinningfields. That entire sentence just feels grotesque to read, doesn’t it? It felt fucking grotesque to type, anyway. When we at EATMCR shared the news on our Twitter account, beautifully coiffed jazz enthusiast and food critic Jay Rayner bluntly replied, “you say this as if it’s a good thing”. The robata grilled fish enthusiasts of Mayfair have long loved themselves some king crab California maki and kombu cured tuna belly, washed down with £20 cocktails and a surrounding aesthetic of ‘literally the worst fucking nightclub you have ever had the misfortune to set foot in in your entire life’. So why wouldn’t this ‘sparklers in champagne bottles’ millionaires playground be desired in Manchester?

Well, fortunately, it appears as if owners Caprice Holdings have had second thoughts about the space and are now opting for a Greek leaning concept instead, according to reports that did the rounds at the beginning of 2022. However, the point remains that corporations with chequebooks the size of Jack Grealish’s Albert Schloss bar tab are relentlessly targeting Manchester for their next stages of expansion. Some, undoubtedly, will transition well and hopefully become beloved spots for years to come. Others will simply be soulless, influencer fronted cash grabs, of which we are already overburdened with.

In season six, episode eight of The Sopranos, Tony Soprano laments to realtor Julianna Skiff that “you drive around America today and everything looks the fucking same” as he attempts to dissuade her from continuing her attempts to purchase Caputo’s Poultry – a chicken shop owned by Tony in the old neighbourhood of the North Ward in Newark, New Jersey. While Tony will eventually relent for several hundred thousand dollars (and a brief, failed extramarital dalliance with Julianna) his point remains. The site, long owned by a local Italian family, is to be turned into a Jamba Juice. Earlier in the same episode, the manager of a sterile looking coffee shop, newly opened in the area, is unsuccessfully shaken down for protection money by two of Tony’s foot soldiers, unwavering in his plea that every expenditure must go through corporate. Later in the episode, an aghast Patsy Parisi laments “what the fuck is happening to this neighbourhood?”

Obviously, a fictional mafia family in New Jersey being left out of pocket isn’t exactly the sympathetic image I’m trying to paint, here. But their mindset as it regards the streets where they grew up is one we can all share, regardless of geography or legality of profession. When there are fewer places you can walk into and feel immediately at home, as if you’ve stepped into a relative or an old friend’s front room or kitchen, you ought to be concerned for the future. When these places begin to disappear, their replacements are seldom as embracing. A Starbucks or a Costa or any other chain where the management and staff have no emotional investment in their place of work, is a death knell for the culture of a city.

You can argue that these venues have a place and serve their purpose when it comes to their ability to generate jobs, especially during a period of such austerity. Yet if independents were offered the level of protection the government offer their hedge fund hoarding mates, more of them would be allowed to prosper. Or just survive in the first place.

Even Ancoats, the rare occurrence, in this writer’s opinion at least, of a neighbourhood regenerated in the right way and actually adding to Manchester’s allure, could be the precursor for something altogether more sinister when you take into account the perilous position of the cash ravaged areas around it yet to be touched by gentrification.

It is times like these when we must cherish the China Towns, Wilmslow Roads and Cheetham Hills. The neighbourhoods retaining their character and community while plating up some of the finest plates of food in the city (if not the country). We must hold out hope that the Higher Grounds and Ersts and Osmas can continue to produce their elevated levels of gastronomy to demonstrate to the world that Manchester is a destination for fine dining and experimentation, rather than them eventually going the way of District, which will forever feel like a seismic loss given the mind bending skill demonstrated in their kitchen.

Manchester has prided itself on innovation, on industry and craft, throughout history. In recent years, it has rested on its laurels, veering dangerously towards becoming a Madchester theme park, where you gain free entry for wearing black and yellow chevrons and correctly naming five New Order b-sides. People became so obsessed with doing things differently here that they ended up doing things even worse than most other major cities. Championing the past is all well and good until you realise that the present and future have been totally neglected.

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I wish I could take my ‘old man shouts at cloud’ frustrations to CBRB until 2am, drowning my sorrows in a bowl of broth and about 14 cocktails. Be nice, wouldn’t it?

A 1,000+ word despairing rant may not seem particularly productive when it comes to solving Manchester’s myriad of issues. Cathartic, perhaps. But it is a plea to rail against the soulless and the opportunistic. To proudly uplift those most in need. To protest mistreatment and not allow token gestures from those with power and money to distract from the real issues plaguing or city. Make the most of the caffs, the greasy spoons, the subterranean drinking dens and the old bloke pubs. Remember that Tesco Express and Sainsbury’s Local cannot hold a candle to the crisps and fizzy pop selections at any given corner shop or off license.

Anyway, I’m just off to round up a load of people to chain ourselves to Rustica and The Millstone. Just in case.

Simple pleasures are often the easiest things to fuck up. It is, after all, their simplicity that allows for all manner of artistic interpretation and experimentation. The humbler the item, the blanker the canvas for the more creative or audacious (or flat out foolish) individuals among us to go hog fucking wild with.

Elevation can be a wondrous accomplishment. Or it can be an outright fiasco. So when presented with a plate as universally beloved as the chip butty, you better tread very fucking carefully.

After all, there is seldom a dining experience as heartwarmingly wholesome, as uproariously simplistic and joyous as the chip butty. Chippy chips, homemade efforts or from the freezer straight into the oven, no judgements here. Onto a roll or between a couple of slices of toastie loaf, slathered in golden butter. A dash of ketchup or maybe a smattering of salt and vinegar? Go for your fucking life, love. Enjoy yourself.

The compact squash of another uncomplicated masterpiece is as satisfying as watching scissors glide uninterrupted through a ream of wrapping paper. Then you sink your teeth into your big, beautiful, beige boy and all is right with the world for a few glorious, starch soaked minutes.

It is difficult to imagine that this moment could be improved upon. There you are, pair of joggers, scalding hot brew in tow, in front of Steph’s Packed Lunch on a drizzle drenched Wednesday afternoon. Or huddled over a peeling formica table, lashing on your condiment of choice in your favourite caff, washing down every other mouthful with a swig of freezing cold Fizzy Vimto. Or heavily pissed/hungover, constructing a behemoth on your kitchen counter, wondering if you’ll successfully be able to unhinge your jaw like a Burmese Python in order to consume it.

Somehow though, the team at Edinburgh Castle have taken these cherished scenarios and adapted them in such a way that is elevated, yet without pretension while, and I’m not being dramatic here, making you question everything that you’ve ever known about anything ever.

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The first thing to note is, obviously, the ingredients. These go far beyond chips, butter and sliced bread. To read them out loud is to wonder why such a risk would even be taken. You could easily forgive anyone who contorts their facial features at the thought of beef tartare and seaweed mayonnaise adorning their chips. After all, how many sarnies are truly in need of extra raw meat?

Yet this exquisite tartare crowns chef Shaun Moffat’s spuds, all triple cooked and glistening like resplendent golden columns that have been felled for the sole purpose of providing the filling for this immaculate creation.

The aforementioned mayo of seaweed is one of two mayonnaises to be smeared within a Pollen Bakery brioche roll of such magnificence I feel an impromptu love sonnet coming on at the mere thought of it. The second mayo is that of beef fat. Until my introduction to EC’s chip butty I had only ever dealt with mayonnaise in a singular form. Pairing two together took me back to April 2001 when, on an episode of WWF Monday Night Raw, Triple H and Stone Cold Steve Austin buried their years long rivalry to batter The Rock together and form The Two Man Power Trip. It was a teaming that piqued my interest and combined two entities for which I had an enormous amount of admiration, but I was wary of the pairing being overkill.

However, unlike The Game and The Texas Rattlesnake’s ill fated tag team, Chef Moffat’s duo of mayos is an umami laden accomplishment of seismic proportions. Especially when accompanied by delicately pickled shallots, providing that desperately crucial vinegar acidity, and tremendous Cinderwood mustard greens.

And, of course, what would beef tartare be without a blissfully prepared egg yolk? Vivid as the sun in colour, cascading southwards upon that first bite, acting as a gloriously decadent adhesive, binding every element together and coating your fingers in such a way your fellow barflies go weak at the knees, rather than be reviled at the sight of another patron being doused in dripping, viscous egg.

As I stared at the menu, already previously aware of the existence of this bar topping leviathan, I attempted to wrap my head around its contents. I supped my Guinness, consulted the instagram pictures that had already been shared of Manchester’s most talked about new sandwich, and deliberated.

You see, every single bit of it filled me with passionate levels of hysteria. It was the sandwich equivalent of Martin Scorsese’s The Irishman. Whereas chef Moffat had blended together a series of ingredients that sparked enormous enthusiasm, Scorsese produced a line up of my favourite ever actors in Robert De Niro, Al Pacino and Joe Pesci, drizzled over a couple of supporting acts that I could watch in almost anything in Bobby Cannavale and Ray Romano and even added a dash of Jesse Plemons and Steven Graham for good measure. What came forth was a cinematic masterstroke, no doubt, but one that I haven’t been prepared to revisit since my first viewing. It left me full and satisfied, but to the point where I knew it would be a long while until I felt any sort of desire to experience it again, despite its depth and genius.

Upon completion of my final morsel, when the last fleck of autumn leaf brown Pollen brioche was swept past my lips, soaked in the remnants of yolk that had redecorated my plate with an avant garde splatter, I realised Edinburgh Castle’s chip butty was not actually The Irishman and was, it turns out, Michael Mann’s Heat. It was Pacino and De Niro cat and mousing across Los Angeles, crescendoing in that coffee shop scene, their first ever on-camera pairing together.

Every mouthful of EC’s sandwich hits your tastebuds like an atomic bomb. As you chew you both marvel at every intricacy and nuance of flavour and ingenuity and breathlessly anticipate your next mouthful, akin to witnessing Al and Bob verbally sparring back-and-forth across cups of coffee, ratcheting up the tension for their final act, each line reading an Academy Award worthy performance. It isn’t bombastic, it’s something simple taken to a whole different level in the hands of the very best.

Shaun Moffat has recently made his way to Ancoats from the much (and rightfully) acclaimed Manteca in London. In his short time in Manchester so far, it is safe to say that he has established himself as one of the very best chefs the city has to offer. It goes without saying that the upstairs dining menu at EC is almost unspeakably brilliant. That Cavolo Nero with pearl barley, Yorkshire pecorino fiore and the same Buford brown egg yolk found on the chip butty is both a culinary and artistic celebration of flavour that everyone in the city must make a pilgrimage for. That Tamworth pork chop, semi-circled around apple and mustard leaves? Bury me in it, to be honest. Some of the finest food served in one of the finest establishments in the city.

But for every joyful plate that is devoured upstairs, it is the butties that are gorged upon by the lager swigging punters downstairs that will remain the most important dishes served here or anywhere across Manchester.

At a time where restaurants, bars and shops are shuttering left, right and centre, Manchester continues to be ripped from its charm and its true identity. The recent closures haven’t just been overly ambitious start ups that have failed, either. It is institutions disappearing before our eyes. Metro Cafe opposite the Arndale, a victim of redevelopment after a quarter century of family run service. Student favourite Font unable to cover exorbitant rent increases after 22 years of slinging cocktails and soundtracking endless uni nights out. Northern Quarter shop Oklahoma has said goodbye after 30 years, while just up the road much loved florist Flourish has sold its final bouquet. Late night ramen and bun legends CBRB shared the emotional news of their closure two weeks ago to a deluge of devastated regulars.

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And that’s before you mention Manchester Book Buyers and McCall’s Organics, two stalls synonymous with the city centre, adored by the masses with an almost unsurpassed history in NQ and beyond. You may have heard this one before, but property developers are behind their imminent disappearance too.

For all the success stories and potential currently being discussed in Manchester, there’s also an inordinate amount of heartbreak and despair. Business owners unprotected by uncaring landlords. History being torn away from the city one shop and stall at a time. Identikit gentrification swarming the streets where there was once an abundance of character, all rough around the edges and enticing. Most importantly, there was warmth. Now, there is more and more sterility seeping into every corner of a city that is barely clinging onto the very facets of what make it so unique.

And so we circle back to Shaun Moffat and his chip butty. An exuberant, uplifting creation. A towering work of wonder that can genuinely bring the masses together. A (not so) simple sandwich that can put a smile on even the most hardened of faces. A properly Mancunian plate (even if it was crafted by a Londoner) that inspires almost endless discussion and newfound devotion. It’s a standout from the pack sort of sandwich. One which will go onto become a reliable fixture of the city’s dining scene for years to come. A generational dish, full of Northern heart and high end eccentricities. Something to make the crises feel manageable. A plate of promise and, most importantly, pride.

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You might read this and think, “fucking hell, steady on Joe, it’s a nice butty, but calm down”. I get that. But I also get the fact that an alarming amount of Manchester business owners are seeing their hopes and dreams eviscerated on an almost daily basis. I get the heartbreak and the depression at a city crumbling from what it once was and still should and could be. A chip butty becoming one of the most talked about menu items in the city is, for whatever my opinion’s worth, the perfect antidote to all this cost of living and landlord led bleakness.

The classics are classic for a reason. And Shaun Moffat and his team have delivered us another just when the city needed it the most. Cheers.

I am 90% sure whatever moisture just descended from my face, whether it be one of the countless beads of perspiration polka dotting my forehead or a cascade of snot with the same consistency as a glass of Robinson’s fruit and barley cordial, has just touched down into the chilli soaked nether regions of my brimstone red beef noodle broth. I am also 100% sure that I couldn’t give a single, solitary shite.

My reckless abandon for personal facial hygiene at this moment in time, being that I am sequestered within the bowels of OnePlus‘ furiously good rice and noodle bar on Charles Street, is due to the fact that sat opposite me is nothing but an empty chair. Street side the temperature is cracking 29 degrees celsius. If you were to take a thermometer to my face halfway through my devouring of OnePlus’ immersive bovine bowl, the mercury would shatter the glass with the urgency of its ascent.

In company, this situation would rapidly become untenable. Chances are no one in their right mind would wish to endure their own private audience with a bloke who appears to have been dunked in a sink full of scalding washing up water. But regardless of whether my head looks like it’s been trapped in it’s own personal sauna, I am deliriously happy and I am completely alone.

Fear not, this isn’t the opening notes of a very public breakdown, but rather an ode to the art of solo dining and the abundance of opportunities in which to enjoy the art form currently afforded to us in Manchester.

So, if you haven’t done so already, prepare to channel your inner fucking Steven Glansberg.

Of course, there is unconstrained elation that comes with a bawdy group booking at your favourite curry house, tearing at the gargantuan naans and howling over lamb handis and the poppadom pickle tray, sloshing pints of Cobra between yourselves. Alternatively, sharing a bottle across a couple of plates of expertly prepared pasta with somebody you’d quite like to wake up next to the following morning is also a beautiful thing. But, have you ever tried simply sitting outside Flawd with a parade of natural wines and a couple of small plates, staring endlessly across Ancoats Marina without an ounce of care or thought occupying your head?

It’s mesmeric.

Dining alone allows you to shed all the responsibility usually required when eating out. You have absolutely no one to impress or feel compelled to engage with. Sometimes, you just want to have a sordid little love affair with something that is smothered in n’duja. You wish to experience the filling of a pastry based dish, gravy dribbles and all, with the animated, wide eyed euphoria of food critic Anton Ego in Ratatouille.

A table for one is unencumbered from day-to-day struggles. You just sit, eat and drink. If you get overzealous and wolf down Jane Eyre’s vinegar stroke inducing pork chop too quickly, you can shift out a tactical burp beneath the safety blanket of your own company. No one needs to know. Similarly, if you slop an arseload of Birria Brothers consommé down your crisp white tee and no one is around to see it, did it really happen? I mean, it definitely did, but so fucking what? Just tactically hide it underneath a shirt or jacket and sling it in the wash when you get home, having repulsed absolutely no one in the process.

In an age where we are seamlessly sliding from one economic crisis to another, amid the doom of a completely overwhelmed healthcare system, war in Ukraine and fascism rising from its ugly, bigoted ashes across Europe, there is more need than ever to just zone the fuck out. Empty your head and push really good fucking food into it. Someone sitting across the table from you will only lead to conversation. You don’t want that. You’ll end up talking about one of the above and will return home wanting a massive brew and quite a huge cry.

Fortuitously, Manchester is blessed with an abundance of establishments where parties of one are welcomed with open arms. So pack a decent paperback or simply clear space for a big, lovely, prolonged stare into the void.

Because that’s part of the beauty of eating out sans any fucker else. You can indulge in an uninterrupted dip into a widely acclaimed tome just as easily as you can slip into an hour long trance, broken only to lift morsels to your mouth every few seconds or so.

It could be argued that are really no rules to unaccompanied dining. You make your own fun. You could paw at Erst’s wondrous flatbreads and sip orange wine while studiously familiarising yourself with a Murakami or Franzen, should you desire to venture down the ‘sophisticated stranger’ path where fellow diners wonder between themselves in hushed tones, “who’s that cunt?”. Alternatively, you could knuckle down into any number of plates from El Gato Negro’s mercurial tapas menu, barely coming up for air between breathless bites of salt cod croquetas and chargrilled lamb skewers. Or maybe you just want to tuck into a corner of The Blackfriar, big jumper on the go, your cottage pie and Guinness odyssey soundtracked by the crackling of the kindling on the fire, as your late afternoon lunch effortlessly segues into a four pint early evening session.

Better yet, all those embarrassing ordeals that are painfully endured when sharing a table with other people? Evaporated into thin air. Who you trying to impress? If you don’t understand a menu or are not well versed with a certain cuisine, you are confused in a judgement free zone. No one will remember your clammy fingers fumbling with those chopsticks like an over excited lad confronted with his first bra clasp. That chilli you knocked back by mistake that left you panting like a knackered Jack Russell is simply a moment lost in the ether, so go ahead, venture into the corners of the menus you never dare set foot in around company. Contort your face into all manner of Picasso paintings, order a fucking banana split for dessert or better yet, a knickerbocker glory if you can still find them. Or just engorge yourself on a cheeseboard until the gout bulges out of your eyes.

Don’t misunderstand me, having been bound by law from seeing anyone else for the best part of 18 months due to Covid-19, a breakfast, lunch, dinner or drinks with family and friends is obviously a gift that we should never, ever take for granted. Those meals should be cherished, of course they should. But breaking away from the chaos of modern life, of being too knackered and overwhelmed with *gestures vaguely at the outside world*, is a gift we should all reward ourselves with on at least a semi-regular basis. It’s hard enough to even think straight most of the time right now, let alone make coherent conversation. There are only so many times the words ‘cost of living crisis’ can be uttered before you go completely insane.

Settling into anonymity among the crowds at Mackie Mayor or enjoying the serenity of a beautifully brewed coffee at Another Heart To Feed or Trove are equally magical experiences when executed correctly. People watch your arse off. Slurp your ramen loud and proud. Order the full bottle just for yourself. Pick mindlessly at your croissant for half an hour while wondering if you’ve actually got the charisma to properly pull off ‘Love On Top’ by Beyonce as your go-to karaoke song (don’t worry, you have, and always will do).

Caution: Stay clear of doom scrolling. That goes without saying. No good comes from social media at the best of times, never mind when you’re attempting to emotionally rid yourself of the rest of the world for a little while.

Oh, and if you notice another solo diner in your vicinity, a simple head nod or, if you’re feeling particularly enthusiastic, an ever-so-slightly raised fist in solidarity is more than enough recognition. Don’t get weird after one too many Negronis and try to become their best mate from across the room. Never forget why you’re on your bill in the first place.

And, finally, let it not escape anyone’s memory how fucking spectacularly good bar area dining can be. Bar snacks are an art form worth at least 5,000 words of their very own. Pair them with the thrum of atmosphere generated by a great establishment, one which you don’t even have to contribute towards, but merely enjoy, and baby, you are in flavour town. Tear apart your wings and fold your tacos amid hot gossip, simmering domestics, lewd jokes and, depending on the time, lewder pre-pillow talk. From chips and Martinis at Hawksmoor to devilled eggs at Edinburgh Castle onwards to 10p wings at Bunny Jackson’s or an emergency pint soaking pizza at Night and Day, there are almost boundless bar snacking options available to you in Manchester to take advantage of.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just off to slump into one of those mood lit booths at New Century with a Tallow cheese burger and about six cocktails. Do not disturb.

Friends, family, they come and go, quite frankly. But a great sandwich? A carby creation of unencumbered artistry? To revel in alongside a packet of crisps and a tin of pop, whatever the weather? At a cafe, in a restaurant or your front room on a pissing down weekday? This is a level of perfection that truly knows no bounds.

And, suddenly, Manchester appears to be tightly in the grips of a potentially enormous era of butty making brilliance.

Of course, this isn’t to say that the streets have been bereft of sublime sarnies in recent years. Rustica’s Milano alone has been reason enough to venture into town whatever the weather for over two decades. In fact, it should be front and centre of all promotional tourism materials that are designed to convince out-of-towners to visit sunny Manchester.

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Katsouris is now over 15 years deep into keeping the Deansgate faithful in piping hot half ciabattas, but until recently, premium bread and filling based perfection was hard to come by inside an M postcode.

Then, miraculously, just as pinpricks of light were beginning to illuminate the end of the covid filled tunnel we had been suffering through for the previous 12 months, a combustion of carbohydrates and cured Italian meats ignited something seminal within the Mancunian lunchtime community.

BADA…FUCKING…BING

Sam Gormally and Meg Lingenfelter’s original hole-in-the-wall hoagie hut, operating out of the kitchen of B-Lounge in Piccadilly, took North New Jersey’s predilection for prosciutto and provolone and transplanted it into the culinary fabric of Greater Manchester. Effusive hand gestures and giardinara stained t-shirts were abound for the Sopranos inspired sarnie spot, which then toured Ancoats, first at a shared space with Lazy Tony’s Lasagneria and then at General Stores before…

“Don’t stop…”

Fade to black.

After a few months in the wilderness, much like Kevin Finnerty ambling frustratedly through a coma dream, The Bing went the way of Tony Soprano’s ducks, heading south for the winter permanently at the beginning of July.

But whereas once losing the majesty of the muffuletta or the sensational shrimp po’boy would have been a cataclysmic tale of unrecoverable woe, what The Bing had in fact done, in death, was set the table for a new crew of sarnie specialists to thrive.

“Bada Bing were the OG’s. They really started it off for Manchester” says Aanish Chauhan, of Fat Pat’s, another hole-in-the-wall, not too far from where The Bing got their big break (a stone’s throw from Piccadilly down Portland street) that has recently taken the city by storm, paying respects to the double fisted heroes that paved the way for his recent, homemade milk roll encased passion project.

His sentiments are echoed by Batard’s baked good mastermind Lewis Loughman, himself helming a new butty based branch of his burgeoning empire, Super Happy.

“The absolute G’s Bada Bing smashing it out the park at General Stores started a North West sarnie renaissance” enthuses Lewis, who will soon take over lunch duties at Ducie Street Warehouse with Super Happy.

These sub roll saucepots are not the only duo slathering meats, cheeses, veggies, crisps and christ knows what else between two slices of bread, however. Fried chicken connoisseurs Kong’s slalomed seamlessly into the pockets of Big Sandwich with their arrival at Hatch, ditching birds for butties in spectacular fashion.

Back in Ancoats, The Bing’s old residence at General Stores was, until recently, still heaving with Italian inspired creations as Mira flung their Maradona sized meatballs into their Neapolitan cuzzetiellos and promptly out of the door to a throng of elated (and soon-to-be exhausted) regulars. The creator of these southern Italian behemoths, Mike Swain, was just as enthusiastic about the current state of sandwich in Manchester as his counterparts from Super Happy and Fat Pat’s.

“The food scene in general in Manchester is flying right now, and it’s always inspiring and challenging, so it’s no wonder people are using the sandwich as a canvas to create more good food in the city.”

“There aren’t many foods that are universally loved but the sandwich is definitely one. So there’s always going to be demand for good sandwiches, and the variations are endless.”

But why is it that suddenly The Bing’s influence became so prominent? How had this corner of the market been so threadbare for so long? Manchester is a city in which substantial portions are often required to combat the mercury plummeting climate. So why have these heroes only caught fire over the past year or so?

“I think a lot of inspiration comes from the States with sandwiches like ours,” surmises Aanish, “but during lockdown people just got really creative at home.“

Lewis, meanwhile, believes sandwiches are synonymous with the Mancunian work ethic and general attitude.

“I feel like Manchester never really stops, we’re all grafters here and a good sandwich to me is always synonymous with a well earned lunch break. Or a massive hangover. Both usually require you to put the work in to earn that scran.”

“I think it’s also a return to food that people love and recognise. A move away from the over complicated and more into casual but considered; that’s what we’re aiming for with Super Happy anyway.”

The romance of a great sandwich is as unifying an art form as there is when it comes to cuisine. Or just life in general, to be honest. It can be something as simple or stupefyingly complex as you wish to design it. Maybe it’s a nostalgia inducing tuna mayo on wholemeal, adorned with a series of horizontal Mrs. Elswood gherkin slices. It could perhaps be creamy, crumbly Lancashire cheese paired perfectly with chunky Branston pickle within the confines of a floury farmhouse white. Few salt and vinegar Walkers or McCoys on the side and a tin of something fizzy.

Then again, there is the thrill of a devil-may-care attitude when confronted with an eccentric collection of ingredients in your fridge-freezer. Last night’s leftover lamb karahi, could that go with Sunday’s remaining roast spuds, a blob of banana ketchup, a small handful of those pickled onions aaaaaaaaaaaand…..chicken dinosaurs? You’ll never know if you don’t find out. It could be an unmitigated tragedy of which you never speak again, remembering only through nightmares that awaken you in the dead of night in a cold sweat. OR it could be a glorious triumph, shared proudly like a delightful newborn to social media for your friends and followers to drool over and DM you for the recipe. Which you will never fucking give them. Obviously.

It is this blank canvas approach that the sandwich allows which has allowed for such flourishes of ingenuity from Manchester’s current sarnie slinging collective.

But what do they believe makes the perfect sandwich? What is the magic behind the triumph?

“Balance, balance is everything I reckon,” begins Lewis, “season anywhere you get the opportunity. Vinegar too, man sharpness goes a long way. It’s about having the flavours complement each other, and getting in a range of textures that make every bite engaging. Stuff between bread, there’s a million ways to get it right – but for us it’s attention to detail that makes somewhere outshine Subway or Pret.”

For Mike, the romance of creating something beautiful out of nothing is what draws him like a moth to a flame. Or the light of the fridge.

“I reckon it’s 70% emotion and 30% ingredients. If it’s made with a bit of passion it’ll slap. 

“Some of the best sandwiches are thrown together on a whim. You look in the fridge, see a few bits and think ‘oh yeah, I’ll make a sandwich out of that’, and next thing you know you’ve got a monster of a butty staring back at you – the perfect sarnie.”

Aanish, meanwhile, relies heavily on childhood memories for his own variety of inventiveness, which he has been conjuring up round the back of Portland street with his dad Khurshid and sous chef/side man since day one Archie.

“All the things you used to eat as a kid, that’s what Fat Pat’s is all about to be honest. Gotta have the best bread to sandwich nostalgia into though.”

Said nostalgia is currently seeing Pat’s hot honey fried chicken, Philly cheesesteak and double meatball parm sell out on the daily at staggering speed. Likewise, the big fucking boatload of fun Lewis is having in concocting fried mortadella subs, dripping in tangy homemade Buffalo sauce, is demolishing saliva gland across the city. A procession of mobile phones smudged in drool as they open instagram to once again be greeted by an incoming Leviathan of unabashed playfulness and lunacy.

Over at Kong’s, the New York bodega style they have decided on favouring has been a surefire winner. Crunching crisps into chewy, freshly baked ciabattas among all manner of top shelf ingredients is the sort of Frankenstein’s monster situation it’s impossible not to get on board with.

Between Gas Works Brew Bar and Stretford Foodhall, Mira are continuing to take on all comers and appetites of all sizes with their OG cuzzetiellos, as well as some newer, more traditionally presented sans such as the monumental, jawline testing Ndulius Caesar (crispy fried chicken breast, Caesar dressing, ‘nduja, lettuce, tomato). Their lesser seen form, inspired by a holiday to Napoli, initially began life in Manchester staying pretty traditional to the Neapolitan roots from which the idea sprung.

Over time, however, everything from Chinese inspired pork chiu chow and a gochujang broth heavy ramen filled collaboration with RamYum to slow cooked baharat lamb shoulder with za’atar has made its way into Mira’s ‘Cuzzy’s’. With blisteringly good results each time.

The ever shifting variety of sans becoming available to an increasingly enthusiastic fanbase is showing no signs of abating, either. Old faithfuls are still being admired and devoured at Rustica and Katsouris, queues promptly snaking in all directions, while BreadFlower continue their evolution from schmeared bagels to full blown breakfast and lunch offerings in which fillings are sandwiched rather than left out in the open.

Oh, and how could I wax lyrical about floury, doughy delights, crammed with all manner of stuffings without mentioning THAT egg sandwich from Gooey?

Seriously.

Fucking Christ.

One look at it is like staring into a magic eye. Something about it will twig your imagination with each viewing. The Mona Lisa, Edvard Munch’s The Scream and Dali’s The Persistence of Memory are, quite frankly, bullshit in comparison to any pictures of this yolky dreamboat.

Toasted, baked in-house white sliced Japanese Shokupan bread. A yolk, beaming with an amber hue possessing the deep burning intensity of a thousand suns, halved and speckled subtly with black pepper, surrounded by further egg, this time mayonaissed with generous globs of Kewpie.

This is a sandwich of such profound magnificence that one should be preserved in formaldehyde, akin to a tiger shark falling into the crosshairs of Damien Hirst, and displayed forever more in the Manchester Art Gallery.

The dedication to freshly baking various vessels for which to house all manner of nostalgic and outrageous ingredients is, we pray, so much more than a trend. This recent, post-covid momentum shift towards the simple pleasure of the sandwich is an ode to an innocence that has been absent for far too long in restaurants and cafes. Long, LONG, may it continue.

“Shite almighty” is the cry as a howl of wind and heft of pints cyclones around the insides of our collective craniums. This startling few seconds is enough to remind us, as we briefly attempt to sustain a solid vertical base, that it is in fact only just gone past four in the afternoon and not in fact half two in the morning. Drizzle descends and I inform my mate from work with whom I’ve been supping the afternoon away with that I need to steady myself and the five pints inside my stomach. Being that we’re in Back Piccadilly and (not so) fresh from a questionably lengthy session in Mother Macs, there’s only one port of call for me to attend to.

God (and every other deity) Bless Cafe Marhaba.

My journey may only be a dozen or so stumbled steps through the humid precipitation of a hazy mid-June aft, but I would happily hike miles through sleet, snow and acid rain for a meal as memorable as the one I’m about to inhale.

Graffiti and posters for club nights I will never, ever attend are splattered with such abandon across the backside of Dale Street that you could be forgiven for wandering past Marhaba without even acknowledging its existence. Tucked between peeling white painted brickwork, overwhelmed wheelie bins and nondescript, shuttered doors and windows, it is simply an aroma that grabs you. Plum by the nostrils you are snatched and led through a well worn door that sticks open with a firm nudge. A cacophony of spices and expertly cooked chicken and lamb radiates from the kitchen, ever so slightly out of sight, tucked away at the end of the counter. The lunchtime rush a good couple of hours since dissipated, the overworked steel pans are downturned on the hob, blackened from countless hours over the flames.

Decoration is at a minimum, here. Five two-top cafe tables, synonymous with greasy spoons up and down the country, occupy the wall along your left as you enter. One wall is adorned with the curry menu against a kitchen standard backdrop of plain white tiles, the other with kebab options. This pair of plastic hoardings, with their whiteboard marker prices scrawled next to dishes as standard as tikka massala and jalfrezi through to lesser spotted alternatives such as lamb pumpkin and keema potato, make up what is, for my or anyone’s money, one of the most important menus in all of Greater Manchester.

Because, let’s face it, any menu with ‘BIG SAMOSA – £1.00’ on it is 100% unfuckwithable.

I stare, mouth agape, partly due to my over imbibed level of consciousness, partly due to the freshly baked scent humming from the tandoor, glowing like the Thundercat symbol and hitting me with the same ferocity as the first listen of ‘good kid, m.A.A.d city’. Yes, yes, alright, the rice and three offerings that have been doing the rounds here since 1992 are the stuff of legend round Manchester, much like Roy Keane’s sessions in Mulligan’s or that Sex Pistols gig that everyone and their dad went to in the ’70s.

But on this particularly pissed wet through Friday in June, 2017, I didn’t rate my chances of polishing off a trio of lamb karahi and bhunas of both chicken and mushroom. The sauce, the spice, the rice. The mere thought of it weighed too heavy on my already gurgling gut, much as I fucking adore each and every dish on Marhaba’s carefully crafted menu with the same level of reverence I hold for my own parents. Father and son duo Nazir and Abdul Ahmen do not fuck about when it comes to pelting out perfectly prepared Punjabi flavours, after all.

What I want is my meal to be slapped against the side of that clay tandoor, which continues to beckon my gaze towards it.

“……One garlic naan please. No, just on it’s own. Tin of…….pop an’ all.”

Abdul wastes no time in rolling and flattening flour, oil, sugar and salt into an oval disc before lowering it into the bowels of the clay oven. I ruminate over the drinks fridge at the far side of the cafe. It’s Rubicon. Sometimes it’s Vimto, but more often than not, it’s Rubicon. In what is relatively short order, but feels like a lifetime to the popped up halfwit awaiting its presence to grace his face, the naan appears, a mesmeric garlic and herb swirl of wonderment. I herd it to the nearest table behind me as if I’m smuggling five kilos of coke through an airport. Almost sending the plastic water jug flying for a six as I crash into my seat, I hurriedly tear into my feast, drooling like a cartoon dog chasing a string of sausages.

“Fuuuuuuuuuucking hell” I gasp. The fucking thing is softer than Art Garfunkel’s voice. The dough pulls apart with the immense satisfaction of scissors gliding through wrapping paper. Steam envelopes my face, garlic butter permeates every one of my pores and my face contorts into a manic ‘Jack Nicholson’s lost the fucking plot here, lads’ sort of grin with every mouthful that cushions my tastebuds.

I reckon the entire thing has disappeared down my gullet in two minutes tops. The rain now teeming down outside, boinging off the tarmac, sputtering across the entrance way through the door I left open upon my entrance. I steady myself with a couple of final gulps of Rubicon. The glucose laden licks shaking some energy into my faltering, lager laden body. I wipe my chops with my bare hands, rubbing over my face like later career Al Pacino when he’s just received some bad news. I throw a couple of cups of water from the jug down me for good measure and allow myself the sort of lean normally reserved for the beginning of a post-Christmas dinner nap.

My WhatsApp pings. “You still out or you gone home?”

I am now soaked up, revived and emerging from Marhaba’s with the energy of a thousand Scatman Johns. I finally arrive home at half three in the morning. The next morning I watch old clips of Keith Floyd on Saturday Kitchen while my head feels like Joe Pesci is interrogating me for information in a vacant warehouse in Las Vegas. But no level of hangover can dampen the spirit of a man who less than 24 hours earlier had been banqueting in the back streets of the Northern Quarter at a cost of roughly two quid. I feel weary, helpless, anxiety ridden and ashamed as I do on all my hangovers, but I also feel like a fucking champion for my triumphant visit to see Nazir and Abdul.

Five years later, I still think about this afternoon on an almost weekly basis. Sometimes daily. I still frequent Marhaba at every available opportunity, even if that has, unfortunately, become less of an occurrence over the last couple of years. Last week, however, I once again plonked myself at the table by the door not long after the lunchtime rush and took down a chicken tikka kebab, nestled within one of those most luxurious of tandoori naans. The couple on the next table took down platefuls of keema and rice, while a bloke in the corner passionately compliments the chana he’s just polished off. The rain, once again, begins to descend. But I’ve got my chicken tikka naan and nowhere else to be. Fucking result.

It can sometimes feel flippant to label places as ‘institutions’ or ‘iconic’. Both terms are barely enough to sum up just how important Cafe Marhaba has been to Manchester over its 30 years of business. Hopefully there’s at least another 30 years of rainy day naans to come.

It’s grey. Of course it is. The charcoal underbelly of the early afternoon clouds sags southwards, ever closer to street level. A seemingly ever present imminent threat. The hi-vis brigade jostle for position with office workers, faces flush with post-WFH gloom, at the pedestrian crossing, anticipating the change from red to green as if awaiting the starting pistol of the Olympic 100m final. The Yotel doors open, finally allowing for the emergence of bleary eyed stop outs, foreheads bathed in a tequila flop sweat, tongues protruding en masse akin to a collection of exhausted labradors, beckoning hydration towards them.

You avert your gaze contentedly towards the counter in front of you. Your plate piled with sumptuous Spanish rice and freshly roasted carvery meat. The chaos around you only serving to intensify the zen within you. It’s another Wednesday lunchtime at Katsouris deli and there isn’t another place in town you would rather be.

All grand, old European cities must, as a point of absolute necessity, be in possession of a flamboyant, architecturally ambitious delicatessen. Multiple, in fact. Manchester, for whatever reason, seems woefully thin on the ground when it comes to grandiose establishments from which to procure a smorgasbord of charcuterie while you ogle legs of ham hanging from the ceiling and wheels of pungently aroma’d cheese big enough to fit a fucking Range Rover. So it is with the sincerest gratitude that thanks is offered up to Katsouris and its 16 years of service to the city centre.

Located on the corner of Deansgate and John Dalton Street, Katsouris is housed within well worn 19th century gothic stonework. From its exterior, all gold typeface encased within lofty windows, beckoning starving pedestrians inwards for a half ciabatta that could quite easily double as a pillow for a post-work commute power nap, Katsouris could be resituated to Athens, Barcelona, Bologna or Paris and remain identical without alerting any suspicions from locals. Inside however, it’s a different case entirely.

While some seriously questionable (albeit charming and atmosphere enhancing) opera warbles over the speaker system, the realisation once you step foot through the rather ornate entrance is that this is in fact a Manchester market caff that once went on a holiday to the Med in the ’70s and never wanted to return. The deli counter doesn’t sprawl like it does in the centuries old institutions of Italy, Greece and Spain, but the menu is a seismic work of art large enough to command its own fucking postcode. An interior consisting of grey and blue striped couch style seating may not be wowing any aesthetic junkies, but it radiates familiarity. It’s a Greek cafenion by way of Bury (where the original Katsouris still proudly stands in the town’s famous market), delivering Southern European ambience with a North Mancunian attitude.

The girls behind the counter debate what time they will each take their breaks across a rapidly increasing number of customers, while an unseen voice from the kitchen queries how far off the carvery station is from being at capacity, with orders beginning to diminish the supply of turkey, gammon, peri peri chicken, paella rice and continental sausages. Flour flies off the freshly cut crusts of ciabatta, the pillowy innards moisturised with butter before a deluge of roast pork liquifies it into every pocket within the porous Italian loaf. Some are sent into the eager hands of those who need to leg it back to the office for an emergency feast before spreadsheets begin to dominate their eyelines once again. Others are slapped in front of diners who have nowhere else they need to be. Delighted that they’ve managed to snag a seat before the carnage ensues. Crockery and cutlery clatter together amid the rapid-fire chatter and chews of yet another throng of lunchers, the majority of whom have been patronising this beloved spot for the best part of its decade-and-a-half existence on Deansgate.

It is the carvery counter that began my own long, sordid love affair with Katsouris, back in the Advent of 2006. An early December stop on the way back to Castle Irwell student village, where I would no doubt be wiling away an afternoon avoiding another boring-as-shite lecture on radio editing to instead focus on a twelfth viewing of The Big Lebowski and a further run through of Lupe Fiasco’s Food & Liquor (still bangs). A turkey, stuffing and cranberry half ciabatta was ordered up, a reprieve from the baltic winds howling through the centre of town. Watching this masterpiece being constructed, I knew there was no chance it was being risked in the squeeze of the 93 bus journey back to Lower Broughton. It demanded to be savoured.

As far as introductions go, it was up there with Cameron Diaz showing up in that red dress in The Mask. Jim Carrey jaw dropping reacts and all. The turkey so succulent, the cranberry and stuffing intertwined in a sweet and savoury embrace, like long lost friends who have just bumped into each other outside the pub toilets after seven pints. A customary can of Fanta lemon knocked back after the final morsel has been devoured. It was an instantaneous knowledge that this was to be a regular haunt that made the experience so satisfying. Sixteen years later and each return is as welcoming as the last.

The window seats to the right of the main entrance are a must if available. Providing some of the best people watching opportunities in the city, whether it be a mid-morning viewpoint accompanied by a Big Kat breakfast or a lazy late afternoon sojourn with a mezze platter and a coffee. Somehow, I don’t believe I’ve ever parked myself at those seats when it’s been anything other than thundercloud grey outside. It almost wouldn’t make sense to be perched there when it’s cracking the flags. Katsouris just lends itself to the security of being secluded away from the outside world. You can observe the hysteria from within its four walls, arming yourself with a full stomach before venturing back outside into whatever gale force pandemonium awaits.

But before you leave, you should always make sure to take an edible souvenir or three with you. The aforementioned deli counter, while rather diminutive, still boasts considerable quality. Mortadella, salami, stuffed vine leaves, sun dried tomatoes and the like can be sourced from here, of course, as can a multitude of freshly prepared salads from the bar to the left. But what you want here are the sweet goods. Those cannolis demand your attention, as does the flaky, sticky baklava. Leave without it and you’ve gone seriously wrong. Each bite another reminder of how you simply must keep coming back here.

Opposite the deli are shelves piled high with dried pastas, Italian cakes and sauces. Once the post-lunch lull arrives, these are well worth a peruse as your stomach tries to handle digesting a Lamb Siciliana or Zorba The Greek without knocking you into a two-hour long coma. Studiously monitoring these shelves was often a student era routine of mine around 3.30 in the afternoon between 2006 and 2009, when I became aware of the knowledge that the few remaining cold sandwiches in the fridge would soon be available on a 2 for 1 deal.

Not wanting to be too obvious with my desire for half price sarnies, I would pretend to be keenly interested in ostentatiously packaged bags of multicoloured farfalle, paccheri and Strozzapreti. Slowly I then meandered to my right, throwing a cursory glance over the ‘Greek Lamb Special’, ‘Chicken and Bacon Club’ and ‘Oriental Chicken’ to see what took my fancy. Then my line of vision landed ever so subtly (like a fucking sledgehammer) on whichever member of staff looked most agreeable to helping out a depleted looking university student. With all the speed of a snail who’s shell has been filled with cement, I would hold a sandwich up to my knackered, clumsily shaven face until I heard the immortal words “Those sandwiches are 2 for 1 now, y’know…”. And just like that, my next two meals were acquired. Whether this offer is still in effect is knowledge I unfortunately do not possess, but maybe give it a go anyway and see what happens.

With Deansgate becoming a soul crushing ghost town as you approach from the Cathedral side of the city, you’d be forgiven for veering away to an area less bereft. The former Lunya and Barburrito sites still sit empty, crying out for new owners to come in and revitalise a tragically flagging strip. A few footsteps further forward, though, and Katsouris serves as a gateway to more affluent times ahead. The wonderful new Mews only a couple of minutes down the road, along with Hawksmoor of course, a permanently bustling Federal and forever welcoming Dimitri’s taverna. Once you reach Katsouris, while the grey clouds physically may remain overhead, they cannot maintain a dampened spirit. Step inside, grab a window seat and feel very smug, satisfied and optimistic about what lies ahead.