Yesterday Tim and I decided to head down to Albert's Shed for today's Sunday roast. Albert's Shed is a really good restaurant, and I think served the best food in Manchester. I had been raving about this restaurant to Tim, but when he found out that Sunday Roast was £15.99 for three courses, he balked at the cost—I have no idea why he would feel that way because it works out to about £5.30 per course which is cheap.
Anyway with this being my final Sunday in Manchester, and with Tim knowing that none of his friends would go with him, he agreed.
So after visiting IKEA (why not), packing, doing the dishes, and doing my laundry, I find myself walking with Tim along the pleasant canal path which meanders along the Manchester Ship Canal. Along the way, I see the geese and suddenly I'm struck with the realisation that I will never feed them again. This makes me sad. It's probably for the best because I might kill them someday with my increasingly bizarre food combinations (sushi rice and chili anyone?) but they look so fat and content sleeping by the embankment that I have to resist the urge to pick one up and sink my jaws into its neck.
We arrive at this restaurant promptly at 2pm and was lead to our table by a waitress (fit rating: 4/10). It's relatively empty, perhaps because we have arrived towards the later part of the lunch service.
"It's not bad, this place. And looking at the menu, things seem reasonable. I thought it was going to be expensive." "Oh no, it's pretty reasonable, and the quality is probably a step lower than 1 Michelin star."
We quickly determine that we are going to go for the Sunday Roast set menu—after all, this is why Tim agreed to come in the first place when I said that they serve one of the best roasts in Manchester. (The other place is the Old Wellington—but that's another review.)
Then suddenly a waiter with dark, brooding but good-looking looks approach and smiles at us. "Hello gentlemen, what can I get you to drink?". Essex, I think. Great smile too. (Fit rating: 6/10)
At this stage I have no idea I will write a review, so I forget to take a picture of the menu or note my wine choice (all I remember is that it's a Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile, but I forget to note the château or the vintage). Sorry.
Tim orders a Diet Coke. Bah. The waiter compliments him and says, "Very good, sir. Watching your figure". Tim smiles. Double bah.
I then decide to order, as a starter, their soup of the day (spicy vegetable, according to the waiter which to me sounds a bit vague). Tim has the chicken liver pâté. We both order the beef roast and the gingerbread cheesecake for dessert.
As we wait for our drinks to arrive, I spy a waiter arriving. He looks familiar, I think. And suddenly I knew: I've shagged him before. As this isn't a pornographic blog, I shan't go into the details. But it was worth it. (Fit rating: 5/10)
Anyway, we shall move on.
We start with the appetiser; as mentioned, I had ordered a "spicy vegetable" soup. Our waiter—let's call him Alex, because he looks like an Alex—serves Tim first but the first hints of my soup hits me even before he set my dish down. Cumin, coriander, and onions. A dahl curry, I think. Then Alex sets my plate down, and I see a gold-brown watery liquid which gently shimmers under the restaurant's halogen spotlights.
"I can smell your soup from here." "Yes it is very pungent isn't it? A bit like a curry."
The first sip brings me back to the curry mile in Manchester. Exotic spices in the soup such as cumin, coriander, turmeric, cinnamon, and cloves mingle in my mouth and evoke memories of curries and grilled meats. This soup, however, was cooked with carrots and potatoes which had the effect of toning down the harshness of the Asian spices, and made it geographically ambiguous.
"I used to come here a lot with my mate. Then when he left for London no one would want to come here because they all thought it was over-priced."
However, I spotted what looks like dried herbs floating in my soup. Dried herbs are usually machine-chopped—and thus very fine—and because they have been freezed-dried, they tend to lose their colour, becoming a dull dark green and turning green-brown when cooked. Fresh herbs, on the other hand, tend to go pale green when cooked.
Ah-ha!, you say. What if they've cooked the soup long enough that the chlorophyll bleeds out and the herbs absorb the turmeric and becomes green-brown?
Ah-ha!, I say. I happen to bite on a carrot just as you ask that impertinent question, and I can confirm that it retains a slight bite to it, a sure indicator that the soup has not been left simmering for hours.
So I can only conclude that they have used dried herbs in this soup. Not a sin, I might add, but a MORTAL SIN. Despite the soup tasting nice, I would rise in a huff, create a scene, and then storm out of the restaurant if I was a Michelin inspector. But thankfully for them, I am not.
"It used to be a shed, owned by a bloke called Albert. Hence the name. They then converted it into a restaurant a few years ago. I've only discovered it when I moved to Castlefield a year ago, but I have not heard of it despite living in Manchester for four years prior to moving." "I think my mates go to Duke's for drinks after work." "It's a nice place, but the food here is infinitely better, though they're both owned by the same group. They've bought Barça, you know." "Oh great, I'll look forward to going there then."
There is a slight delay before Alex brings out the main course. He hesitates before setting the dishes down. "Did you order the beef?" he asks. Yes, of course, you silly-but-good-looking waiter. "Enjoy your meal. Don't forget to ask for more gravy if you want some more." I want you, I think.
The dish is a sight to behold. Three slices of roast beef, covered with silky-smooth thick gravy. It is accompanied by four different kinds of potatoes: mashed, roast, new jacket potatoes, and mashed sweet potato. Then to the side they've served some boiled purple cabbage and peas in their pods (a bit like serving a baby animal in its placenta, yes?) and these were topped with a golden Yorkshire pudding.
I quickly slice off some beef. The saltiness hits me immediately. Over-salted, I think. But then the gravy kicks in and to some extent, it takes away the saltiness. I quickly move on to the mash. Both the mash (regular and sweet potatoes) are creamy and done to the standards of Michelin cooking: 1 part potato to 1 part butter. The best bit is that they're both shaped in the form of a quenelle.
If you're not familiar with a quenelle, it is essentially an emulsion shaped like a rugby ball with the bottom slightly flattened. It is a hallmark of great cooking because getting a quenelle shape right takes effort and time, and if one puts in effort and time into the presentation, chances are they would have done the same during the cooking stages. A quenelle can be formed using a large tablespoon and steady hands.
"What's a quenelle?" I recite the above information. "Why would they want to make it a cor-nell?". I recite the above information again. I sigh. "How's Becky?". He sighs. "We could have asked her to come along. Perhaps Felix too." He ignores me and busies himself with his beef.
I'm glad to report that the gravy has the right amount of viscosity and the colour was a nice deep red-brown. I can tell that they've used good stock and have added a splash of wine to it. I make a mental note to get more gravy from Alex.
The beef is glorious. It is slightly too salty but crispy on the outside, but the meat is tender (though well-done) and full of flavour. They've also left some fat on. Normally, I'm not a fan of fat because they tend to be tough and tastes disgusting. This time, however, the fat literally melts in my mouth and its richness complements the gravy and the cabernet sauvignon which I had ordered earlier. I absolutely love the beef. Tim agrees with me and says that it is "gorgeous". That is his term for everything nice. It's either "uuugh" or "gorgeous". There's nothing in-between. He also approves of the Yorkshire pudding, and being from York (Malton, actually), I take his word for it.
I ask for my extra gravy, and I do a quick look around. Unfortunately the restaurant is getting a bit busier and I don't think I can get away with drinking the gravy from the gravy boat. What an utter shame, I think.
"Who are you texting?" "I'm texting my former co-worker who's now working for H_____. Remember I told you about my interview tomorrow? Well, I'm going to ring him later to get some tips, and I'm texting him to find out when I can call." "Are you nervous?" "No, not really. I haven't got much to study or memorise." "Well I have pills if you want to chill." "Maybe."
I can tell that they've blanched the peas and shocked them in ice water because it retains so much of its colour and freshness. Biting into a pod, it reminds me of the Easter weekend which I spent at Sam's and his parents had fresh peas growing in the garden. I tried a few and never thought that peas could taste that sweet and fresh. The peas on this dish have done just that, and for that I think it is worth every penny.
The only disappointment is the boiled purple cabbage. It was well-seasoned and cooked, but to me it is nondescript after the richness of the gravy and the freshness of the vegetables.
Then to my horror, the waiter—we will call him Craig, because that is his real name—whom I had shagged brings out our dessert. I avoid eye contact. He avoids eye contact with me too. I suppose the feeling is mutual. Tim doesn't notice anything and promptly digs in.
To my slight disappointment, the cheesecake isn't of the baked variety. Instead it relies on gelatin to give it structure and firmness. I think a cheesecake should be baked, but nonetheless I carry on eating because I am a glutton for punishment. But from now on I shall refer to it as a 'cheesecake', because it is a pretender to a real cheesecake.
The kitchen staff have artistically smeared toffee sauce on the place, placed a 'cheesecake' on top, and spread candied ginger on top of the cheesecake. They then placed what can only be described as a thimble—because it can just about fit a dessert spoon—filled with vanilla ice-cream next to it. The ice-cream was made with real vanilla pods because I spot vanilla spots in the cream. But there is simply not enough of it.
I slowly eat the 'cheesecake' because at this point I am feeling very full, but at this point also, I am craving lots of sugar and I have finished my wine (it isn't a dessert wine). I suppose the dessert is the weakest link during this meal, but oh well, innit.
Rating: I will award this restaurant 7/10. I had initially thought that this restaurant would qualify for a Michelin star, but small slip-ups like the dried herbs and salty beef and uninspiring dessert has let it down.
