THE last time I arrived for a meal at El Gato Negro my trousers were caked almost to the knees in farmyard mire (that’s the polite word). I was with two companions, hopelessly lost and then hopelessly late on our naive cross-moor hike to Simon Shaw’s Spanish restaurant. Finally we stumbled upon a pub, restored ourselves copiously with Timothy Taylor Landlord, got a taxi to El Gato and had an outrageously good fish feast. Simpler times.
El Gato had put Ripponden on the map (just not ours). Now the axis has tilted to the centre of Manchester and much has changed, not least in any need for dry cleaning. What you have to negotiate, though, is a tangled web of expectation. Big money has been invested in the new King Street premises, just like at Quill further down, as this failed retail hub seeks to reinvent itself through food and drink.
The cullinary philosophy remains solidly rooted in Shaw’s land of inspiration, Catalonia, and the Pennine hills where he made his sophisticated take on it work, but cocktails and clipboards are now in the mix along with a whole Barcelona chic sheen. I check my trousers before entering.
It’s on three floors and to its credit doesn’t labour the Spanish influences. A Mark Kennedy mosaic pairing John Cooper Clarke and Frank Sidebottom is more howdy than Gaudi.
That’s in the street level walk-in charcuterie bar. We are booked into the middle floor restaurant, though at the ‘chef’s table’ counter to observe the focused fandango of preparation. Four chefs working at full tilt and not one expletive while we were in situ.
Which wasn’t really very long. Little more than an hour as the dishes rattled out at a fair pace. It was a comparatively quiet night for such a hot ticket and it showed.
Indeed one monkfish dish that arrived as we were only starting a substantial meat dish was taken back and replaced by exec sous chef Sam, anxious it had lost its oomph.
He had already made two friends for life by comping us some Gillardeau oysters with yuzu and pickled cucumber – exquisitely saline and fleshy, the oriental treatment showing he is no slave to Spanish produce exclusively. They are from family oyster beds in La Rochelle on France’s west coast – chosen because they are the best.
Our dinner had begun, just as in the old Ripponden days, with padron peppers in Halen Môn sea salt (a generous helping for a fiver) and a copa of Manzanilla (£4, the unfiltered fresh en rama stuff is £6). And if you rarely get the old Padron chilli roulette where an occasional pepper is super fiery and this Manzanilla didn’t feel as bone dry and saltmarshy as of yore, that’s a tiny quibble.
Even the high stools we were perched on were extremely comfortable, even if it was a vertiginous swoop down to pick up a dropped napkin. Above all, it felt exciting. You could sense the buzz in the staff, which compensated for certain lack of knowledge of the drinks they were serving, which is not the case at Iberica, say. My mouthfilling and intensely aromatic Rueda white from Bodegas Gotica Trascampanas 2013 (£32) was my own shot in the dark, demonstrating how well the Verdejo grape can prosper on its own without the compulsive addition of Sauvignon. This is a lovely wine list, covering all bases and beyond.
The Trascampanas coped admirably across our dishes, even the two chargrills from the kitchen’s beloved Josper – chargrilled octopus with capers, shallots and aioli (£10) and baby chicken with lemon, garlic, paprika, and romesco sauce (£9.50), neither of which hid their heady spicing under a bushel. I’m always suspicious of over-tenderised cephalod and this was satisfyingly chewy, while the baby chicken was born to be torn apart by one’s (by now excessively garlicky) hands. Terrific.
In contrast, my token veggie order (£7) didn’t work – over-firm squash, chickpeas and caramelised cauliflower florets topped with a sweetish, garlic and chilli migas was an unrewarding dish.
I was much, much happier with some dense, almost mega-umami shards of braised ox cheek on a fluffy horseradish mash and grilled carrots that were smoky and sweet (in a proper fresh way). £10.50 and a real highlight with line-caught baby monkfish No.2 just pipped on the line. Subtlest dish of the lot, just some lemon and oil and gently mashable pinta beans, an antidote to a cuisine that strays towards saltiness (my tolerance is low these days).
Again the tiniest of caveats, like the Manzanilla that felt like Fino and the maverick padrons that got away. This is a major addition to the Manchester scene. In its early days still a bit high octane. Iberica, now settled in after a year, is a gentler place to sip your sherry and nibble your jamon or cured meats plate.
Yes, Jamon, pride of Iberica, pride of Lunya and, on past evidence, pride of El Gato Negro, where for the first time ever I neglected it. Maybe I’m saving the hams for a comparative tasting. Do you think all three restaurants would take me up on that? A bit like choosing between Messi, Neymar and Suarez. We could call it the Great Iberico Shootout. Well, out of little acorns, as they say...
El Gato Negro Tapas, 52 King Street, Manchester M2 4LY. 0161 694 8585.
