It’s a gorgeous place to hang out. Should you mistakenly imagine yourself in Madrid, there’s a mosaic of Frank Sidebottom and John Cooper Clarke to keep it real
TThere are two things I always order in Spanish restaurants: ham and croquetas. Not just any old ham, but Ibérico de bellota, the acorn-fed, black-footed king among porkers, an item I’d die happy eating were it my last meal. How both these things are presented is as good a restaurant statement of intent as any. If these are right – ostensibly simple, ostensibly no-brainers – you know you’re in the safest of hands.
Anyway, before I get to that, here’s El Gato Negro, being welcomed into Manchester, its streets lined with metaphorical palm leaves. The excitement is feverish. The city has seen an influx of restaurants recently, but to its collective chagrin, the highest profile and best received appear to be imported from elsewhere – Hawksmoor, Ibérica– while indigenous offerings have been rubbished by us know-nothing, snobby southern softies. Even Liverpool’s Lunya got in first. It has clearly stung.
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