I wanted to make amends to Leeds for not loving the much-vaunted Shears Yard (NB: understatement). Subsequent interactions with the city's restaurant fans could best be described as a protracted blast of the evils. So I go back and immerse myself in the city, wandering its glorious arcades and indoor markets. I wallow in culture at the art gallery, and slices of proper Neapolitan-style pizza from the Dough Boys at the Belgrave Music Hall (particular mention for the one featuring "Napalm Death" sauce). I walk and walk, drink coffee at La Bottega Milanese and dance till 3am at Sandinista, where way-too-young men pursue me with way-too-old chat-up lines. Great town.
All the while, I've a beady eye out for that wonderful restaurant. I clock the one-that-wants-to-be-Pitt Cue (the Pit); the-one-that-wants-to-be-Goodman (Rare); and the one-that-really-really-wants-to-be-Polpo (Zucco, that means you). I check out old-school French and OTT trats. But nothing really says Leeds to me. Until I find the Reliance.
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