'That," says the pal, "was the best meal I've ever had in Manchester." Big statement. But we're not at some glossy temple of gastronomy where TV chefs do curious things with coal and smoke guns, but in orange plastic chairs tacked down the side of a Thai supermarket in Chinatown that sells everything from tiny pink Thai shallots to the aptly-named stink beans.
From the menu, I'd guess the chefs are northern Thai: there's Isaan's beloved sticky rice, the most flawless I've eaten outside Thailand, served authentically in a little plastic bag inside a lidded bamboo kratip, every grain separate but clinging on to its pals for dear life. It's just perfect for rolling into chewy little balls and swooping through the electrifying flavours in every dish. (Like the use of real pea aubergines, sticky rice is an excellent bellwether for Thai restaurants; too often, it's a claggy mush.) And there are no green curries, Thai fishcakes or other cliches here, either. In fact, most of the dishes on the small menu are noodle-based. And glorious.
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