2011: A Kebab Odyssey #3 - Al Safa

Let’s get this straight, provincials and tutting snobs – I’m not talking about doner kebabs here. Their inherent evils are well known and I’m not making a case for them, at least not now that Turkish Delight in Chorlton have stopped making their own doner from finest lamb shoulder.

No, what I’m largely concerned with during this mini-series of blogs is documenting the Middle Eastern phenomenon known as kobedeh kebabs – a wondrous concoction of minced lamb, turmeric and spices served on a near-2 ft naan with sauces and salad. I shall highlight noteworthy Mancunian vendors of said slabs of lamby meat, in no particular order – the numbering system is merely chronological, as opposed to a TOTP-style chart placing.

Special dispensation will be given to fine purveyors of seekh kebabs (the minced lamb equivalent from the Indian subcontinent) and, grudgingly, to decent chicken kebabs if you’re that boring.

#3 – Al Safa, 40 Wilmslow Road, Manchester, M14 5TQ

Once upon a time children, there was a magical place in Rusholme called West Bank, which offered meat as good as Al-Quds with salad and sauces to the standard of Al Safa, featured here. Plus, they sold baklava! Grizzled elders such as myself still speak of it in hushed tones, and there is talk that such a place will come again. Until then my friends, you must decide upon the combination of factors that constitutes the ultimate kobedeh experience and choose your venue accordingly. I'll be using Al Quds as a direct comparison here, as they've set the standard for newer places like Al Safa to follow.

Meat: Rather good clay-oven kobedeh, though if you held a gun to my head I would say that Al-Quds' is better still. If chicken shawarma is your thing, Al Safa's offering is one of the finest examples in Rusholme.

Bread: Sizeable naan, wrapping said kobedeh like a leavened duvet. Handmade and clay-oven baked, like all the best naan. Possibly better than Al Quds, not as crisp or burnt, though some do prefer this.

Salad: The holy grail of kebab accompaniments can be found here – red cabbage! That alone beats Al Quds into an earthenware salad receptable. Fresh lettuce, onions and tomato too, in quantities generous enough to beguile oneself into forgetting the less healthy aspects of this dish. Pickled chilli was superb.

Sauce: I recommend you point at the special chilli sauce that is obviously made with fresh tomatoes, otherwise the chap serving will default to the standard stuff. Fantastic with yoghurt, one of THE best sauces around, heightening the already-splendid meat, salad and bread to dizzying levels.

Ambience: Something of the new kid on the block, Al Safa sprung from nowhere relatively recently and has a modern feel, with faux-leather booths and what appears to be an Eastern European satellite channel on the telebox. It seemed to be showing some Baltic version of Family Fortunes last time I was in, though usually it’s a Europop 'music' channel with predictably frightful results. As such, I am sometimes forced to put headphones on and almost miss my order, which would be tragic with kebabs of this standard.

Join me next time for more exciting adventures in spicy minced lamb, dear friends.

Beaumaris - adventures with crabs, cows and holy water-closets

Circumstances of late have dictated that my girlfriend and I holiday in the UK. Sometimes these enforced restrictions require you to make the best of things and appreciate what's on your doorstep. Indeed, perhaps we're all so keen to jet off into the sun that it prevents our full appreciation of districts Lake or Peak, or the understated charms of Scotland, Yorkshire and Wales. Also, if I keep repeating this, it may reduce my envy of contemporaries jetting off to New Zealand or Bali, as I shiver through a steam museum on an inclement February day in the provinces.

Still, there is enjoyment to be gained from such mini-breaks, free from the tyranny of work, broken glass and dog excrement, the latter two being the main local produce of our Manchester estate. Thus, this time we found ourselves taking a trip to lovely Beaumaris, veritable jewel on the coast of Anglesey in North Wales.

On day one, as if to compensate for our rather middle-aged pursuits of exploring the castle, taking a boat trip to Puffin Island and having an audiotour of the Old Courthouse museum, we went for a mini pub crawl on the evening, sampling pints of the local ale in five different hostelries. After our attempts at playing pool in one venue, I remarked to one of the septuagenarian locals as we left that he'd probably never seen as long or as dreary a game on that table. At this, he chuckled and nodded sagely, eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance as he rewound his brain through the decades in a vain search for a more inept display of hand-eye coordination.

As a city dweller, the pastoral appeal of these retreats is appealing, though there can be unexpected results when removed from your urban 'comfort' zone. For example, whilst enjoying a circular walk through Anglesey's coast and farmland, I discovered an irrational fear of livestock and animals in general. Signs on gates proclaiming “Bull, cows and calves grazing – keep shut” led me to quake inwardly for fear of a Withnail-esque encounter or worse. I experienced a hint of this phobia earlier when a bevy of enormous seagulls started a feeding frenzy next to us, prompted by the discarded batter from Sam's fish and chips, with reinforcements circling overhead like vultures sizing up the tenderest parts of my carcass.

Sam, however, loves all animals and during our walk was keen to get close to the nearest cow. As I hovered on the periphery, nervously stuttering that she “was getting it excited”, Sam tried to pet it and though her advances were rejected, it merely moved away benignly as if to confirm my cowardice. Further bovine encounters also did little to justify my fear, though I swear that some have murderous intent in their gimlet eyes, staring unblinking as they angrily realise you're not there to feed them.

If we may move from turf to surf, crabbing is quite a popular activity in Beaumaris, as confirmed by the legions of urchins with buckets of writhing crustaceans. That said, the closest we got to this activity was finding an expired, though structurally-intact, miniature crab on the beach which we christened “Crabbie” and considered taking home as a memento. I suppose this is a little disturbing - a stick of rock or an overpriced “I'd rather be in Beaumaris” mug would be an adequate souvenir for most people, but instead we decided to emotionally bond with a long-dead exoskeleton.

However, mindful of the likely crushed mess in the car and ensuing discovery of crab limbs in the glovebox for the next six months, we decided against taking it home, though the hapless former creature was immortalised digitally for posterity as seen above.

We stayed in a former chapel, converted into dated-but-cosy flats whilst retaining the ecclesiastical features of its previous life. This meant that our bathroom had the original church windows, turning a morning trip to the toilet into a quasi-religious experience, blinding light beaming through the hallway as if one was being summoned by one's maker for a higher purpose, as opposed to summoned by one's bladder for a morning clearout.

Divine water-closets aside, Beaumaris was a lovely, unspoilt little town with none of the tackiness that can blight our more traditional seaside resorts. The local people were friendly, and the shopkeepers possessed of a ready wit – when Sam bought a rolling pin from a hardware store, the middle-aged couple who ran the place launched into a long-running joke about how I'd best be careful what time I returned home from the pub, the implication being that said item was for flattening disobedient boyfriends as opposed to pastry. It was a such a well-oiled routine that I imagined they had a different domestic violence-related gag for each item of kitchenware sold, warning unwary husbands of the bludgeoning capabilities of each tenderiser, spatula and cake decorator.

So, shopping was a less impersonal experience and manners seemed to matter more in this quiet, humanised town. As we arrived back at the harbour following our boat trip to Puffin Island, there were two different lines of customers queuing to disembark. As only one person could exit the boat at any one time, and with the clientele containing many women, children and pensioners, there ensued a baffling system of “after you/no, after you” chivalry. I began to worry that our exit would be delayed as a complex written hierarchy of who could leave and when was established, with due regard to age, gender and frailty. I then saw two old ladies with walking sticks approaching each other in the queues and wondered what would happen in the event of a tie.

All in all, this was a pleasant trawl through the vagaries of Middle Britain and a reminder of the inherent, oft-overlooked, charms of our own little island. Visit Beaumaris and Anglesey with confidence, my friends - just don't upset those cows.

2011: A Kebab Odyssey #2 - Jaffa

Let’s get this straight, provincials and tutting snobs – I’m not talking about doner kebabs here. Their inherent evils are well known and I’m not making a case for them, at least not now that Turkish Delight in Chorlton have stopped making their own doner from finest lamb shoulder.

No, what I’m largely concerned with during this mini-series of blogs is documenting the Middle Eastern phenomenon known as kobedeh kebabs – a wondrous concoction of minced lamb, turmeric and spices served on a near-2 ft naan with sauces and salad. I shall highlight noteworthy Mancunian vendors of said slabs of lamby meat, in no particular order – the numbering system is merely chronological, as opposed to a TOTP-style chart placing.

Special dispensation will be given to fine purveyors of seekh kebabs (the minced lamb equivalent from the Indian subcontinent) and, grudgingly, to decent chicken kebabs if you’re that boring.

#2 – Jaffa, 185 Wilmslow Road, Manchester, M14 5AP

Following on nicely from last time, this week's featured kebaberie is located directly next door to Al-Quds. As such, you can sample both places if particularly hungry, or make a mental note for your next fix. There's even a sink in the main restaurant area – useful for scrubbing the turmeric from under your fingernails in time for that departmental meeting at work later in the afternoon.

Meat: No kobedeh (or equivalent) here, so Jaffa has made it into the guide by virtue of the marvellous alternatives on offer, namely the mixed grill of lamb and chicken. Consisting of fantastically tender and lean spiced cuts of lamb, seasoned wonderfully and complemented by boneless chicken thigh meat rolled flat for grilling, sometimes it's important to ditch the mince and opt carnivorously for chunks of proper flesh (I was actually a veggie once, you know.) Honorary mention should go to the exquisite lamb shawarma with houmous as sampled by Sam, my glamorous assistant.

Bread: A rather thin and small flatbread – adequate for the task, but without the doughy, filling satisfaction of Al-Quds' enormous naan equivalent. This could be deemed a criticism, but sometimes it's nice to leave a kebaberie feeling just so, rather than about to burst and in need of a sponsored walk to John O'Groats to burn off calories that would satisfy a hibernating bear.

Salad: A pleasant array of lettuce, tomatoes and spiced onions, lightly doused in soothing yoghurt. Unfortunately, it's rather cucumber-heavy, though my ongoing problem with this phallic salad-spoiler is not the fault of Jaffa (before you start, it is NOT tasteless, being grossly offensive and lingering even when removed.) The pickled chillis are fresh and tasty – I tend to eat them first as a little starter, capsicum fans.

Sauce: Korma fans stop reading now – this is not for the faint-hearted. An intense dollop of fresh diced chilli sauce is present on your plate when served and I recommend you go easy with it, though if used sparingly and gradually it complements things rather nicely.

Ambience: Again, the Asian denizens of Rusholme are fans, so clearly the friendly and likeable chappies who run the place are doing something right. Almost getting into low-rent restaurant territory as opposed to kebab vendor (though let's not get too carried away), it may be a good venue to bring a non-believer for their initiation into the ways of righteousness. Excellent Arabic mint tea too.

Join me next time for more exciting adventures in spicy minced lamb, dear friends.

2011: A Kebab Odyssey #1 - Al-Quds

Let’s get this straight, provincials and tutting snobs – I’m not talking about doner kebabs here. Their inherent evils are well known and I’m not making a case for them, at least not now that Turkish Delight in Chorlton have stopped making their own doner from finest lamb shoulder.

No, what I’m largely concerned with during this mini-series of blogs is documenting the Middle Eastern phenomenon known as kobedeh kebabs – a wondrous concoction of minced lamb, turmeric and spices served on a near-2 ft naan with sauces and salad. I shall highlight noteworthy Mancunian vendors of said slabs of lamby meat, in no particular order – the numbering system is merely chronological, as opposed to a TOTP-style chart placing.

Special dispensation will be given to fine purveyors of seekh kebabs (the minced lamb equivalent from the Indian subcontinent) and, grudgingly, to decent chicken kebabs if you’re that boring.

#1 – Al-Quds, 187 Wilmslow Road, Manchester, M14 5AQ

Manchester’s Rusholme is known as the curry mile and I’m a regular visitor. However, it is not the curry that draws me here, being predictable fare of a standard that can be readily purchased elsewhere in Manchester and beyond. Rather, dear reader, it is the Middle Eastern kebab houses that are things of splendour, and few if any are more splendid than Al-Quds.

Meat: Kobedeh, and possibly the finest in all of Manchester town – succulent, piquant and with a pleasingly-yellow turmeric tinge. Wonderfully seasoned and cooked to perfection in Al-Quds' clay oven. A double kobedeh option is available, though your mobility will be limited for up to three days afterwards. Excellent chicken tikka kebab too, though I recommend you proceed directly to the kobedeh.

Bread: A large handmade naan, stretched thin and strategically burnt in places. Satisfying and filling - I have occasionally visited the Indian sweet shop down the road for dessert after visiting Al-Quds, though this is strictly from greed, not necessity.

Salad: A fairly standard, though always fresh, selection of tomatoes, lettuce and onions. Some cabbage would have been nice, particularly red, but this is a very minor gripe. A large pickled chilli was provided, which was flavoursome with the added bonus of being amusingly long and pointy.

Sauce: A fairly lively chilli that definitely requires ample servings of the in-house yoghurt to temper its fiery ardour. Otherwise, functional and unremarkable .

Ambience: A favourite with the local Asian community and equally receptive to kobedeh converts such as myself. Staff are always friendly and welcoming, though with an unfortunate tendency to play modern commercial pop music on the radiogramme. Indeed, I was subjected to some frightful ditties by Rihanna and J-Lo that must have been generated by computer algorithm with no visceral human involvement. Still, once eating commences one transcends temporarily into kobedeh-based nirvana, with the flaysome din of the modern world left flailing and earth-bound.

Join me next time for more exciting adventures in spicy minced lamb, dear friends.

Tastebuds to the fore, caskophiles!

As a chin-stroking ale-drinker of many years' standing, I was intrigued by a recent article in the Guardian decrying the branding of proper beer. The writer complained that many beer names and pumpclips are hideous, contributing to an image problem that apparently reflects on all ale fans.

There was also a selection of pumpclips that showcased the worst offenders. Admittedly, some of these were objectionable and those displaying brazen smut and/or sexism are indefensible. However, these are hardly representative – in my 15 years of ale drinking I don't recall ever seeing anything comparable in real life.

I will concede that many ale pumpclips are badly-designed and amateurish from an aesthetic perspective, but I've always found this rather endearing. Personally, I don't want the slick marketing campaigns of the major lager brewers to be emulated in the real ale world – the calculatedly-bland for-mass-appeal themes of the Carling/Fosters branding is reflected in the calculatedly-bland for-mass-appeal taste of their fizz, and I want no part of it.

Indeed, there's an innate satisfaction to drinking an artisan ale from a micro-brewer which requires skill to make, knowing that the brewer is an passionate enthusiast rather than a marketeer adhering to a business model. The proof really is in the tasting and I'm happy not to share pub space with someone who needs a TV campaign and glossy branding to entice them to part with their money.

However, it is of course maddening that so many reject these artisan ales in favour of the carbonated urine that is commercial lager, particularly when said ales are accessible, readily available and often cheaper than mass-produced pish to boot.

It's a shame that such people will never know the regional variation of ale as they move from county to county, or notice one landlord's skill in keeping a particular beer just so. A shame indeed that said Carling/Fosters fans continue to drink a gaseous libation that is demonstrably and irrefutably inferior to a fine quart of golden ale or nutty brown.

Is this a question of taste? I would argue that someone who plumps for Carling Black Label has not actually developed taste – they've merely selected the first, heavily-promoted product that they recognise and stuck with it because, due to its very homogeneity, it'll taste the same everywhere they go, just like McDonalds. One could extend this argument to music, TV and literature, but there are too many potential tangents and not enough hair follicles left on my head to withstand a trawl through every mentionable grotesquerie of popular culture, so I'll stick to beer for now.

As such, who cares for image? Or pumpclips? I'm content to let the Heat-reading masses fret over image, adrift in their sea of frothing superficiality as I kick back with a foaming flagon of Winkle Warmer Porter. Best foot forward, fellow casketeers.