The Mark Addy Gourmet Evening June 2012; This Time, it's NORMAL

Now, I realise that for regular readers, it's about the time of the month that I entertain you with tales of testicle-eating and squirrel-bothering at the venerable Mark Addy, whose monthly Gourmet Evenings are as delicious as they are bonkers. What would chef Robert Owen Brown have worked his magic on this month? A well-meaning friend at work kindly suggested perhaps it would be a slug risotto, whilst another simply begins humming the theme to I'm a Celebrity whenever I hove into view. Well, you PHILISTINES - it's not about shock value, it's about cooking with whatever happens to be seasonal, local, available and good; and this month, there's really nothing that anyone could turn their noses up at (unless they were a vegetarian of course; the Gourmet Evening remains solidly unsuitable for non-meat eaters). Here's what we had:

1. Glebeland City Growers Salad with Poached Egg and Bacon. Glebelands, on the banks of the Mersey in Sale, produces organic food for consumption within Greater Manchester; most admirable, of course, although Mr Liz did look a little crestfallen when this first, apparently healthy, course was announced. He needn't have worried of course: this was salad ROB style, i.e. served with a big fat poached egg and a generous amount of salty porcine chunks, and as any fool knows, you can have pretty much anything you want with salad leaves and it's still good for you, FACT*.

*Although I am not technically a qualified nutritionist, I still whole-heartedly believe this to be true.

2. Cider Marinated Cornish Sardines with Scallop and Deep-Fried Herring Roe. This was the most unusual course of the night and it was also the best, the cold, sharp, tangy fish contrasting beautifully with the hot, crunchy, golden puffs of battered roe. I have a photo of it here, but the quality is poor, due to the iphone flash having been crafted by a malicious goblin in the fiery pit of Hades. I'm sorry to let you all down with this, but frankly you should blame Apple, not me, and maybe write a letter or something.

3. Wood Pigeon with Black Pudding and Pea Shoots. Turns out, there are some things that are just MEANT to go together. And lo, tonight at The Addy a new duo was born, with two new names to add to the already illustrious roll call of perfect pairings: Lennon & McCartney, Morrissey & Marr, Morecambe & Wise, Fry & Laurie...and now wood pigeon and black pudding. Tender, gamey morsels of pink pigeon roosting atop a crumbly disc of Bury's finest - a perfect combination of flavours and textures that sadly never stood a chance of lasting even as long as Morrissey & Marr. I even have good photos now, as I have turned off the flash and Mr Liz is suspending himself over the table illuminating the scene with the torch app on his own phone. Never let it be said I am ANYTHING other than a true and dedicated professional.

4. Mutton with Cream and Capers. By ROB's reckoning, all that salad to start meant that our arteries were now as clean as a whistle and could thereby justify THIS, a heavenly yet sturdy dish of slow-cooked mutton (which to my mind has a much better flavour than lamb if you cook it right) in a rich sauce cut through with the salty freshness of caper berries. As I swiped up the last of the cream sauce on my finger I couldn't help thinking it was a mighty fine job I had eaten all my pea shoots as well as my salad, or I might have been guilty of over-indulgence here.

5. Gooseberry Fool. As a child of the 70s and 80s, I remember gooseberry fool as a pretty formative part of those early years, served up to great enthusiasm and acclaim even from a bunch of picky kids who all had wildly differing food tastes. My mum makes a GREAT gooseberry fool. Now, as she doesn't read this blog, I can say* that it turns out that ROB's fool is EVEN BETTER than my mum's - so good, in fact, I had two. I am most ashamed of myself, and can promise that it will not happen again**.

*I am however going to say it very quietly, in case my sister is reading this and tells my mum - I can simply claim she misheard.

**It very probably WILL happen again.

6. Shropshire Blue Cheese. I had offered to forgo my cheese course in return for extra dessert, and meant it: there was a very worrying possibility that I might burst during this part of the evening. However, I eschewed the crackers and only nibbled the end sections of cheese, thereby scotching in one deft stroke any rumours you may have heard about me being a big fat greed-face.

So, a great night, and adventurous as I am, I must admit this was my favourite menu yet - pretty much all things I would have chosen anyway, particularly the fish course. I can't help worrying though, that with all this month's restraint there's going to be something REALLY terrifying next month...

- The Mark Addy is on Stanley St in Salford, M3 5EJ; tel. 0161 832 4080.

Local Girl Finally Finds Natural Habitat at New Manchester Gin EMPORIUM, The Whim Wham Cafe

I often think I should have been born in the nineteenth century, perhaps around 1836 or similar. True, I'm not sure about the whole outside toilet thing (although I DO quite like the idea of those great big tin baths in front the fire - I'm having first water, mind) or indeed, the general lack of home comforts that would likely befall me: I'm picturing a mattress made of straw, perhaps to be shared with a family of mice and a smaller sister or two, although I'm not entirely sure of the historical accuracy of this - we only really did Hitler at school. But I'm exactly the right build for those nice bodicey-type dresses and - most importantly - to the best of my knowledge, the whole of Britain lived almost entirely on gin during this period, thereby making the 1800s my natural milieu of choice.

Now, much to my delight, Manchester has its own mecca for sophisticated, urbanite, gin-loving wenches like myself in the shape of the new Whim Wham Cafe, snugly housed under one of the railway arches on Whitworth Street West. As with many of the best recent Manchester ventures, word has spread via Twitter, and as anyone who uses this particular social networking site will know, it's both exhilarating and infuriating in equal measures to find your timeline clogged up with well-meaning folk trumpeting about how they're swilling gin cocktails in the most gorgeous new place.

Well guess what? I've been swilling gin cocktails in the most gorgeous new place, and you must go there immediately. Frankly, you should go there even if you don't like gin (although if I see you, I will look at you disapprovingly), as there is a good selection of British beers (local where possible - Mr Liz had a manly pint of Beartown Brewery Polar Eclipse whilst all around him were drinking pink gin frippery), and the food is really quite something. Owners Alix and Jessica have set their stall out to offer top-quality artisan produce, locally sourced where possible, including award-winning pies from Neil Broomfields's Great North Pie Co. and cheese and meat platters served with their own chutney. For starters, I went for what is fast-becoming Whim Wham's signature dish - Slow Poach Mackerel in Horseradish and Worcester Liquor served with Apple and Beetroot Salad. This is Alix's own invention, and can be seen here in all its fishy, tangy, it's-salad-so-it-must-be-good-for-you glory (nb - my friend chose this as well - I didn't order and consume BOTH of these, although I would have liked to).

For mains, Mr Liz rather predictably had pie (Classic Lancashire Cheese and Onion), which came with Lemon and Thyme Potato Salad for £7.50. Please note that, as this dish contained no meat, Mr Liz considered it a healthy, noble sort of choice, despite the fact that any normal person could quickly identify the double potato and pastry combo that sadly negates his virtue. The rest of us chose the Slow Roast Oxtail with Chickpea Mash and Cabbage, seen here after the de-boning pixies had worked their magic and before I'd licked my plate clean (turned out this was not, unfortunately, a suitable activity for anyone who had erroneously decided to wear white jeans for the evening).

Did we need pudding? No, but if someone will offer to sell you a big slab of Sticky Toffee Pudding served with Salted Caramel and Peanut Butter Ice Cream from Ginger's Comfort Emporium for a FIVER, then frankly you'd be mad to say no. Other choices - the Double Chocolate Slice with White Chocolate Ganache and the Pecan Tart with Cointreau Cream* - also went down well.

*If you look closely at the illustrative evidence here provided, you will observe the ONLY fault with the whole evening - regardez the NAKED Pecan Tart. However, my friend decided not to draw attention to the missing cream for fear she'd be brought a vat of it and then burst.

Last but clearly not least, the GIN. Between us we sampled The Whim Wham Martini, a Black & Blue from the "Long Drinks" section, The Gin Wham spritzer and the straight up Vimto Smile (a winning combination of Manchester's finest and Sloe Gin). These are all priced between £5 and £7.50; our favourite was the Martini, a potent hit of Hendrick's, Cherry Liqueur and Martini Rosso, with a secret ingredient which we fancied might be something to do with cloves, or perhaps aniseed (further testing to be completed before final decision taken on this matter - I take my professional duties VERY seriously).

This compact little bar looks set to be a huge success, and deservedly so. Hardened 19th century wench/good-time girl/show pony that I am, I was worried a new place brazenly promising itself as "Manchester's Epicurean Eatery and Gin Saloon" could never live up to its name. I am pleased to say it does - and then some...*goes off, flouncing skirts, can-canning for sheer joy*

- The Whim Wham Cafe is at Arch 64, Whitworth Street West, Manchester M1 5WO - no website as yet, but you can hunt them down on Twitter and Facebook or, you know, just go and visit them.

Monkey Shoulder Cocktail Bootcamp at Apotheca, Dancing at NoHo and Dinner at Bem Brasil: Newly Skilled Local Girl All But Explodes With Excitement

I'll be honest: this may be a shorter blog post than normal. It may be shorter than normal, because I am tired. I am tired because of Monkey Shoulder, an exceptionally palatable blended whisky which forced me to have the time of my life last night. And as the subject of this possibly-shorter-than-normal blog post is Monkey Shoulder, the whole arrangement has a rather pleasing symmetry about it.

"But Liz!" I hear you cry, if I listen very hard and use my imagination quite a lot. "What on earth can have happened to undermine your normally peerless standards of professionalism?"

Cocktail BOOTCAMP, that's what. There was I, innocently expecting a good, wholesome, healthy workout; instead, THIS is what happened.

4pm: arrive at the super-cool Apotheca bar in the Northern Quarter, whose basement area will be hosting tonight's cocktail class. Two charming men from Monkey Shoulder - Dean and Olivier, both of whom have berets a-poking from their back pockets: we ask not why - are all apologies: they are running a little late and the start of the class will be delayed. Can we bear to sit upstairs in Apotheca a little longer whilst they bring us complimentary Monkey Shoulder cocktails? Although disappointed that our physical exercise is to be delayed, we agree and I put my sweat bands and my sports socks back in my bag.

5.20pm: we are taken downstairs to behold the classroom of our DREAMS - we each have our own, fully equipped place at tables set with shakers, chopping boards, measuring beakers, glasses, sugar syrup, oranges...oh, and there appears to be a full-size bottle of Monkey Shoulder whisky per TWO people. A hushed reverence falls over our previously giddy group (those complimentary cocktails upstairs went down a treat) and we each start silently calculating just how dangerous this might be.

5.21pm: the Monkey Shoulder ambassadors put on their berets (ah - NOW we get it), pick up their megaphones and begin an hour and a half lesson on all things cocktail. We watch and learn how to make three drinks - the Old Fashioned, the Jam Sour, and a spur-of-the moment creation called the Monkey Swizzle involving pineapple and mint - it really couldn't be more hands-on, and we are encouraged to mix proportions according to our own tastes (why else would Mr Liz's whisky bottle go down quicker than anyone else's?) and learn from our own mistakes. I am most pleased with all three of my efforts, particularly the Jam Sour - who knew that such a fine creation could be concocted from lemon juice, whisky and a few scrapings of Bonne Maman? Dean and Olivier are quick to answer any questions, and when Dean proclaims my Monkey Swizzle better than his own, I almost fall off my chair with pride (or, on reflection, it could have been the whisky). At the end we all applaud loudly and lustily (and, quite drunkenly), and make a mental note to cross out "milk" from our shopping lists and replace with "large bottle of Monkey Shoulder".

6.58pm: sprint back upstairs to the main bar to order some excellent Mojitos before Apotheca's splendid "two cocktails for £9" offer ends at 7.

7.30pm: we brave the rain and are rewarded with an empty NoHo. This is my favourite bar in the Northern Quarter - not least because when it's quiet, the DJ will let you bully him into playing your choice of music. We spend a happy hour or so gracing the enormous dancefloor to the hip, up-to-the-minute sounds of The Smiths, Electronic, David Bowie and The Happy Mondays - this is what hard-working whisky bartenders DO when they've finished their shift, and we were pleased to be able to get our promised exercise after all.

9pm: after all that hard work, it was only right to replace all those burnt-off calories by eating our own bodyweight in meaty goodness at the Northern Quarter branch of Bem Brasil. I have nothing but good things to say about a restaurant that gives you a disc of card that you place alongside your plate, with the green side upwards for "yes! please bring me MEAT, as much as you can carry, and carve it at my table from its skewer into my hungrily waiting mouth" and the rueful red side facing up for a regretful "no thank you - I fear there is a serious possibility I may explode. But ask me again in three minutes and you may well find my card is green again." The food here is of great quality and variety: different cuts of steak as well as lamb, sausages, chicken in bacon, ham, garlic bread and - worth the price of admission alone - the hot cinnamon pineapple served up as afters. Even better, one of our party had not encountered a Bem Brasil before - always fun to watch a newbie pile their plate high from the salad counter before they fully comprehend quite how much meat will be brought.

?????: taxi home; bed. One of the most splendid nights out I have ever had - so splendid, in fact, that it seems to have written itself into a pretty long blog post after all. Thank you Monkey Shoulder - long may your most excellent programme of educating the nation's youth continue.

Competition Time: Win a Pair of Tickets for Rat Pack Live at The Lowry, Salford in September 2012

One of the very nicest things about getting older is that you're allowed to like whatever music you want, without fear of recrimination. This is particularly true if you spend your daylight hours in the company of people in their late teens, who are uniformly so amazed that you can walk and talk under your own steam that they are in danger of passing out altogether should they discover that you shop at TopShop and have a passing familiarity with what I believe is known in modern youth vernacular as the Hit Parade. Even better, as in their heads you are approximately 115 years old they gape in sheer astonishment as you admire their Joy Division or Blondie t-shirt, or comment sadly on your inability to get hold of Stone Roses tickets.

However, whilst it's wholly acceptable (and indeed admirable) to cling fondly to the songs from your 80s and 90s teenage years, it is also entirely permissable to mock your long-suffering husband for listening to Old FM in the car. I have long since enjoyed this pursuit, soundly haranguing poor Mr Liz for his love of what can only be described as "music off of black and white" - until recently, that is. I have gradually come round to his love of Frank Sinatra (particularly the big New York, New York type numbers, which lend themselves so splendidly to singing along at the top of one's voice in the confines of a car, much to the delight of the person unlucky enough to be driving at the time) and Dean Martin, whose Volare simply DEMANDS to be belted out in an authentically sultry Italian style.

So it is with little reluctance that I am accompanying an excited Mr Liz to see Rat Pack Live at The Lowry on Friday 7th September - a brand new show featuring the music of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr which brings the stars from the West End hit Rat Pack Live from Las Vegas to the altogether more glamorous surroundings of Rat Pack Live from, erm, Salford. You can find out more about the show here, on The Lowry website, but - even more excitingly - you can win a pair of tickets to see the show HERE. Over to the experts...

Things to do in Manchester has teamed up with the producers of the Rat Pack Live concert show to give a lucky reader the chance of winning a pair of tickets to see the spectacular production at the Lowry Theatre, Salford on Friday 7th September 2012 at 7.30pm.

It's the ultimate tribute to legendary Fifties and Sixties phenomenon the Rat Pack – Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jnr. They were the definition of cool during their Fifties and Sixties Vegas heyday – just ask Mr Liz. Combining the full sound of big band swing with charisma, panache and swagger, the trio – collectively known as The Rat Pack – had attitude to spare.

Join the UK’s original Rat Pack concert show, featuring stars of the West End smash hit Rat Pack Live from Las Vegas:

Following his triumphant portrayal of Dean Martin in London’s West End, Mark Halliday went on to tour the USA, Europe and the UK with the famous production. Other credits include two years in the States creating the role of Hades in Disney’s new musical Hercules plus lead appearances in runaway touring hit shows Girls Night Out and Aspects of Love.

The evening’s Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jnr boast similarly impressive credentials including, respectively:
· Starring roles with the BBC Concert Orchestra, Passadena Roof Orchestra and Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Orchestra plus appearances with the likes of Sandie Shaw, Sophie Ellis Bextor and Mica Paris
· National tours portraying Sammy Davis Jnr with the West End Rat Pack and Nat King Cole in Strictly Swing.

Together the talented trio combine superbly. . .spectacularly. . . swingsationally in The Rat Pack Live. Featuring all the patter and razzamatazz of the Rat Pack’s infamous live stage show, join the UK’s number one Frank, Dean and Sammy live concert extravaganza. Prepare to experience the definition of cool…courtesy of www.easytheatres.com.

To win tickets please answer this simple question: The Rat Pack Live features tributes to Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jnr and which other famous Fifties and Sixties crooner? The first entry drawn will win a pair of tickets to the show.

Send your answer by email to manchestercomps@hotmail.co.uk with your name, address, email address and daytime phone number before the closing date of midnight on Sunday 1st July 2012. First prize will go to the first entry randomly drawn on this date. There is no cash alternative. Usual rules apply and my decision is final (I LOVE saying this).

To buy tickets contact The Lowry Box office via their website or by calling 0843 208 6000 between 9.30am and 8pm Monday to Saturday or 11am and 6pm on Sundays.

Good luck...and I'll leave you with this publicity shot of the cast, winningly entitled "New rats" - I'm off to practise my a-swinging and a-crooning.

Jim White at The Lowry, Salford: Local Girl Now Transformed into Hard-Drinking American Broad

Now, in my (almost) five years of writing this blog, I have discovered it to have two key advantages. Firstly, it is an excellent displacement activity for all kinds of undesirable tasks such as housework, exercise, doctoral work etc; indeed, if ANYONE approaches you with a request for which you care little, all you need to do is furrow your brow, peer intellectually at the screen of the laptop, mime furiously efficient typing movements and hiss "I'm WORKING" and the chances are that person will respectfully back off. Secondly - and some might say more importantly - writing a blog encourages you to try things you might not otherwise have considered, or known about; take my recent conversion to whisky, for example, at the behest of the charmingly persuasive Liquorists, documented in all its hazy debauchery here.

And it's entirely in keeping with my new persona as a glamorously down-at-heel whisky drinker (it's important here that you picture me sitting alone somewhere, late at night, with a sad yet worldy-wise expression on my face, drinking whisky and smoking a cigarette in the manner of Marlene Dietrich or similar, rather than the actuality of me slurping tea in my pyjamas and watching the football highlights) that I have also broadened my musical horizons. For on Sunday night I was invited to review the Jim White gig in the intimate Quays Theatre at The Lowry; I'd never heard of him before, but a quick listen to a few of his songs on You Tube convinced me that this talented singer-songwriter from the deep south of America would be the perfect accompaniment to my new incarnation as wronged yet exquisite late night whisky drinker.

Obviously, you can listen to his songs yourself - and indeed you should. The current album, Where it Hits You, is a fabulously beautiful record - wistful and emotional, it's best listened to in a mildly somnolent state where you simply let the sound wash over you (but more of this later): my favourite tracks are the first two - Chase the Dark Away, which you can listen to here, and Sunday's Refrain, which I will hum for you if you give me a call when I'm not busy. What's harder to put into words, though, is just how entertainingly odd a Jim White gig turns out to be. First of all, the support act - the Belgian twosome Stanton - are also his band; he produced their new album, so they all sang some - excellent - songs from this debut for 25 minutes before trooping off for half an hour (presumably to allow the audience to sneak in a bonus gin and tonic). Then they were back, this time with Jim centre-stage, for an hour and a half of singing and what can only be described as story-telling - If Jesus Drove a Motorhome is preceded by a very funny story about Jesus impersonators in his own hometown, and the irritatingly catchy Newspaper is put movingly into context with a tale of illness, near-death and redemption through criminals with amusing names. He promises that we will be able to read all these stories and more in his forthcoming book - if he ever gets round to finishing it.

The new album has received almost whole-heartedly postitive reviews since its release - Uncut awarded it "Americana Album of the Month", whilst The Independent on Sunday rightly commented "there's always room for the real thing, and you'll know it when it hits you" - but it really comes into its own once you've seen Jim White live and can feel the personality behind the songs. If I got the opportunity to go again, I would - particularly as, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was unable to attend Sunday's gig in quite the persona I would have liked. Was I lolling in my seat, drunk on hard liquor and tired from one too many doomed love affairs and perhaps some late nights reading the latest Don DeLillo? Nope - I was lolling in my seat, drunk on the equally heady combination of a gin and tonic, some heavy duty cold and flu meds and a head full of snot; still, I'm hoping that the overall effect to any interested onlookers was pretty much the same...

- you can hear more tales from the South on Jim White's MySpace page; please insert your own nose-blowing sound effects where required.

Things to Do in Manchester in June: Drinking, Mostly...

Now don't get me wrong - I like a four day weekend as much as the next person. More, possibly, if that next person is a responsible, grown-up sort of individual. But it's all too horribly easy to get a little bit carried away with the whole laissez faire, anything goes sort of atmosphere that tends to pervade these occasions: a barbecue here, a house-warming party there, a quick beer festival to tide you over...and before you know it, those cute little denim shorts you purchased in a flush of summery optimism last week are starting to look distressingly unfeasible. And that's before we even start considering the damage done to your loyal, hard-working liver: yes, Pimm's MAY taste like pop, but apparently it counts as alcohol (so they say, anyway: I'm not sure I'm having ANY of it).

The sensible thing to do, then, is to have a pure, virtuous few days to undo all that damage, and emerge like a gorgeous sparkly butterfly from its grumpy, puffy-eyed, muffin-topped chrysalis at the end of it. And that's precisely why it's SO UNFAIR that a whole raft of lovely, shiny, booze-fuelled events are offering themselves up, slinkily and seductively, for my attention over the next couple of weeks. Here are just a few of the temptations that have been so cruelly strewn in my path:

1. First up, it's Whisky Month at Selfridges between June 8th and 24th; not quite a month, admittedly, in my understanding of the word, but as events are taking place at both the Trafford Centre and Exchange Square stores then perhaps each day counts twice. There are various tastings and events scattered alluringly across June, including a Glenmorangie tasting on Saturday June 9th (ironically, these tastings will be FULL of thirsty boys who already know EXACTLY what each of the whiskies on offer tastes like *looks pointedly at Mr Liz, who is looking at the ceiling and whistling innocently*) and a special Jura cocktail-making event at Exchange Square on Thursday 21st June with Willie Tait, Global Brand Ambassador for the Jura Single Malt. Full details available in store - I think Mr Liz is simply planning on dividing the remainder of June equally between the two stores and sampling whatever gets in his way.

2. But here we have our first alcohol pile-up: Thursday 21st June is also wine tasting night at Manchester's Castlefield Rooms - indeed, more wines than you can shake a stick at, for it is the 50 Great Portuguese Wines Tasting Event. The wines have all been selected by Master of Wine Julia Harding, who was awarded Portugal’s Journalist of the Year in 2011 and who has been tirelessly scouring the country for prime wines to set before us ever since (brave...SO brave). Tickets are a mere £10 but must be booked in advance - further details from winesofportugal@cubecom.co.uk.

3. And speaking of Thursdays, the excellent "Series" of events continues at The Avenue, Spinningfields, with each achingly desirable shop taking it in turns to host a soiree with complimentary drinks provided by the Yacht Club. Last week's pop-up art exhibition in Flannels was just stunning, and although unfortunately tomorrow's event has had to be postponed, keep an eye on the website for details of next week's - I already know what it is, and I can confirm I am EXCITED.

4. So finally, after all that boozing, it's only right that I've enrolled in boot camp...*dramatic pause, smug trickster face, Alan Partridge tone of voice*...ha ha, that's right - COCKTAIL boot camp. Now this really does look like the sort of exercise I might be very good at - the team behind Monkey Shoulder Whisky will be strenuously putting us through our paces and cracking the whip as we learn how to make a range of drinks including the imperious Old-Fashioned and the exciting-sounding Jam Sour. We each get our own shaker, stirrer and swizzle stick (here's guessing that Mr Liz's shaker will be empty long before boot camp leader Dean Callan is even halfway through his instructions) and get to play at being Tom Cruise for a full hour and a half before anybody will think to step in and stop us. I for one can't wait for this one, as I'm always ready to leap at an, ahem, educational opportunity. The Monkey Shoulder Boot Camp arrives in Manchester on Saturday 16th and Sunday 17th June, with a 4pm session on each day at Apotheca - places are free but must be pre-booked by emailing MonkeyShoulder@anonymousartists.co.uk beforehand.

Still, never mind - there's ALWAYS July...

May's Gourmet Evening at The Mark Addy, Salford: Local Man Still in Recovery from Unexpected Experience

Now, there are a number of expressions in the English Language that hint at the retributive nature of justice: "you reap what you sow", for example, or "what goes around comes around". This is why something nice will surely happen to you if you help an old lady across the road, or rescue a sad kitten from a tree, or crochet a blanket for someone who is cold. And this is why you should never, EVER joke with your work colleagues about how Robert Owen Brown will probably feed you squirrel testicles at that evening's Mark Addy Gourmet Evening; frankly, you deserve everything you get. And, this is what we got; Mr Liz is still recovering from course number three, but we'll get to that in a minute.

1. Buttered English Asparagus. Not much to say about this one, other than simple perfection: fresh fat spears of England's finest charred and softened and served swimming in a sea of butter and black pepper - hard to improve on this dish really, although Mr Liz IS distracted by the thought of what's to come.

2. Baked hand dived scallop glazed with Lancashire cheese sauce. Again, no problems here: a single plump, quivering scallop - with the coral, the tastiest bit in my humble opinion, still attached - served in its shell covered with a thick blacket of tangy cheese sauce (essentially a scallop mornay but done the Lancashire way rather than the French). Delicious, delicious, delicious - although the ridges in the scallop shell DID mean a finger had to be employed to really get out every last bit of cheesy goodness *puts on best ladylike face but fears this may be too little, too late*.

3. Pan Roast Lamb's Fry with Capers. Sounds pretty normal, doesn't it - every one likes capers, after all, and lambs are tasty fellows. The pallor that instantly drained all trace of colour from Mr Liz's face when Chef Owen Brown explained that "fry" = "testicles" was quite something to behold; I swear his bottom lip may even have trembled slightly. In the end, of course, they looked nothing like one might have expected: tender slices of pillowy-textured, intensely savoury meat in a buttery sauce so tasty that even Mr Liz managed to clear his plate, along with lots of other brave and hungry boys. Would I order this particular delicacy again? Probably not, but I AM a big believer that if you're prepared to eat animals then it's wrong to turn your nose up at certain cuts of meat, and it DID provide me with enough material for around half an hour of smutty banter with a passing History teacher the following day.

4. Slow Braised Grey Squirrel. So, my premonition had been proven half right - rather than the envisaged squirrel nadgers, instead we were presented with a dainty dish of rodent haunch, slow roasted and served atop the potato version of Table Mountain. I'm a big fan of squirrel - it's lean, it's tasty, and were I a little more enterprising I could harvest a seemingly almost inexhaustible supply from my own garden - and although it can be a little fiddly, the gamey flavour totally rewards the patient diner. Much easier to let a chef get most of the bones out of the little blighters for you though.

5. English Strawberries Three Ways. This month's dessert was a triumph - I don't have a massively sweet tooth, so this combination of fresh and freeze-dried berries, pretty pink strawberry soup, and custard-filled sponge cake was right up my street. The soup was the star here - essentially a posh smoothie, I could feel it physically cleansing my system of all the calories I had previously consumed; at least, that's what I like to hope was happening.

6. Selection of Cheese. Once again, my eyes were bigger than my stomach - no mean feat considering that by this point of the evening my stomach was the size and heft of a small bungalow - and we had to have our cheese foil-wrapped to go. It's hard to express quite how satisfying it is to leave a restaurant clutching a shiny package that you know is filled to bursting with brie, grapes and crackers - even if your stomach IS full of balls.

- The Mark Addy is on Stanley Street, Salford M3 5EJ, and the next Gourmet Evening will be on Wednesday 27th June.

Opus One at the Radisson Blu Edwardian Hotel Manchester: Local Girl's Dreams of Basil Fawlty Cruelly Shattered by Top Dinner

As someone born in the 1970s, and brought up in the 1980s by a father with a heartfelt love of great British comedy, I understandably grew up with a pretty clear idea of what a hotel restaurant should be like: a plain, functional, beige sort of room, largely populated by confused German people and staffed by a small Spanish man (look, I was young - it took me a LONG TIME to accept that Andrew Sachs was not, in fact, of Mediterranean descent) and a tall, shouty man with a silly walk. My first actual visit to a hotel restaurant as a teenager, in the company of my parents and some of their friends, did nothing to dispel my illusions: the men were all wearing tweed jackets, and we were served melon balls, some of which were dropped into a man's lap by a nervous waiter with comic timing that even John Cleese would have envied.

It has therefore been one of the greatest discoveries of my adult life that, actually, hotel restaurants can be gloriously glamorous affairs, with talented chefs turning out memorable dishes and attractive young staff competently topping up your wine glass without spilling so much as a drop. And it turns out that Opus One, the on-site restaurant at the Radisson Blu Edwardian Manchester Hotel, is just such a place; situated in the Free Trade Hall just off Deansgate, I must have walked past it hundreds of times before, entirely ignorant of the treasures lurking behind its elegant facade. The occasion of our inaugural visit was to sample the new summer menu created by Head Chef Neil Armstrong: the restaurant, although busy at weekends, is currently relatively quiet during the early part of the week, and they are keen to spread the word that Opus One is a desirable destination in its own right.

And true to form, I pretty much desired everything on the commendably short menu. Here's what we had:

Appetiser: watermelon gazpacho with roof terrace mint. This arrived unbidden, a fresh burst of flavour in a dinky shot glass, crowned with mint grown in the restaurant's own roof terrace garden. I do like the idea that in the midst of the dirty, crowded city a brave gaggle of plants and herbs are gamely pushing their heads above the parapet (although to be fair, even I can grow mint - I think it's because the giant slugs who patrol my garden are not partial to it).

Starters: the starters are always my favourite section of any menu, and I was particularly impressed with the selection of interesting dishes available. In the end, I went with the hand dived scallops served with a broth of crab, sweet corn & scallions whilst Mr Liz chose the layered duck & foie gras pancake with crispy duck skin & stornaway Aioli. Neither of these was a cheap option (in fact, mine was comfortably the most expensive starter on the menu at £10.75), but this is clearly a place that believes in offering value for money through generous portion sizes. These were the largest scallops I'd ever had - three plump fellows cooked to perfection with a slight sticky crustiness on the outside and a melt-in-the-mouth texture on the inside, and the accompanying broth was a revelation: a deceptively dense soup packed with the rich, buttery flavour of a healthy amount of crab meat. Mr Liz was also beyond pleased with what could only be described as a wedge of pie made from pancakes, layered up with the gamey flavours of duck and foie gras and satisfying enough to make him regret the second bread roll he later admitted to secretly eating while I was in the loo. Both starters were extremely rich - this is not the place to go if you're on any kind of diet, and even I felt that the garlic mayonnaise served with the pancakes, delicious though it was, went a step overboard in adding another unctuous texture to what was already a highly luxurious dish.

Mains: the menu offers four meat, three fish and two vegetarian mains, and I could happily have eaten any one of them. My dish of choice was the Cheshire beef fillet served with Cumbria & ham fritter & potato puree cannelloni, whilst Mr Liz plumped for the barrel of Cheshire lamb gremolata with neck hot pot & Appleby’s rarebit fondant. My steak was excellent - a fat parcel of tender meat cooked perfectly pink as requested and served with some interesting accompaniments including a superlative mashed potato and a dinky little cannelloni (of which I could easily have eaten about thirty, not least because this would have removed the worry about whether the singular of "cannelloni" is indeed "cannelloni"). Mr Liz's main was perhaps even better, with the mini lamb hot pot proving the star of the show, its intense savoury flavours providing a welcome contrast to the comforting succulence of the sliced lamb alongside. There's a lot going on with both these dishes, but for us the variety on the plate was one of the strengths here, with every component thoughtfully chosen to complement the others...I could have eaten more mashed potato but then, to be fair, I can ALWAYS eat more mashed potato.

Desserts: obviously, I wouldn't normally have pudding, but such is my devotion to bringing you a thorough review that I bit the bullet and had a bit of everything. There are four desserts on the menu: Mr Liz, a proud Northerner through-and-through, chose the Taste of Manchester iced Vimto parfait, with Manchester Tart, warm Eccles Cakes, clotted cream & a Manchester Smoothie. That left three puddings vying jealously to be the chosen one; ever-mindful of equality for all, I asked nicely and was rewarded with an exciting hybrid, a kind of highlights package: the rhubarb fool and rhubarb crumble brulee from the Textures of Rhubarb dish (this is the one I would go for next time) along with Morgan’s Rum soaked baby pineapple and a marbled iced chocolate parfait served with a dinky skewer of flamed cognac marshmallows. And yes, I AM greedy, but you KNOW you would have also licked the plate clean if presented with such an embarrassment of riches. Mr Liz pronounced his dish a triumph, with the world's cutest Eccles Cake particularly tickling his fancy (and indeed providing me with much amusement as I watched a large man attempt to eat a cake the size of a pixie in a delicate manner).

Any downsides? Well, not with the food, no, which was uniformly excellent; nor with the service, which was relaxed, friendly and efficient. There is a slight whiff of the old-fashioned about Opus One though which is at odds with the high standards they have obviously set for themselves: the red lighting, for example, which you may have noticed has stained my normally immaculate photographic offerings a flattering shade of brothel. The presentation of my main was also a little 90s - I don't really care for food served on boards, and I won't even say what an esteemed friend calls the technique of presenting food in a smear (although the phrase she uses pairs "smear" with another word beginning with "s", no doubt for the pleasing sense of sibilance thus created). Similarly, my splendid scallops were presented marching across an expanse of slate towards a dolly-sized copper saucepan containing the broth; really, I like my food served on a PLATE, and the fact that the spoon provided was too big to get to the bottom of the pan meant I had to slurp the dregs in a most unladylike fashion when no-one was looking. These are minor quibbles though, and I will reserve judgement on the decor as the restaurant is closed for the next week for a refurb - apparently there are plans for a new cocktail and champagne bar. But don't worry - they promise that these two are staying; I'm hoping the handsome one on the right is going to buy me a drink next time. Opus One is a welcome discovery for me, and I will certainly be back.

Opera North's Carousel Comes to The Lowry: Local Girl's Lack of Talent Cruelly Revealed

Now, as previously noted, I am a woman of many talents - in my head, at least. I can't count the number of times I've moved an attentive audience (the cat, bribed to stay with liberal promises of Dreamies) to tears with beautiful renditions of various modern classics that are surely wasted in the confines of my own kitchen. And sometimes, I dance and pirouette my way across the floor towards the beer fridge with the natural grace and poise of an exceptionally talented gazelle.

Of course, it only takes a visit to The Lowry to see anything by Opera North to remind you what real (as opposed to delusional) talent actually looks like. This remarkable Leeds-based company have previously won a reluctant Mr Liz over to opera through their sultry, steamy Carmen, and come pretty close to converting me to Gilbert & Sullivan via their spirited Ruddigore; this week, it's the turn of Carousel, a Rodgers and Hammerstein classic that I had - inexplicably - never seen, not even the film version. And I have to admit that, reading the programme notes beforehand, the whole thing sounded pretty bizarre.

Obviously though, being Opera North, it was superlative in pretty much every way. The story is as follows: young man (the splendidly named Billy Bigelow) puts his arm round young girl (Julie Jordan - only people with alliterative names are allowed to go out with each other in THIS world) on the carousel; both are fired from their jobs as a result. Meanwhile, Julie's friend Carrie is engaged to be married to a Mr Enoch Snow - he owns a fishing boat and is therefore, ahem, quite a catch *smirks at own wit*. Julie is not proving so lucky in her relationship: Billy misses the female attention he used to get on the carousel and has a hankering to go back - until Julie gives him some news that forces him to rethink how he can best fulfil his responsibilities to his wife.

I'll say no more of the plot, just in case you've never seen it, but suffice to say that the second half includes a clam bake (why have I never had one of these? why?), a trip to heaven and a mid-section entitled simply "Ballet" - and it still works. This is partly because the songs are great - I know my work colleagues certainly enjoyed the selection of "Songs from the Shows" I performed for them the following day - and include the infuriatingly catchy June is Bustin' Out All Over and a fairly well-known ditty called You'll Never Walk Alone ("typical Scousers," commented Mr Liz, controversially, "they nick EVERYTHING"*). The whole cast was as pitch-perfect as you'd expect, with standout performances from Joseph Shovelton as Enoch and Claire Boulter as Carrie.

*I take NO responsibility for this remark, or any other made by errant gentlemen with whom I am connected.

The staging was beautiful, with notable scenes including the opening number on the carousel, the scenes set in heaven, and the ballet of the second half. A key scene just after the interval perhaps lacks the required violence that would make it truly convincing, but the packed house was certainly most appreciative of the whole thing, and it speaks volumes about Opera North's peerless reputation that they can pretty much fill such a large venue on a Wednesday night.

And me? Well, I've discovered where my true talents lie: sitting outside Lime, drinking Prosecco and eating olives, and then checking my watch and having to SPRINT across the square two minutes before the performance starts. It's nice to know that we're ALL good at something...

- Carousel is on at The Lowry until Saturday 26th May and then spins away to prepare for its residency at London's Barbican Theatre in August and September - for full details visit the Opera North website.

Mr Trotter's Pork Crackling Dinner AND 30 Years of the Hacienda: Local Girl May as Well MOVE IN to Harvey Nichols Manchester

Now, I've not yet spoken to the powers-that-be, but it strikes me that I have come up with a most lucrative premise for an exciting new TV show - I'm pretty sure it will spark a bidding war and more or less line my coffers for the rest of my life. Loosely based on the "Dancing with the Stars" format, my own, thoroughly original show is provisionally entitled "Accidentally Hob-Nobbing with the Stars", and features a jaunty young girl (preferably me - I do own the format, after all) hanging around a classy venue, drinking wine and waiting to bump into famous people.

And based on this week's experiences, the most promising venue looks to be the Manchester branch of Harvey Nichols; which, coincidentally, is a most convenient location for me to get to for filming, should I be appointed to star in the show. To wit, consider the following evidence:

Thursday night saw the Menswear department transformed into a splendidly middle-class, middle-aged tribute to the Hacienda - frankly, I'd go clubbing a lot more these days if I could dance in a corner of Harvey Nichols, drinking Prosecco and eating mini cones of fish and chips, between the hours of 6 and 9pm. The event marked the start of the 30th birthday celebrations in honour of the legendary club's original opening in 1982 - Ellesse have produced a limited edition polo shirt with buttons made from bits of the Hacienda building (who kept these bits? and did they think they might come in useful as buttons for polo shirts a few years down the line? that's foresight at its FINEST). Mr Liz saw the cost and refused to buy me one, citing the reason that, apparently, polo shirts "don't suit" me rather than 'fessing up to the actual, "yes, I AM too mean" reason. Anyway, there was a fantastic Q & A session with Peter Hook, Graeme Park, Ange Matthews and Anton Razak, chaired by John Robb, followed by DJ sets from Hooky and Parky (I can use these nicknames as am budding TV star) - a fine night was had by all, although I must remember not to ask some bloke who turns out to be Peter Hook to move out the way of a photograph I am taking when the film crew are actually present.

Friday night looked similarly promising - an event I previewed a few weeks ago with breathless anticipation had finally arrived, in the form of the Mr Trotter's Pork Crackling Dinner hosted in the Second Floor Restaurant by Tom Parker Bowles and Matthew Fort. To be honest, I'd have needed the film crew with me from the very start for this one: the lift took an age to come down from the second floor, and when it eventually did arrive, it was packed to the very gills with a fleet of perma-tanned, middle-aged American men sheltering a precious cargo in their midst - a twinkly eyed, curly haired, nut brown Barry Manilow. "Ooh!" said a friend, later. "Did you start singing that you were Lola, a show girl?" The brief answer to this is, no, I did not: firstly, I didn't think of it in time, and secondly, I can't be expected to perform when the cameras aren't there - I shall save it all for when the show is actually in the bag.

So, after the bonus Barry, on to the main business of the evening. Food writers Matthew Fort and Tom Parker Bowles have brought their new brand of pork scratchings to the Harvey Nichols Foodmarket, a momentous occasion suitably marked with a special porcine dinner thrown in Mr Trotter's honour. We kicked off with drinks in the Brasserie bar where - splendidly - gorgeous staff glided round bearing elegant trays containing bags of Mr Trotter's scratchings for us to delicately rummage in; I'm no expert on pork scratchings, but these struck me as a highly superior breed - generously sized, tasting of pork rather than just salt and fat, and with just the right amount of crunch (no-one wants to lose a filling in front of a respected food critic, after all). It also turns out that, in the hands of a cheffy genius like Sam Everett, they can be seamlessly incorporated into a three course gourmet dinner (always useful to know, in the unlikely event of actually managing to prise any bag of scratchings from Mr Liz's eager paws) - this is what we had:

Starter: Scallops served with black pudding, Mr Trotter's Pork Scratching and herb salad. Now, it takes real imagination to understand that a pork scratching can be used to make a devastatingly delicious crispy topping for a tender, fleshy young scallop as seen here. And yes, how cute is that little roll of black pudding? You may also be unsurprised to know that the accompanying sauce was SO delicious I was forced to run my finger round the plate whilst the imaginary film crew were busy doing some general location shots.

Main: Pork loin, served with confit pork belly, pig's cheek hash brown and a Mr Trotter’s Pork Scratching. This clearly wasn't a meal for non pork-eaters, but for me, this dish really showed off how versatile a meat this is - soft, pillowy loin perched atop a meltingly unctuous slab of pork belly, guarded by perky little piggy towers. Spectacular.

Dessert: Baked egg custard, served with Mr Trotter's Pork Scratching Brittle, chocolate mousse and maple granite. In truth, this was the one we'd been waiting for - how would pork scratchings fare in a sweet course? Actually, of course, it's perfectly logical - anyone who's ever had salted caramel will instantly understand that sprinkling crushed pork scratching on top of a thick layer of chocolate mousse can only be a good thing: a sort of savoury, porky popping candy if you will. I think Muller Corners are missing a trick with this one, and look forward to see Pig Corners joining the existing Fruit version in the near future *quickly patents idea*.

But, I know what you're thinking - that the food sounds all well and good, but where are the stars? Well, first of all there was Matthew Fort, gamely making a circuit of the restaurant to talk piggy goodness with everyone, clearly mindful of his responsibilities as host of the event. And then there was Tom Parker Bowles, who plonked himself down at our table (I suppose actually it's entirely possible that we were sitting at HIS table) and proceeded to entertain us for three hours with a number of stories that I can't possibly repeat here other than to say he likes Game of Thrones and enjoys being told he bears a passing resemblance to Kiefer Sutherland.

So, I think you'll agree that my fledgling career as top TV mogul is off to a promising start - with one disappointing omission. I've still not met Mr Trotter, but don't worry, I'll track him down - and this time I'll make sure the cameras are rolling...

- Harvey Nichols is at 21 New Cathedral Street Manchester M1 1AD.

Holland's Pie Delivery: Local Girl Now Fully Indoctrinated into WORLD OF PIE

Now, much as we may like to pretend that we care not a jot for what others think of us, I suspect that actually, most of us care very much indeed. And it can come as something of a slap in the face when we find out the bitter reality of how people truly perceive us: take this blog, for example. Clearly, I had hoped to present myself as a highly discerning, cultured individual with impeccably refined tastes - a knowledgeable connoisseur, a doyenne of sophisticated living. And yet. An email arrived a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, that indicated that perhaps, just perhaps, others see me differently.

For the email was from Holland's Pies, purveyors of "proper pies and puds" (although I quite like the concept of an "improper", minxy sort of pie), proudly produced in Lancashire for over 160 years. Would I like to try them? Well, once I'd come to terms with the fact that rather than the ethereal, waif-like Florence figure I'd hoped, I am clearly coming across as a good sturdy, pie-eating sort of girl, I decided that YES, I would. Because unless I've had one at a chippy without realising it, I've lived in Manchester for the best part of twenty years now and NEVER HAD a Holland's pie. This is clearly a serious offence for a girl married to a Wiganer - I'm fairly sure divorces have been granted over smaller matters than this; indeed, Twitter was aghast when I confessed to my lack of pie-eating experience, collectively deciding that I probably hadn't had any kind of childhood at all (or indeed, perhaps any kind of adulthood either).

Anyway, Holland's promised to send some pies, and I thought no more about it until last Friday, when I came home from work and was met at the door by a boy with a face full of eager news. They're here, he whispered in a voice simultaneously hushed by awe and quivering with repressed, disbelieving joy, come and see. Tugging eagerly at my sleeve, he led me into the kitchen, where an air of reverence pervaded and Mr Liz was so overcome that words failed him entirely and he could only point at the worktop with an arm that I SWEAR was trembling slightly. For here was a bag, a CLOTH BAG, proudly proclaiming HOLLAND'S PIES and containing a whole FAMILY of pastry-based goods. It was hard to know what excited him more - the pies themselves, or the bag that SPOKE of pie...

So, we had pies for tea. The sausage roll was consumed as a "starter", a kind of carbohydrate warm-up, followed by the Meat Pie (beef and pork), the Steak & Kidney Pudding and the Cheese & Onion Pie - please don't worry that this meal sounds unhealthy, as I served it with carrots, thereby negating any potentially adverse effects. For me, the Cheese & Onion was a clear winner - essentially Northern fondue in a pastry case - while Mr Liz preferred the meaty options. I think the Meat Pie might be an acquired taste that my Southern-raised sensibilities are not yet ready for, but I look forward to trying the Steak Pie (maybe not the Potato and Meat one) that has been secretly stashed in the freezer to prevent over-excited boys eating themselves into a meat coma at one sitting. These pies were sent to us free, but we were not pressurised into saying nice things about them - Holland's genuinely seem very confident in their own product, and are keen for more people to try them.

So, whilst I'm obviously still a junior, trainee sort of pie-eater, I feel that I've completed another stage of my application for a permanent Mancunian visa. And if you see a jaunty boy out and about with a Holland's Pie bag, then do give Mr Liz a wave.

New Menu Launched at Gusto Didsbury: Local Girl Breathes a Sigh of Relief AND Finds Cheap Cocktails at The Sanctuary

By and large, I am not a big fan of change. On the whole, I enjoy things being the same: I like, for example, that the same friend cooks the same meal on the same weekend in December every year, even serving the same cocktails with EXACTLY the same results (she makes a mean Amaretto Sour) - if it were to be any different, well, it would just be wrong. Similarly, I will argue until my dying day that certain types of tea drunk at different times of day really do taste better in one particular cup as opposed to another - and if my first cup of the day was served in the mug I like in the evening, well, all HELL would break loose. Probably.

So when a restaurant to which I am already most partial announces a new menu, I can't pretend this isn't potentially an area of some concern to me: what if they get rid of all my favourite things? What if life is NEVER THE SAME AGAIN? All these feelings and more ran through my fevered frame when Gusto - the estimable Italian chain to whose Didsbury branch I am a regular and gluttonous visitor - launched its new menu this week. WHAT IF THERE WAS NO CALAMARI?

Well, obviously it was all fine; better than fine in fact. The new menu has kept all the old favourites whilst introducing some new, improved dishes alongside as a kind of bonus; thus, for example, the starters remain largely unchanged, but their ranks are now swelled - thrillingly - by the introduction of half-size portions of all the pasta dishes (although this does now facilitate the very worrying possibility that I will get into the habit of eating pasta, followed by pasta, leading my thighs to expand to the size of China whilst an army of whippet-thin Didsburyites just have a half-portion as their main meal.)

However, I am getting ahead of myself. The evening began with cocktails: it was a dry, sunny evening for once, so a metaphorical casting-off of galoshes was performed, to be replaced with a chi-chi scarf purchased in Sorrento draped fetchingly around a thirsty neck that was just ready and waiting to celebrate the stopping of rain with the guzzling of drink. Drinking in Didsbury can be a pricy business on any day of the week, so we were impressed to find that The Sanctuary (next door to the new Tesco, about which I will say NOTHING) has launched a new cocktail menu which is available as two-for-the-price-of-one all day, every day - nice menu, too, featuring some interesting and well-made selections. Here you see the Dib Dab (a lemony, gin-based delight that Mr Liz considered manly enough to be acceptable) and the Spiced Raspberry Mohito, made with Chambord and more than a healthy dash of rum. As both of these cost just £5.25 and we'd bagged a lovely squashy, comfy sofa, there is a very real possibility that had we not been booked in at Gusto, we might just have accidentally stayed here all night.

Luckily, we did make it out of that sofa, as Gusto was on fine form. This place is always busy - it's a sign of quality, I think, that Gusto and Felicini are both consistently well-supported despite being pretty much opposite each other - and last night was no exception, full to bursting with lovely, cheerful, noisy people chattering away over a bottle or two of Primitivo. We browsed the new menu over olives, and then went for the following:

Starters: we decided to share here - obviously we had to have a portion of calamari as it's actually ILLEGAL to visit Gusto and not do so, but we also tried one of the new dishes: gnocchi with slow roast pork, cherry tomatoes, pesto and rocket at £5.50 for a half portion. The calamari was as good as ever: melt-in-the-mouth-tender squid encased in light, crisp batter - and it's a relief to note that, as ever, I ended up with slightly burnt fingers from trying to eat one the second they arrived on the table - plus ca change, eh? Our bold experimentalism on the gnocchi was rewarded with dainty little dumplings drenched luxuriantly in a pesto so fresh it made the whole dish taste like the healthiest meal on the planet, studded with teasingly elusive shreds of tender pork and the odd perky tomato. My only criticism here is that I prefer my gnocchi a little larger; this is purely because I am a long way from being small and dainty myself though, so perhaps they should consider following TopShop's lead and introducing a "Tall" range of gnocchi alongside the existing "Petite" model *helpful marketing/cheffy face*

Mains: now, Mr Liz always has Diavolo pizza at Gusto. Always. Indeed, so often does he order it as a takeout on the Monday nights I work late that he was instantly recognised by a member of staff openly astonished to see him actually eating something else. For, reader, he DID have something else - albeit still a pizza. The "Al Salsiccia" is one of the new ones (the "Marinara" is the other), and is topped with home smoked Italian sausage, shredded pork and mozzarella - it's definitely a boy's pizza, this one, loaded with so much meaty goodness that some of it slithered off onto the plate, where it was quickly snaffled by an evil/enterprising* wife.

*delete as applicable according to viewpoint.

My own choice was one of the new dishes in the meat section: marinated rump of lamb with spinach and aubergine cannelloni. The lamb was very good - caramelised and sticky on the outside, perfectly pink as requested on the inside - but the real revelation here was the cannelloni: one long tube filled with a mixture of cubed aubergine, mushrooms and pine-nuts and then covered with a tomato and marscarpone sauce. The sauce was rich without being cloying, and the vegetables had reached that admirable stage of cooking where each retains some bite and independence whilst simultaneously melding softly together. It's a pity this doesn't appear in its own right as part of the pasta selection - I would order it time and and time again, even without the lamb. We also had a side order of fried courgettes: shards of soft vegetable made entirely unhealthy by the application of batter and salt and - therefore - utterly, utterly delicious.

Finally, to pudding. I have written before in praise of the Bombolini, and would normally have never looked beyond their enticingly doughy appeal had I not earlier spotted another table ordering a dessert that looked - quite frankly - unmissable. This was the Gusto Sundae: ice cream, whipped cream, fruits and chocolate sauce, topped with a flake and a homemade biscotti emerging, phoenix-like, from the snowy masses below. This is not a cheap option at £6.95 but is easily big enough for two to share - and you have to admire a restaurant that provides both a flake (for the traditionalists) and a classy biscotti (for the, ahem, native Italians like myself). I'm afraid the picture shown here is a little over-exposed, but as it looks like this gorgeous dessert is being admired and snapped by the paparazzi, I think it is actually entirely fitting.

One last word for our fabulous waitress Fliss who - along with the rest of the staff - had bravely eaten her way through the new menu on Wednesday in order to be professionally knowledgeable about its contents. This dedicated and selfless training had clearly paid off, for she was most helpful in recommending and describing the new dishes to us.

So was it a perfect evening? No. It would have been, but I can confirm that a chi-chi Italian scarf draped fetchingly round one's neck during dinner becomes markedly less desirable if found to contain food items upon arriving home - all I can think is that Mr Liz must have PLANTED that piece of chocolate ice-cream there as a cruel joke...this would NEVER have happened to Audrey Hepburn.

-The Sanctuary is at 653 Wilmslow Road, Didsbury M20 6QZ, and Gusto is but a short stroll down the road at number 756.

Local Girl Won Over by Manchester Bank Holiday Weekend

A couple of years ago now, something happened to me that made me fall out with Manchester. In fact, there was a brief period when, had it been possible, I would have gladly moved to a small cave at the bottom of the sea and been happy never to lay eyes on the Kingdom of Mancunia ever again.

Things change though. Little by little, Manchester has wormed its way back into my good books, rather like the persistent ex-boyfriend who suddenly remembers how to treat you properly after he's messed up one too many times - Manchester knew it had overstepped the mark, and was determined to win back my affections. And win them back it has, in an all-out display of such towering loveliness that I may indeed never consider leaving ever again. In just one Bank Holiday weekend, I was able to do all of this, and the fact that I mostly had to do it all in the rain and cold is but the SMALLEST of niggles.

Saturday:

1. Heaton Moor Market. This super-cute little market has been running for over a year now, tucked away behind the estimable Kro Bar on Shaw Road, but had it not been for Twitter (the font of all knowledge) I would not have even known it existed. Here, I bought some lovely spicy chorizo from Spanish food importers Levanter (who softly strummed on a guitar whilst I browsed), some pork, Stilton and asparagus sausages, and also learned that I am incapable of walking, talking and eating meatballs all at the same time courtesy of Little Bird Catering's amazing travelling meatball stall. You can also buy coffee, cakes, crafts and (presumably) items that do NOT begin with a "c" (causages?); there is also normally a stall selling homemade scotch eggs that are apparently legendary, but - in a stroke of almost insufferable cruelty - he was unable to attend this month. Oh well - I shall just have to go again.

2. Just when you think the day can't get any better, it transpires that a friend (now even more beloved than previously) has won a bottle of El Jimador tequila with all the trimmings at The Yacht Club in a Facebook competition. So yes, the day bed that comes as part of the prize is cold, and drafty, but we are soon sporting luxuriously warm tequila coats, and dancing along with the Mexican band on the deck of this most elegant of bars. And - who knew? - it turns out that tequila slammers can be performed with virtually any fruit or vegetable item, providing one with a healthy, balanced diet even when half-cut.

3. And when your fingers have become so cold they can no longer grasp your cocktail, what better way to warm up than a short skip across Hardman Square to Southern Eleven, a cosy and welcoming place serving outrageously moreish American BBQ in hopelessly generous portions. I'm due to go again for a full review, but suffice to say that I have dreamt of the pulled pork every night ever since, and still regret the small piece of warm cornbread I was forced to leave lest the zip on my dress explode.

Sunday:

Another day, another winner - this time a lucky friend had won two tickets to the North West Spring Wine Festival at St. Peter's in Ancoats, and was looking for a wine-minded companion to accompany her *steps forward, bravely, nobly, tasting glass in hand*. Once over the initial childish thrill of drinking wine in a CHURCH, this was perfection all the way - lovely people, in a beautifully judged venue (not too many exhibitors, not too few - I was content but still standing by the end), and, most importantly, really great wine from a range of brilliant independents. AND Mr Liz picked me up afterwards, thereby saving me the indignity of being tipsy on public transport in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

Monday:

Now obviously, by this point, the thought of work was beginning to loom large; time for one last hurrah, however, as the award-winning Black Dog Ballroom's new sister bar on New Wakefield Street was offering a tempting 50% off food, and as it was becoming increasingly clear that I had no intention of cooking anything, Mr Liz cried to be allowed to go and was told YES. We perhaps didn't see it at its best - at 12.30 on a cold, wet Bank Holiday it was all but deserted - but this seems a really promising venue.

Tall and thin, the familiar Black Dog pool tables and booths line the lower floor, whilst a flight of stairs leads up to a lighter, airier top floor with a glass roof upon which the rain lashed furiously throughout our visit (indeed, the staff had to rush out and rescue the sofas from the roof terrace, so fierce was the deluge). Still, the food was decent (Mr Liz counted in sheer joy and disbelief the number of different meat items atop his Brucie Bonus pizza), the staff delightful, and the music suitably loud - nothing like a blast of the Foos to remove the last of the Wine Festival fug from your brain.

Would many other places have afforded all this in just one weekend? Manchester, you might just have convinced me to commit to you once again - as long as you keep up the good work, obviously....

Forthcoming Events at The Lowry, Salford: Opera North's Carousel and Jim White Allow Local Girl to STOP WRITING ABOUT FOOD

Quite astonishingly, come December this blog will be celebrating its fifth birthday. No-one is more surprised by its unexpected longevity than myself, for I am sadly aware that I am somewhat prone to flightiness, and boredom, and sloth, and all the other essential attributes that point firmly to a short attention span and a blog that will flicker very brightly for a couple of months before slinking quietly off to watch television instead.

That said, the blog hasn't exactly turned out as planned, having originally been envisaged as a highly organised, sleek, efficient sort of enterprise, barking succinct yet eloquently pithy comment on a range of highly intellectual cultural events. Patently, this has not happened, and you have instead been presented with a number of incoherently enthusiastic ramblings on topics ranging from food, to drink, to food - passing through an occasional musing on shoes just to ensure a bit of variety. So it is with some relief that I scan my diary and discover that - amongst all the eating and drinking - I am in fact booked in for a couple of events that might just qualify as CULTURE.

Both are at the estimable Lowry, which has long been a favourite venue of mine (and not just because it has helpfully surrounded itself with shops, restaurants and ample parking, although these do of course help). First up is Opera North's production of Carousel, which arrives hot and breathless in Salford on Wednesday 23rd May, fresh from its opening run in Leeds. I've yet to see a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical, but following my triumphant conversion to Gilbert & Sullivan last year, I'm pretty sure that Opera North will do a similarly sterling job in widening my musical tastes still further. Full review - including notes on which ice-cream I had at half time and which song I sang along with the most memorably to the delight of cast and audience alike - will follow the event, but you can have a sneaky peek here - it looks great, and Opera North are ALWAYS brilliant.

Staying on a musical theme, I am also looking forward to see Jim White play the Lowry's Quays Theatre on Sunday 10th June. This much-acclaimed American singer-songwriter released his debut album back in 1997, but I am something of a recent convert to his slightly off-beat, country-esque charms. Mojo say of his latest album, Where it Hits You, "once an Americana pioneer but now an elder statesman, White is still showing young pretenders a clean set of Cuban heels ★★★★", while I say: "I listened to this album this morning, the day after a friend of mine won a bottle of tequila at The Yacht Club Bar, and it soothed me, and was nice, and made me feel better, and everything...★★★". You see? I could easily be a music journalist *carefully gets bow and adds another string*, although you could always listen to some of his music here if you feel - quite unreasonably - you need to make your own judgement.

Anyway - that's the culture box ticked for a few weeks; now I'm off to have some crisps...