Homage to a Catalonian

There are certain people who, at different points in my life, have been hugely influential.

Obviously, this list is led by my brilliant parents and sister; it also features my wonderful wife and kids; extended family; faithful friends; educators and colleagues plus single serving soul mates alongside many others. 

But I have also enjoyed relationships, of a kind, with several other people: some of whom I’ve met, and others I never will. I’m very curious, and easily inspired, meaning that throughout my life there have been people – icons, role models, call them what you will – who have been very important to me for some reason or other.

We all have people we look up to as kids: footballers, pop stars, wrestlers… heroes.

But I, somewhat strangely, also carried this trend on through my adult life. Call it OCD, or just weirdness – what you will – but I’ve got a few people of whose jib I’ve really liked the cut since growing up, too.

Often it’s their work or style I’ve taken a particular liking to, and therefore I’ve more than put them on a pedestal…. I’ve adored ’em.

Occasionally, I get to meet them and I have this out of body experience.

Never meet your heroes, some people say, but talking to / shaking hands with some of the great influences on my life has been a huge honour and something I’ll take to the grave. I’m talking about Eric Cantona, Liam Fray, Johan Cruyff, Sir Peter Blake, Duncan Ferguson, Richard Ashcroft, Liam Gallagher, Jeremy Deller, Pierre Koffmann, Andre Gomes, Grayson Perry, Tony Wilson, Tracey Emin, Leighton Baines, Jamie Oliver… the list goes on.

There are others I never got the chance to embrace, such as Joseph Cornell and Audrey Hepburn; Ian Curtis, Billy Fury and William Ralph Dean who, despite all being long gone, still left a lasting impression. Some don’t even really exist, but are characters: Billy Liar, Ricky Fitts, Alan Partridge, Daniel LaRusso… and still I love and admire them for their various qualities.

There are also a couple I don’t actually ever want to meet: Morrissey, Giles Coren (I’ll just try to copy his review writing style minus the political bias) Steve Coogan and Rick Stein, then there are a couple more I really would… Grace Dent, to discuss Cumbrian culture and exactly how she got her exalted position; Stephen Graham, Lionel Messi (naturally) and another Barca legend… which brings us nicely to the focus of this blog post: a day out in Manchester – exactly a month ago – to celebrate seven years of wedded bliss (and of my only encounter with a real hero)

I booked lunch at Tast back in December as a Christmas present, primarily because Pep Guardiola is involved in the Catalan restaurant.

I only vaguely remember Pep as a player.

I knew a bit about him and his tireless midfield role in the early 90s, but was more bothered about the attacking talent in the dream teams of the time. I learned about his prowess and reputation later on, and was to be disappointed at his inability to attend an Old Boys’ game at Goodison between Barca and Everton former players (I’ve still got the programme, he is on the front) but by then he was forming a new model of football as a coach and took the helm for a magical era of golden football, most of which I watched with agog glee and saw first hand one night in 2012.

It wasn’t just his style of football, though.

I don’t mind admitting that I have since developed a real man crush for Guardiola and his general style. He seems a thoroughly decent man, proud husband and father. He’s articulate, intelligent, likes the finer things in life. He’s a proud Catalan, too, wearing the yellow ribbon without fear to raise awareness, celebrating St Jordi every 23^rd April with a rose for his wife (and a book from her) plus he loves Oasis. And his clothes, wow! Now, it’s all Chinos, pumps, simple but stylish round neck sweaters or skinny t-shirts, basically everything I already liked wearing but cooler. I even modelled my wedding attire on the slim fit shirts and suits he used to wear whilst prowling the touch line at Camp Nou.

I don’t think I’ll ever get to meet him – properly, anyway. the above photo is a memento of our pre-wedding sojourn to Barca, when on a tour of the Nou Camp they offer you photos with digitally created characters and naturally I chose Pep so I could at least pretend!

Therefore, a restaurant with his name attached to it simply had to be top of my list for 2019, and so it was with great excitement we boarded the train to Manchester. I didn’t expect to see him there, of course, although as luck would have it FCB had somewhat serendipitously been in town the evening before so I did rightly predict the place would be rammed with fellow minded Catalans who worship the ground he walks on.

Before we get to the food, an aside: firstly, the title race outcome is irrelevant. This is not football, as a coach of a rival team once said to another of my heroes thirty four years ago, but food… no mention of the title race nor the Champions’ League, please. Of course, you can read my football chat elsewhere (if you dare!) but whatever has happened on the pitch – call it controversial – we just love the city of MCR.

Had one of our first dates there, I grew up listening to the sounds of it, admire the history and difference – irreverence thereof – and laugh in the face of those who insult it without ever having even scratched the surface. Regardless of – frankly pathetic – dated football, music, industrial or otherwise rivalries, it is a great city, so with great anticipation we boarded the train at Roby and got in early so jumped off at Deansgate and had early – before midday, that is – coffees and a cheeky G&T at the very stylish Atlas Bar under the railway arches.

Then, onto a painfully hip Manahatta – simply because it brought back memories of something we learned on an open top bus tour of NY during our engagement holiday almost a decade ago – as the name is the American Indian word for ‘land of many hills’, kind of ironic for Cottonopolis but hey, the cocktails set us up nicely for lunch. The sun was shining outside, and we could actually have been in the city that never sleeps.

Then, though, it was time to move on: we were now transported to another seminal moment in our history and our mini moon in the capital of Spain, the week after the wedding in 2012. Arriving at Tast, we were warmly welcomed and observed the passers by with interest. Seated by the window, the city that the partner of one of its adopted sons (David de Gea) once infamously likened to the back of a fridge morphed into Madrid, what with the sun shining, the posh King Street shops and the Spanish superstar skulking past the place trying to keep a low profile and seemingly horrified at being spotted by someone inside the cool-looking place on the corner his manager part-owned.

We also spotted someone with his wife and son, who looked remarkably like Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall – and it actually was – but forget the River Cottage, were there for the Spanish cuisine solely. And, of course, there was the mixture of Catalan and Spanish conversations on the tables surrounding the present author (critic?) savouring every taste of the food they were being served.

It being a special occasion, I was determined to enjoy the tasting menu available: probably better value for those who were dining here for the first time, though not for the couple on the next table who were clearly grabbing a quick bite to eat in the lunch hour before nipping back to work and knew exactly what to order… oh, to be that familiar with such a great place.

Anyway, here’s the menu we plumped for over a celebratory Cava:

And with so much choice, I was happy to leave it up to others to decide what we should eat (but ensured we had a go at the Duckin’ Donuts, a signature dish of the chef patron and something right out of Great British Menu times ten) because we didn’t want any stress of missing out on the various tastets; preferring instead just to enjoy the company, the scenery, the ambience – yes, admittedly, the quiet time – and the knowing we were close to greatness.

The early courses which really stood out were threefold, and for unusual reasons: the tuna belly salad reminded us of ‘spuke’, an unfortunately named concoction WW and her friends had first tasted in Madrid in 2006 and labelled it as such because of its likeness to vomitus. We’ve seen it in several Continental delis and bars since, but this was greater than we ever expected in the fifteen years since.

Similarly, the squid and duck egg was like nothing I could have imagined, with the coriander making it even fresher and unusual than first anticipated. Then finally, the mussels, cooked en papillotte in a plastic bag with incredible Thai style flavours – opened at the table for the full aromas – and accompanied by the most amazing pan con tomate for us to soak up the fragrant juices it arrived in.

The real revelation, though, of our lunch was the rice dish we had thankfully paid the surplus for as it involved rice, with steak and padrons, in a mushroom and tomato sauce served in a really thin, neat baking tray. It was incredible: the peppers connoted memories of the first night of my stag (when I saw Pep in the flesh, fact fans) because my best man had never had them before.

A week after our lunch, after a busy day – eight hours – trying to build an IKEA bed for B, I then tried to recreate it and did ok to be honest but it was nothing like the original. I enquired about the rice the restaurant used – just a basic risotto, so on a trip to Lunya I got authentic one with mushrooms in and the outcome was pretty delicious if I do say so myself.

After this, though, we were getting stuffed, so couldn’t finish the final main course of melty pork cheeks with parsnip mash and a chanterelle mushroom puree.

There were also desserts to be had! And not just one, but two, as my initial email had triggered a very thoughtful and much appreciated gesture of a separate dessert in celebration of our special occasion.

We sauntered into the sun very settled and satisfied… Every dish, moment, minute of those three hours had been enjoyable and unforgettable, but the night was yet young: we had a statue to visit; a really trendy Unabombers DJ project at the Principal Hotel – it’s called, refuge, just go and enjoy – to experience; parents to meet up with; a classic hotel to frequent and then a cool beans Cottonopolis to return to, after our first foray there, last summer (inspired by the TV series about a beauty salon around the corner)

Despite the eventful train journey home, the great memories remained… it really was a grand day out.

Gracies, Pep! And to everyone else who had a hand in it…