Gordo spends a blissful Saturday lunchtime at his new favourite
Having just come from there, Gordo thinks Manchester would kill for a restaurant like Roski.
It’s got everything the London chains - who have been kicked out of their M25 comfort zone by investment bankers to ‘prove the model’ - hasn’t. It's got charm, professional service, a family-owned welcome and a fucking great chef or two. It’s also got tablecloths. And great food.
Actually, not great, because a pint of ale can be great. Awesome is what it is. Take a look at the official Confidential review here (18.5/20). I was here to do a last minute check before considering its entry into the soon to be launched Confidential Guides Top 100.
The only thing that could have upped the game was a head massage
I walked in unannounced on a bright Saturday lunchtime to find a new menu. Was it still good? Actually, it was better.
I only decided to write it up after a Zen-like two hours, luxuriating on my own in peace and quiet, with superb nosh. The only thing that could have upped the game was a head massage. And a better choice of tea; I was driving and English Breakfast wasn’t doing it for me.
There are three menus (except on Friday and Saturday nights when only the ‘full’ menu is served): the 'full' for £75, the ‘short’ (£65, which i had), and a Saturday lunch special of three courses for just £25.
The English asparagus was like the best spring roll ever, while the Olympic breakfast was taking the utter piss out of Little Chef. A quick note: don’t worry if you don’t get to try it during this lifetime, because if you’re a half decent Catholic St. Peter will be serving this brekkie in the welcome hall. The rest of you are fucked.
Then the pigeon Wellington; barking mad, moist, crunchy, full of English flavour, deeply and utterly awesome, not least a cream of cauliflower cheese that would have had Helen ghosting that big wet Alexander and missing the boat. That cauliflower cheese could have saved Troy a right load of trouble.
Roski is owned by Anton Piotrowski and his missus Rose who is pregnant by all accounts. Anton was running out for the scan appointment after the pigeon was served, leaving his just-as-talented second-in-command to drop a world class pudding on the table. Strawberries. Jesus gave the boys the recipe for this one.
Anyway, if you’ve been, go back. If you haven’t, go. Stop messing about. JUST FUCKING GO.
