'Legendary': San Carlo Manchester, King Street, reviewed

A little knowledge is dangerous.

I learnt that in 1978 at a lunch in The Savoy Grill in London. It was one of the world's top power restaurants at the time. Antony Barber, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was at the next table. Getting pissed, I might add.

I was a guest of my father-in-law, Michael Hague, a solicitor, main board member of Shell Oil and chairman of the Solicitors Wine Society. His best pal from Cambridge was with us; the legendary Michael Broadbent MW, head of Christie’s wine department and author of seven best-selling books on old-world wine.

I’d read a bit about wine and had been on a trip to Burgundy the year before with my pals from The Legh Arms in Prestbury. We all returned experts on the subject. 

The wines at The Grill, both Château Haut-Brion, were a ’53 and a '59; the two Michaels were blind-tasting them to see if they could guess the vintages. They did. Today, I know how fortunate I was to be present. 

At the time, however, I was determined to show these two old fuckers that I knew my stuff and got busy making a complete cock of myself, explaining just how much better the wines of Burgundy were having spent a long weekend there.

On my way out, Mr Hague looked at me and said, “Always remember, Mark. A little knowledge is dangerous.” He winked at me and walked back to his office, which was next door on The Strand.

I’m reminded of this when lectured by affected wine servers wearing badly cut trousers on the nuances of Orange wine and on how well the fruit has developed over the past six months. No, it hasn’t. It’s still shite. Shut up.

Anyways, back to San Carlo.

Young people, who I adore (my Grandson is one of them), are always going on about awful service and rude staff whenever San Carlo is mentioned in my columns, and their view is that the food isn’t ‘authentic’.  After all, they ate at Sugo in Ancoats, so they must know.

Remind you of anyone?  

Every time I wrote something good about San Carlo, you’d get the same little shits going on with themselves. Fortunately, they’re all on Reddit now, masturbating furiously. Suits them. Sir.

And what’s all this to do with San Carlo? This is a restaurant which is one of the few to get the electric atmosphere of Milan, or Palermo where you’ve got the mafiosi at one end, magistrates the other,  a bevy of Nonna having an argument with the Mâitre about the Osso Bucco not being up to scratch; a Priest who’s hit the jackpot with a member of the flock paying for lunch who’s fessed up to shagging the secretary in the next door office. The housewives glammed up to the nines in Versace, D&G and Armani, all of which they can’t afford and the impossibly, gloriously beautiful girls and boys decanting themselves out of their tiny Fiats and jumping off Vespas, dancing into the bar.

This is the Italian way. It’s organised chaos, and the only place you can still get that in Manchester is San Carlo. If you think a waiter is being rude, be rude back, with a smile. If the stunning girl in the simple, but very tight and very short black dress at the front desk isn’t paying attention, stand your ground and stare until she backs down and smiles at you. Grow a pair. It’s theatre, stupid.

The menu is big. The usual suspects are on, lots of them, but if you want to have a classic Italian lunch, keep it simple. On the day of the review, I had half a dozen Colchester oysters. (£18.95) They were beauties. Tabasco and shallots in vinegar, half a lemon; creatures straight outta Colchester, shucked immaculately.

The wine? I was driving, so I stuck to one glass, a Rosé, Minuty (£16). It was a mistake. Never drink rosé on a grey, gloomy lunchtime. These wines are good stuff, but run off crying at the sight of a Mancunian day.  Chardonnay, preferably a Chablis (premier cru if it’s on), stands up for itself; no amount of rain will make a good one weep.

If you know your Italians, choose something similar. Cracking wine list, by the way, reflects good knowledge. The French stuff is particularly good for an Italian restaurant. For a great occasion, a red, the Château Ducru-Beaucaillou, a St-Julien; it’s a second growth that boxes one level up to Grand Cru. It’s actually good value; it should be more, but the Americans can’t pronounce it.

The rules about fish and shellfish in restaurants are pretty simple; generally, the busier the better. Busy equals buying power and buying power is King in this instance. If they can cook.  And boy, did they get this right.

I was there because I fancied a Dover Sole. On this day, they didn’t have one. So I ordered the Lemon Sole, pan-fried with sautéed clams and green asparagus (£32.50). This was a fat boy; usually, they are skinny and tasteless. Fat boy, though, was a fab fish. De-boned with a surgeon’s precision, cooked with the same care, it was glorious. The sauce is delicate, buttery and shellfish-y, something you want to take time over.

The French Fries  (£5.95) were spot on, elegantly thin with a crunch as good as McDonalds. Spinach with garlic and chilli (£6.25) was ordered for the benefit of my regularity rather than taste, but was actually a bit of a delight.

San Carlo makes all its own ice cream in the restaurant's cellars. They are good at it, so  I ordered the Frangipane alla Pesca, with a dollop of their vanilla ice cream. And bloody good it was,  a peach and almond delight. One gripe, will everyone serve desserts with a fork as well as a spoon? Is it just me, or do we all have to use a finger to manoeuvre stuff onto the spoon?

It's a Gordo Go. It’s legendary.