IN recent weeks, I’ve found trying to eat at Whiskey Jar harder than getting a ticket for Macbeth at Manchester International Festival. In fact, it would probably be easier to steal the lead from Branagh than to order food at Whiskey Jar.
On the other hand he had just ferried over a truck load of cheese. And if there’s one sure-fire way to suppress the rabid post-ale carnal desire for pie, it’s a load of cheese
First attempt. It’s 8.05pm on a Friday, prime dining time at every other establishment in the world ever, "Sorry we stopped serving at eight."
"You stop serving food at 8pm… on a Friday night?" I ask. "Well it’s only five past, can I not get a sneaky bite?"
"Sorry the kitchen’s closed." Right.
Whiskey Jar
Second attempt. Must get there before 8pm. Try a mid-week night. Arrive at 7.30pm on a Thursday. "We’d like to order some food please."
"Oh I’m sorry we’ve stopped serving."
"But last week you told me that you stopped serving at 8pm?" I implore.
"Yeah but we’re pretty busy, and have pretty much ran out of pies."
"Well can we have something else? Maybe something that’s not a pie."
"It’s all pie." Bugger it.
Third attempt. Given up trying to order food. Head over instead to solely review the bar. It’s 8.20pm on a Thursday. Guy behind the bar looks friendly, try my luck. "Any chance of some food?"
"Yeah sure mate." Halle-fucking-lujah, I could kiss him.
"Thought you stop serving at eight?" I ask.
"Yeah usually, but we’re quiet." He’s right – It seems that Whiskey Jar work from the policy that if there’s more than thirty people in the bar, they couldn’t possibly serve you any food. It’s too time consuming. Tonight there’s around twelve, so we’re on.
Whiskey Jar: Empty seats mean food
Previously, in my review of the Jar’s next door neighbour, Kosmonaut (one of my favourite bars in Manchester), I’d been less than complimentary about the attitude prevalent around many Northern Quarter establishments, and I’m certainly not the only one who thinks it.
One comment on the story read: 'The NQ bar attitude is not necessarily rude or off’ish, you just gain a sense that if you don’t like it then you can lump it. Because they reckon they’ll be busy regardless.'
Our current hosts, Nick, and his mate, an Aussie called Devon (note: Aussie Devon could also have been a South African Devin), were the complete opposite, smiley, helpful, talkative, accommodating and actually served us with some real food. A pleasant surprise. Especially after the earlier experiences.
Chutney jar
Although even then Devon had to bundle over to our table and say, “I’m sorry about the wait on the pies. Our microwave is playing up.”
Not exactly what you want to hear. On the other hand he had just ferried over a truck load of cheese. And if there’s one sure-fire way to suppress the rabid post-ale carnal desire for pie, it’s a load of cheese (unless you don’t like cheese. You weirdo).
“I’d probably get sacked if they saw how much cheese I’d given you guys. But I felt bad about the wait for the pies.” The pies still only took about fifteen minutes, but cheers Dev.
Cheesus christ
This cheeseboard was worth the wait (even taking into account the two previously unsuccessful visits – nearly). At the risk of sounding slightly over-zealous, the cheese board was a revelation. Bloody fanstastic.
The Whiskey Jar Cheeseboard (£12 or £15 for XL) consists of a soft, creamy and tangy blue veined Blacksticks, a beautiful looking firm marble-like Guinness cheddar, a mild and fresh crumbly Lancashire, a sharp and spicy chilli cheese and a questionable sticky toffee cheese. Although not repellent, I prefer my pud as a pud thanks.
The cheese board comes served with four different kinds of cracker, olives, salami, chorizo and a pot of chutney. Although not the cheapest at £15, this cheese board is a game-changer. Not sure which game, but it’d change it.
Possibly chess(e).
Sorry.
Cracker of a cheeseboard
The Pieminister pies (£6) accompanied by mash (£2), mushy peas and gravy (£1 each) were as solid and satisfying as ever. However, we spent an entire week reviewing pies last week in Manchester Confidential’s unofficial Pie Week (including Pieminister here). As a result we’re not going to dissect the humble pie again here. We’re in a pie-amnesty. Doesn't stop us scoffing them though. Especially these. Just look at them.
Pietanic £6 Mash £2 Mush £1
Moo pie (£6) Mash (£2) Gravy (£1)
For a bar named the Whiskey Jar, you’d probably expect them to stock a malt or two. Not always the case though, “When we opened we only stocked about a dozen whiskeys. I think people were a bit confused. Thought we were being ironic.” Nick tells me. Less Whiskey jar, more whiskey glass.
It was hard to imagine a desolate dozen whiskeys on the now impeccably busy back bar. Thankfully they’ve plumped out their whiskey selection since then, 105 of them at the last count. Surprisingly, none of the 105 stray far over the £7 mark, even the premium imported Japanese Nikka Whiskey. Spend on cheese, save on whiskey. Lidl’s next ad slogan featuring Kerry Katona.
105 different whiskeys
They also stock a hearty selection of beer; we were on the unfaltering and reliably expensive Brooklyn Lager 5.4% (£4.60 pint), but could have easily gone for Brewdog’s now ubiquitous Punk IPA 5.6% (£3.90 330ml), Goose Island Honker’s ale 4.3% (£4 330ml) or Erdinger Weissbier 5.3% (£4 500ml).
From the vine, there’s a choice of three white, two red and two rose – hardly extensive, but hey it’s the Whiskey Jar. The choice of the lot probably being Don Jacobo Rioja at £17, but you can buy that in Tesco for about £1.57 a gallon so stick to the barley pop or grain mash.
Fancy a brandy you dandy?
Spread over two floors (the upstairs only open at weekends), this old textile warehouse has been decked out in a manner that befits its breed and NQ roots. Much like Kosmonaut next door, exposed brickwork, pipework and dark leather abounds. But it’s cosier here, more intimate, warm, homely in fact. It’s like entering the debauched drinking quarters of a Victorian dandy.
The fireplaces, the candelabras, the fresh flowers on every table, the hanging whiskey jar lanterns, the piano with a sign lovingly instructing patrons to ‘keep drinks and arses off'.
All Whiskey Jar needs now is a doddering old Uncle Albert in the corner singing a merry navy ditty or two to top things off – Oi arse off the keys, and more cheese please.
Uncle Albert's piano
No arses please
Whiskey Jar hanging lanterns
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Whiskey Jar, 14 Tariff Street, City, M1 2FF
Rating: 14/20
Drink: 4/5
Food: 3.5/5
Service: 3.5/5
Ambience: 3/5
Photo credits to Thomas Ingle-Finch
