TThere are two things I always order in Spanish restaurants: ham and croquetas. Not just any old ham, but Ibérico de bellota, the acorn-fed, black-footed king among porkers, an item I’d die happy eating were it my last meal. How both these things are presented is as good a restaurant statement of intent as any. If these are right – ostensibly simple, ostensibly no-brainers – you know you’re in the safest of hands.
Anyway, before I get to that, here’s El Gato Negro, being welcomed into Manchester, its streets lined with metaphorical palm leaves. The excitement is feverish. The city has seen an influx of restaurants recently, but to its collective chagrin, the highest profile and best received appear to be imported from elsewhere – Hawksmoor, Ibérica – while indigenous offerings have been rubbished by us know-nothing, snobby southern softies. Even Liverpool’s Lunya got in first. It has clearly stung.
I’m wary of dissing anything Not London, because I wind up getting RSI from my Twitter muting button. People get so cross. (Weirdly, this doesn’t happen should I savage something in the capital.) Plus there’s the genuine thrill that comes from being the bearer of good news. So, buoyed by glowing local reports, off I dutifully trot.
First impressions easily deliver that thrill: this is a ravishing restaurant. The King Street building itself, three handsome storeys (charcuterie bar on the ground floor, cocktail bar with retractable roof on the top, restaurant proper in the middle), is an absolute beauty. The reclaimed brick walls, open kitchen lined with leather bar stools, splashes of burnt umber and copper: it’s a gorgeous place to hang out. Should you mistakenly imagine yourself in Madrid, there’s a mosaic of Frank Sidebottom and John Cooper Clarke to keep it real. And there’s some fine cooking going on, too: baby monkfish blasted with heat so it’s slightly-crusted outside but still creamily tender within, on a garlicky bed of fat, floury pinta beans. Navarrico chickpeas, the caviar of the pulse world, tender and nutty, with equally nutty chums of butternut squash and caramelised cauliflower prickled with chilli. Simple things are done flawlessly: meaty sardines, exhaling smoke from their stint in the Josper grill; tomato bread, oily and salty, the bread crisp, both oil and tomatoes ripe and fruity.
But there are also dishes that are simply OK. Squid with black rice delivers a visually stunning plateful, the blush pink of tentacles, the heavy, dark bowl, citric sunshine from the lemon. But the rice is soggy, grey rather than inky, and the seafood is chewy. It takes quite a long time to get to the food, because the staff style is best described as lengthy mansplaining for people who have never met tapas before.
Back to the ham: I order Ibérico de bellota and a board covered with Rizla-thin leaves of meat arrives, cut with a mechanical slicer. This isn’t solecism, this is sacrilege. It is also paler, like Parma or Serrano, rather than the glossy garnet of the real Dehesa-roaming deal. Despite remonstrating with the staff in a way that might as well light up a massive neon arrow above my head flashing, “Wanky restaurant critic here, folks!” they insist that, yes, it’s the hallowed animal. I give up and eat it. It tastes… OK. Silky, fatty, OK. I try one last time: are they positive it’s Ibérico de bellota? Our Spanish server looks pained: “I know. It’s how they do it here.” Either way, I remain unconvinced.
Formerly Ripponden’s finest, chef and owner Simon Shaw’s El Gato Negro is still pretty decent. Both food and the savvy winelist show evidence of enlightened sourcing. And, like I said: gorgeous place. But I’m finding it hard to forgive that ham. Just to cross final Ts, I slope off to Ibérica (no matter how full you are, there’s always room for more ham) and order a board of three different kinds: Extremadura, Jabugo and Los Pedroches. They are expertly hand-cut – anyone who’s had a leg in their kitchen to hack away at knows just what an expert job it is. The carver knows the name of each ham. It puts what I ate down the road to shame.
Oh, and El Gato Negro’s croquetas? Pale, slumpy things not cooked in hot enough oil. I’d come back to this handsome restaurant like a shot but, dearest Manc, I’m sorry: it’s no Second Coming.
• El Gato Negro52 King Street, Manchester M2, 0161-694 8585. Open All week, 11.30am-10pm (11pm Fri & Sat, 9.30pm Sun). About £25-30 a head, plus drinks and service.
Food 7/10
Atmosphere 8/10
Value for money 7/10
