Throughout it all, the staff glided easily and promptly from table to table, all with smiles on their faces, and sharing the same easy sense of humour displayed by the doorman. The bacon and the smoked applewood cheese were particular highlights. Don’t be fooled (as I was) by its unassumingly thin crust – it’s piled high with quality ingredients, and more than enough for one – it was almost a struggle to finish (almost). Meanwhile, I ordered the NY Deli pastrami pizza a food easily underestimated. This time around I went for something a little different and found a new favourite in the Raspberry and Vanilla Martini, its hint of Limoncello making it both fruity and refreshing. My favourite was the Apple Pie Cooler – the cinnamon stick combined with the apple and alcohol generated a wonderfully sweet yet smoky flavour. I’d been to the inaugural opening of Artisan’s downstairs bar the previous week for a few tipples, and the cocktails I was served then didn’t disappoint. Artisan’s menus claim to put a particular focus on presentation, and I can’t argue with them on that: everything I had was almost as beautiful to look at as it was to consume. I sort of wished she wouldn’t – I had imminent food to concentrate on.
The latter sang breathlessly in my ear as my first drink arrived. Artisan’s dining space is cosy without being claustrophobic, within a few steps of the bar, and the soundtrack could best be described as serene, with tracks from Groove Armada and Lana Del Rey among others. The multifaceted lamps dangling from the ceiling glow demurely, illuminating the 2D artwork decorating the far walls. I can definitely get behind that mode of thinking. The shelves are packed with all manner of curious trinkets, apparently without a coherent theme beyond ‘oh, this looks cool’. I seat myself in the new downstairs dining area and gaze up at my surroundings. Its interior lives up to that impression, seemingly plucked from the inside of a rural countryside establishment and placed in the middle of a city. Dwarfed by the graceful behemoths that tower coolly over it, Artisan’s modest building looks warm and inviting by comparison. It’s certainly carved out a neat little space for itself in the glassy cluster of buildings that make up the majority of Spinningfields. It’s made a concerted effort to be unique, and I’d argue it has succeeded. You don’t know the meaning of the word rustic until you’ve been to Artisan. “Well then, let me show you two to your table.” “No, I’ve got this parcel with me,” I explained quickly. A true professional, the doorman didn’t glance at it, choosing instead to scan the clipboard on the plinth next to him. This is how I came to arrive at Artisan’s door with a large package of what I – and thankfully I alone – knew to be women’s clothing, clasped tightly under one arm.
Having offered to pick up my housemate’s parcel from the sorting office, I discovered I couldn’t immediately drop it home without missing my booking at Artisan, a classy restaurant and bar tucked neatly into a corner of Spinningfields in Manchester city centre. Recently I learned the folly of doing favours for people.
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