TABLE FOR TWO

Kathryn Flett throws caution to the wind and tests out MCR’s nine-course tasting menu on her son

Occasionally, I find it’s worth remembering that I’ve been eating solids for more than half a century. And that with those 50-plus years there inevitably comes a certain déjà vu; my buds may be wiser than a child’s, but they also take more titivating. My relationship to flavours these days is such that subtlety is often a very fine and appreciable thing – yet subtle doesn’t necessarily make the 50-plus palate sing.

So, to best appreciate an umpteencourse tasting menu at MCR (the rebranded home of Aiden Byrne’s Manchester House) my cunning plan was to recruit a teenager (one of my own, nearly 17-year-old Jackson), hit him up with an outré nine-course tasting menu on the evening of the longest day of the year, sit back and… see what happened.

At the very least, I figured this strategy would get me back in touch with all the excitement that comes alongside your first gastro-shock, when you realise the world has shifted on its Axis of Understanding. It’s a shock that could be as simple as “what-the-actual is that…?” or “This is what heaven/hell must taste like…” or indeed (as mine was, in the Eighties, when I caught sight of my share of the bill alongside some foodie highrollers) “Christ alive! I’m paying a ton for dinner and I’m still hungry?” (On which note, nouvelle cuisine is now so very vieux chapeau that I fear it’ll soon be back, conceivably to a masschorus of “Jaysus! Not only am I paying 250 quid for this old hat, I’m so bloody hungry I’ll have to eat it.”)

Anyway, on first impressions MCR ticked all the contemporary urbane posh-dining boxes: entrance is via an anonymous door in the base of an office building, there’s a lift, you have to be escorted to your table far away in a cleverly reimagined airy-glassy giant office space with a warehousey vibe –

open kitchen, inevitably – which manages to be funky and elegant, cool and classy and yet sufficiently in-your-face to be properly Mancunian, too.

Back in the 2002-day when aged just 22, the whippersnapper Byrne became the youngest chef to acquire a Michelin star in a British restaurant, in Norwich, of all places. After which he became head chef at the Dorchester Grill, ditto at Tom Aikens, did the obligatory book and MasterChef guest appearances and then slung his meathook back up north (he’s a Liverpudlian), and launched Manchester House in 2013, handily promoted by a BBC Two series. That Byrne can cook is not in question. That he can cook for tired-old-me and a nearly 17-year-old whose love of jalapeño chillies means everything he eats is soused in Flying Goose sriracha sauce is, conceivably, moot.

Service was great; warm and cool, explainy without being infuriating, and while there were mildly raised eyebrows when I ordered the singular beer for the teenager – he was eating, it was fine – I didn’t feel horrifically judged. I mean, it’s not like we were both off to the Hacienda together afterwards (ah, those were the days). But, hell yeah, I did want to see the whites of my son’s eyes; bring on the ninecourse tasting menu, for 75 quid Funky and elegant: the cleverly reimagined office space that is the dining area at MCR a head. And (passing on a wine flight) a glass or two of lush roter veltliner.

Chilled new season almond and garlic soup with Field 28 radish: “What does that even mean? Why is it foamy? I think I’ll pass…” (I wince. It is a bold choice of texture/flavour for openers.)

Pig’s head croquette with smoked apple purée: “God, that’s amazing!”

Palm sugar, foie gras mousse with roasted peach and gingerbread: “Mmm. But, Mum, remind me what foie gras is again? It’s something gross, isn’t it?” Mushroom and Jerusalem artichoke: “Well, you know I hate mushrooms.” “You’ll like the artichoke!” “Hm!”

Everything is very beautiful, albeit in the exhaustively intensive “fain daining” style which means that 17-year-olds haven’t the remotest chance of reading their plates and 55-year-olds will keep referring back to their menu.

Ribblesdale goats’ cheese flan, our Lomo ham and onion: “That’s awesome!” Razor clam, avocado, spirulina, yuzu and caviar: “Omigod caviar! I’m going to eat caviar! Will I like it?” “Yes, as you pop the egg on your tongue it will be an explosion of essence-of-sea – in a good way.” “Omigod, it ACTUALLY IS!”

Of my salt-aged duck, girolle mushroom, hazelnut and borlotti beans: “OK, so that looks nice – but what’s with all the mushrooms?”

Of his braised short rib of beef, eryngii, secretto and tartar: “No idea what any of this is but it is totally delicious.” “Well,” (I point at the eryngii) “that’s a mushroom.” “Oh.”

The 17-year-old’s verdict: “This is totally not my kind of food, you know that, but I’m also so glad I had it. But the absolute best thing?” “The beer?” “No! The bread and the chicken butter! Omigod, I have literally never had better butter than chicken butter.” So, there you have it, Aiden Byrne. You slave over a stove for decades, winning all the plaudits, but for sriracha-loving teens it’s all about your bread and butter.

Afterwards, my son wanted to get to Deansgate to meet his mates, asap, so I put both of our pretty little pudlets (sweet woodruff, cherries and chocolate and a mini Manchester tart) in my bag and headed back to our Travelodge in a cab. I ate it all, by now slightly squashed, in my room for breakfast, with a cup of Nescafé. I always have fun in Manchester, but it’s fair to say that my exhausted palate didn’t so much sing as sigh. That butter, though…

MCR, 18-22 Bridge Street, Spinningfields, Manchester M3 3BZ; 0161 835 2557; restaurantmcr.com