The Travel Critic

There’s something gloriously primeval about a big plate of meat. Stick a group of blokes in a room with dim lighting, throw down a hunk of animal, and watch them gnaw away with the sort of quiet reverence that makes you think maybe civilisation was a mistake. I’ve been called a caveman before — usually when I forget to shave, or when my wife catches me eating straight from the fridge — but this, at Blacklock in Manchester, was the sophisticated, metropolitan take on it. No fire (at least not in the dining room). No chasing after wild beasts across the savannah (thank Christ, because my fitness has gone the way of my hairline). And no dragging a bloody carcass back to camp. Just meat. Lots of it. Brought to you.

And Blacklock is bloody marvellous at it. The service is as slick as the juices running down your plate. Efficient, but never hurried. Friendly, but never false. There’s something about Mancunians — that blend of easy confidence and genuine warmth — that makes you feel instantly looked after, like you’ve been invited into someone’s home, if that home happened to be a dark, moody, carnivorous temple with cocktails.

The room itself helps. It’s all shadows and atmosphere, the kind of place where you lean in across the table because your eyes are still adjusting, and then you’re hit with the smell — charred fat, seared beef, roast juices. It’s the sort of scent that has your stomach standing to attention before you’ve even ordered.

And the meat. Good lord, the meat. Stacked, sliced, charred, dripping. Lamb that falls apart like a napkin in a puddle. Beef with the kind of dark crust that makes you believe in God again. Chops so perfectly done that you start to measure all future decisions in life against them.

If you like meat, go. Honestly. Don’t overthink it. This isn’t somewhere you come for tasting menus and tweezers. It’s not for people who describe food as “playful” or “challenging.” This is meat. Big, unapologetic, joyous meat. Done properly, served generously, eaten in the dark with a grin.

Blacklock is Manchester at its best: confident, warm, unpretentious, and a little bit bloody around the edges.