2 days ago
‘Spätzle and sake helped our spirits soar': William Sitwell reviews The Spärrows, Manchester
I sent the address to my pal, an habitué of Manchester. 'We should probably be armed,' he replied. I could see what he meant when I got there. It's quite a bleak street. A residential block on one side, a railway line on the other, above vast arches within which you normally find garages, or possibly lock-ups for hoodlums with chest freezers for body parts.
But at 16 Red Bank (red, perhaps, referring to the vast Victorian brick structure that shoulders the railway), there's a sign that says 'The Spärrows'.
Here, the story changes radically, for The Spärrows is something of a Manchester institution, and I was there after it received a Bib Gourmand from the Michelin Guide 2025. These are the awards I like – unlike the confused star system, which lobs its prizes around like a rabid dog, frothing bizarrely between fads, fashions and establishment figures, leaving chefs lumbered with the stress of keeping the damn things while shoving up their prices before the inevitable demotion.
The Bibs, which celebrate great value for money, are more reliable, with less puffing and preening. So the restaurant must be fluttering its wings with glee that it's still getting recognition some six years after its launch, for its signature German pasta – the rustic spätzle which, folklore tells us, got its name for resembling a quarrel of sparrows.
There's certainly an atmosphere of hearty, communal cheer typical of that delivered on the Continent, specifically in the provinces of southern Germany, Switzerland, Alsace, South Tyrol and northern Italy. There, you will fetch up in a town where all the signs seem German but everyone's speaking Italian. Boundaries are irrelevant; what unites the region is the grub and drink – the same cuisine that inspires The Spärrows.
We got straight to it and ordered the spätzle as a starter, along with a sake flight and a fab German pinot bianco (the drinks list sources from far and wide) to help our spirits soar. We had two versions of the spätzle – butter and sage, and guanciale (pork cheek). The noodles look more like blond worms – little eels, even – than sparrows, made simply, the menu tells me, from a dough of flour, egg and water that's scraped off a wooden board directly into boiling water.
But there's mysticism involved, because these noodles taste greater than the sum of those parts. The magic lies in their yielding, soft texture, their rustic appearance and the gentle flavours they deliver: the butter and sage, both sweet and herby, and the cured pork cheek and egg yolk creating a cosy carbonara flavour. All seems well with the world as you guzzle them. A small bowl of tomatoes and onions dressed with vinegar and basil leaves bring some well-judged bite and balance.
A dish of borlotti beans tossed in oil and onion provided another dash of freshness before a plate of pelmeni arrived. These are Russian-style dumplings, light and fluffy yet with the crunch of a hot fry, filled with a soft mince of beef and pork and with a sour cream dip.
Things then got distinctly German as a wooden board arrived offering a split-open sausage on gently bitter but softly melting sauerkraut, with pickled gherkins and cornichons and slices of focaccia. This central European lunch for a working chap almost made me weep at what the British equivalent might be – a bleak and soggy sandwich.
Pud was a classic tiramisu in a glass. A fulfilling end to a great-value dinner of cultural communion and carbs.
