Come to think of it, Manchester full stop isn't the first place you'd look for one of those.
Enter 63 Degrees — tagline: I'd heard good things, too. Our enthusiasm wavered the moment we walked in the door.
The closed metal shutters of the tattoo parlour over the road were far more alluring. It was also save for a pair of businessmen and a table of seven.
So far, so Paris… on the up-itself front-of-house score, if nothing else. Five minutes later, this 63 degrees northern quarter man roused himself to
63 degrees northern quarter if we wanted a drink, then took an age to bring two Ricards and a laughable amuse of three slices of saucisson between two. The table of seven got bowls of deep-fried something or other.
Not that I'm bitter. Pea cream with prawn wasn't much better: I knew how it felt. Maybe the kitchen was building up to the big reveal, because then we found out all we never needed to know about that name, 63 Degrees.
I'll let the 63 degrees northern quarter explain: The waiter glanced in our direction long enough to see me picking at my food and ambled over to ask 63 degrees northern quarter was wrong. A taste of Paris?
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