Mazzei Cafe Winter Gardens Blackpool

After I’d dropped the kids off at the Pleasure Beach for the day and  walked along the prom for half an hour,  I dragged my long suffering husband round the back streets of Blackpool looking for a half decent place to rest my weary trotters. I declared we should go to the Winter Gardens. The last time I had been here was in 2004, for a Morrissey concert.  I opened one of the heavy front doors (chivalry is not dead), my husband followed me up the stone steps and we made our way across the concourse towards the doors which were signed “cafe”. We passed an empty bar to our left and a posh looking restaurant to our right before we meandered into Mazzei’s. I counted fifteen customers in an area which could have easily accommodated a couple of hundred people. Behind the counter, a lone, bequiffed member of staff, busying himself at the coffee machine. Me and Danny (aforementioned husband) dithered at the fridges over what we wanted to eat. I fancied a brownie, then I changed my mind and wanted an egg and cress sandwich on brown. I settled upon a scone, Danny had the brownie. Monsieur Pedant said later that the brownie was in fact not a brownie, but a chocolate cake.  In addition I asked for jam and butter with my scone; drinks were two lattes. Quiff man announced the total to be £8.90, then without taking our remittance, he walked away and started preparing my scone. Another male member of staff appeared and asked if we were ok. I told him we were being seen to. Preston Guild came and went and then our coffees and comestibles were ready, we paid and off we went to sit down. A woman and another couple were served after us. The place is immaculately clean, no crumbs, no lingering smells of dishcloths, no loud music, no unwelcome radio stations. We settled at a large round table, kicked off our shoes and took in the ambience and surroundings. I was at peace in Blackpool. Happy as a sandboy. Wonderful food, amazing coffee and scintillating conversation with my gorgeous husband.  As the froth from my latte was sinking into my top lip something cought my eye to the right. A coach party of old people had arrived. To my relief, they were not customers but part of a guided tour of The Winter Gardens. I shushed Danny several times to ear wig their tour guide. I heard, to my absolute pleasure, that the interior plasterwork of this very cafe had been covered up since the 1960s and had recently been found completely intact during the recent multi million pound refurbishment. The plasterwork had been designed by the renowned film set designer, Andrew Mazzei. The guide quickly ushered her charges through to the next room and as I lumped jam on my scone I felt like that Pennine farmer who wouldn’t sell up when the M62 motorway was built. I overheard an elderly lady say that she thought the “plasterwork” curtains were real curtains, she didn’t think anyone would be able to tell they were not real. Danny thought they were real curtains too.

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The Airfield Lodge Bar and Restaurant City Airport Manchester

It was “Fun” day today at The Airport Formerly Known As Barton. After objecting to paying £6.00 entry fee, eventually relenting and paying a fiver, we trudged through the mud towards the newly refurbished cafe.  The Airport cafe has recently morphed into a Bar and Restaurant, not that there was anything wrong with it when it was just a cafe. Alan Sugar was given a tuna butty in this very cafe when his light aircraft had to make an emergency landing here. I’ve had many a good egg on toast in here. As I walked into the Airfield Lodge I was rather taken aback to see Elvis introducing himself on stage, just as Jerry St Clair used to at The Phoenix Club. I walked straight back out of the entrance, round to the front of the lodge to enjoy Elvis’s set. From my spot down the front I could see his set list blowing in the wind, one corner of it secured underneath his mic stand. The flimsy bit of paper was in danger of blowing away and Elvis knew it. A woman appeared from backstage, (from just inside the cafe), she shunted her handbag further up her shoulder, strode out in front of The King and re-secured the set list. I imagined it was just like this in Vegas. After enjoying the set for a while we fancied a warm so back inside we went. We found the only empty table, just by the toilets. My daughter wanted a cheese sandwich, chips and a coke. Despite being hungry, I settled on a coffee as the menu was all burger and chips, cheese burger and chips, fish and chips, all of which did not appeal to me. No sign of egg on toast. I joined the long queue. After giving the girl my order she then told me I could not have a cheese sandwich, only what was there. I could not see any pre packed cheese sandwiches. I asked her if she could make one for my daughter, she made no apologies, she told me “No” and said they only had stock for what was out. She then rambled on for a while about how everything had changed; she wafted a laminated menu under my nose, pointed her finger at it and told me that was the menu. I handed over eight quid to another girl operating the till and she handed me a raffle ticket with the number 297 on it. Said girl told me to stay in the area so she knew where we would be. I replied that we were just over in the corner. She ignored me. My coffee tasted rather good, but it was served to me in a polystyrene cup and I had to lift a six pinter to put my milk in. After a short wait, a young lad hollered, “297”, to which I replied, “Over here”. The chips were enveloped in a polystyrene container too. I don’t know if this is the norm, or were these receptacles just being used today, in the name of fun? Elvis was still at it over the other side of the cafe.

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The Place To Eat John Lewis Trafford Centre Manchester

Danny wanted to go here, I didn't particularly. An afternoon tea for 2 at £10.95 cought my eye at the first counter. It looked uninspiring. If I choose to order a sandwich I prefer to see it being buttered in front of my eyes before I eat it. We stood beside the scones and a young girl asked if she could help us. Danny chose a cherry scone. She asked us if there was anything else; she was rushing me. I said I'd have a fruit scone. She grabbed some metal tongues from a receptacle, dripped the water off the end of them and scooped the scones up. I thought about wet scones.  She then spoke a couple of sentences of gibberish and looked at me. There was a pause, I frowned and said, "Er, sorry...what?". She said the exact same words again, this time slowly and I did recognise it as English. "Anything else, any sandwiches, hot food, anything else  from any of the other counters?"  I said, "no thanks" and she very quickly came back with "any hot drinks?"  We plumped for two americanos. As she saw to the coffees we grabbed milk, jam, a knife and spoons from the counter in front of us. We paid £8.30 and went to find a table. The Place To Eat was bustling with shoppers and  families. This is not the place to eat if you have an aversion to  double buggies. Our table was in a thoroughfare, next to a Japanese family with two young kids. A mother and daughter plus shopping bags occupied a table behind us. Our table was wet and whiffed ever so slightly of damp dish cloths. The coffees were of top percentile standard. The well heeled  Japanese family were munching through  several courses of food, the children were heartily tucking into chips. The mother was shovelling food into one of young boy's mouths, opening her own mouth at the exact same time. I thought about the amount of money they must have spent here. Danny enjoyed his cherry scone and Rodda's cream. He raved about his coffee, and still is. My scone was ok, I've had better, there wasn't much evidence of fruit within them. The Place To Eat is clean, busy, serves excellent coffee and the staff appear well primed in sticking to their script. I imagine there are people who think The Place To Eat is the best thing since sliced bread and are not afraid to tell all their friends.  Despite the fancy lights, for me, the place was soulless

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http://www.cosmopolitan.co.uk/blogs/cosmo-blog-awards-2012/cosmo-blog-awards-2012_nominate 

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Mario's Fish Bar (Tony's) Eccles Precinct

I started working here, aged 15, clearing tables. Me and my friend Paula worked every Saturday from 8.15 am to 6.30 pm with only half an hour break, for £7.50. I worked a couple of week days after school, from 4pm till 6.30 for 2 quid.

We entered Mario's (it will always be Mario's to me) via the chippy, still with the wood panelling I remember so well, albeit is slightly grubbier than when I used to stand behind the counter. The same hatch in front of me, from which I used to regale Tracey Dodson with tales from the previous night’s pub crawls. To my left, behind the take away counter, proudly displayed, is a framed photo of Robson Green with a couple of be-tabbarded girls. We exited the chippy stage right , through to the café. I chose the table with the most leg room, having remembered where it was. The tables are the ones I cleared and wiped as a teenager, the seats re-upholstered and the wood panelling has been tickled with cream paint. Danny went up to the counter and ordered curry and chips and a coffee for me, tea for himself; which he reported was decent (all for less than 3 pounds).  For the duration, I was a crashing bore, reminiscing about this and that. There was the wall me and Paula used to clean. The number of times I have mopped/ swept this floor, and other such scintillating anecdotes.  To our right sat a table full of women, having a right laugh. In front of us a tubby family tucking into a plate of fish and peas each.

Mario’s is bedraggled and tatty, the staff are sad. The waitress ignored me when I sent my compliments to the chef, preferring to eye up Danny. Calling this place a hidden gem would be a cliché, but Mario's serves the very best chips for miles. Topped with Dinaclass curry  -you don’t need to win the lottery.

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