I couldn’t get a table at Skof for ages: it was too full, too booked up and far too busy. It seemed there’d be no lightly set miso custard with hen of the woods mushrooms and dashi for me. Jersey royals cooked in chicken fat with pickled walnuts? I’d only be able to admire those from afar. It was like catnip: in the spirit of Groucho Marx, I want to be inside any restaurant that doesn’t want me as a customer.
Skof opened in Manchester in May 2024 and by February last year already had a Michelin star, so it’s no wonder that, with only 36 seats, spaces evaporate rapidly. This capacious one-time drapery warehouse could easily accommodate two or even three times that number of covers, but Tom Barnes, formerly of L’Enclume in the Lake District, is not that sort of chef. His restaurant’s name comes from his dad, Barney, telling him rather unceremoniously as a child to “scoff” his dinner. What would Barney have made of his boy’s ornate, complex pre-dinner snacks of chalk stream trout and golden beetroot tartlet, or broad bean, pike roe and shiso on a Spenwood cheese biscuit? Both are hugely scoffable, incidentally. Barney, now deceased, is remembered at the end of every meal via his favourite tiramisu, of which more later.
Skof, like L’Enclume, is one of those intensely relaxed yet still ferociously fancy restaurants. Dress code is come as you are. Deodorant is a boon. As we ate, Aussie post-punk band Mental As Anything bled into Arctic Monkeys by way of Sam Fender, but then, bang, the first two courses proper arrived, each of them intricate and intentional: a soft, juicy Orkney scallop with barbecued kohlrabi and preserved tomato water, followed by that lightly set custard with truffle and mushroom dashi. Think of this custard as a quiche filling on steroids, and one that’s well worth garrotting people for in a buffet queue.
On BBC One’s Saturday night gameshow The Wheel, I once found myself representing the specialist subject “fine dining”. The mere concept infuriated my fellow guests. They jeered about portion sizes, they harrumphed about prices and one man who won on The Traitors yelled that he only ate crumpets, and why were crumpets not fine dining? I thought back on that experience midway through my steamed west coast cod, which was glossy, moist and flaky, and came in a heavenly mush of smoked eel and roasted shrimp. Fine dining can at times be truly maddening, and leave diners hungry and hoodwinked, but Skof is proof that this often precarious blend of pacing, staging and portion size can be properly magical. Yes, there is a little whimsy here and there – a Dexter beef and roasted yeast taco that’s as big as a postage stamp, say – but at most other points a meal here is rooted in technique and cheffy prowess. Sladesdown duck, blanched, marinated, dry-aged and then roasted, is served pink with beetroot, cherry and citrus, and comes accompanied by a warm mini-loaf filled with pulled duck leg meat for dipping into the jus.
Skof was running at capacity throughout the Thursday we visited, and the crowd, during this particular service, at least, was older, possibly retired, and wantonly spending their children’s inheritance on compressed malwina strawberries with jasmine cream and amasake sorbet with milk oolong tea. The more I travel, the more I’m convinced that millennials stand to inherit nothing more than a pile of Michelin-starred restaurant receipts and gout medication. Will it be any consolation that mummy really enjoyed the rose geranium undertones of those late-season German-Polish heritage strawberries?
Skof warmed my heart by offering almost as many sweet courses as savoury ones on its tasting menu. We moved from that oolong sorbet on to Manchester honey ice-cream with rhubarb and chamomile, which was equally light, floral and delicate.
The final hurrah: that scoop of Tom’s dad’s tiramisu, served from a big bowl. It’s a clunky, sentimental and, ultimately, glorious end to the meal. Many Michelin-starred restaurants bookend your visit with a gift of seeds, teabags or fancy chocolate, but at Skof they send you on your way with this tiny taste of boozy stodge that’s both incongruous with everything that went before but at the same time is also symbolic of Tom Barnes’ life and everything that went before.
Skof is clever and emotional – hell, even that fella off The Traitors would like it, and he eats only crumpets. It’s also well worth the hype, so do try to nab a table, if you can. It’s fancy, yes, but it also fills you up. This is fine dining that even a naysayer would like.
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Skof 3 Federation Street, Manchester M4, 0161-669 1961. Open lunch Thurs-Sat, noon-1.30pm (last orders), dinner Weds-Sat, 6.30-8pm (last orders). Set tasting menus only, lunch £55 a head for four courses, dinner £130 for 12 courses or £175 for 16 courses, all plus drinks & service
