There’s a lot to love about Manteca. Walk in and the first thing that catches your eye is the spectacular glass-panelled room, strung with vast quantities of hanging cured meats – a cathedral to charcuterie that exposes the inner workings of the in-house salumeria. It’s theatre of the best kind: pigs become prosciutto, coppa and mortadella before your very eyes.
Beyond the glass, the gentle rhythm of pasta being rolled and cut is almost hypnotic – chefs moving with the same steady precision you’d find in the best dim sum kitchens in Chinatown, each fold and press a small act of craft. This is a restaurant that wears its labour proudly.
But what I really love about Manteca are the small things. The gestures that no one would notice if they weren’t done so thoughtfully. Like the selection of bread ends that appear unprompted when your first basket has vanished – a casualty of the silky duck liver parfait and its accompanying black date jam. It’s a quiet kindness, and it captures what makes this restaurant so special: a refusal to let pleasure be interrupted.
Then there are the nduja mussels, a dish that somehow manages to feel rustic and genius all at once. At the bottom of the bowl sits a single piece of bread, soaking up the fiery, pork-fat-laced juices. The “moist maker,” as Ross from Friendsmight have called it – an unassuming stroke of brilliance that turns something already good into something unforgettable.
The name Manteca, of course, means pig fat in Spanish – a nod to the ingredient that quietly underscores much of the cooking. Fat, in the right hands, is flavour. And here, it’s handled with reverence. From the silky mortadella and aromatic fennel salami, to smoked cod’s roe on grilled focaccia, and the pork ragù pappardelle that somehow manages to be both delicate and deeply indulgent, Manteca understands the kind of eating that feels instinctive – generous, tactile, and deeply human.
Yet it’s not just about the food. It’s the environment, the spirit of the place. The same unpretentious brilliance that courses through St JOHN, or the quietly confident hospitality of Noble Rot. Manteca sits comfortably in that company. It’s a restaurant that doesn’t need to shout to be great.
When the Covid restrictions lifted briefly in December – before being clamped down again by Prime Minister Johnson – my wife and I decided that Manteca would be our one restaurant outing. I hated the journey in. The heaving pavements around Oxford Street, where they were then based, made my chest tighten; headlines were screaming about another wave. But the moment we stepped inside, the noise receded. The air was warm, perfumed with smoke and pork and wine. I felt calm, happy, and safe in the knowledge that I was sitting in one of my favourite establishments in the city I call home.
Because Manteca isn’t just about what’s on the plate. It’s about what happens when a restaurant gets everything just right– the food, the room, the feeling – and, for a few hours, makes the world outside disappear.