Ah, Manchester, my saucy darlings. The city of music, football, rain, and this time around — the place where the Saucy Queen, her King, and her little Prince laid their royal heads for two nights at The Edwardian Manchester, A Radisson Collection Hotel. Now, before you clutch your pearls at the grandeur of that name, let me assure you: the building itself is every inch the masterpiece. We’re talking about the Grade II*-listed Free Trade Hall, a slice of architectural drama right in the heart of the city. The kind of place you expect Dickensian ghosts to drift past with a glass of champagne in hand.
So, you’d think the rooms would rise to the same grand stage, right? Oh honey. On first inspection, yes, they looked the part. Moody lighting, plush fabrics, a little glitz here, a little glam there. But then — I had the audacity to flick on the lights. Big mistake. Holes in the carpet, scratches on the furnishings, things that whispered, “We were once fabulous but now we’re tired and in need of a strong espresso.” Not the kind of energy I expect from a suite costing £495 per night. That’s not chump change, that’s champagne change.
Now, let me not be a total diva. The bed? Heavenly. Truly one of those “sink in and don’t get up till brunch” beds. And the spa, while teeny-tiny (think more bijoux than sprawling sanctuary), was charming enough. A quick dip, a steamy sit, and I was soothed. The gym? Darling, it was a revelation. Small hotel gyms usually consist of a lonely treadmill and a dumbbell from 1996, but this one had everything we could possibly want. My King was flexing like he’d stepped into a Premier League training camp. So, credit where credit’s due — gym goals were met.
But let’s be real, my loves. You don’t come here just to hear about threadbare carpets or how my Prince splashed in the spa pool. You’re here for the food — because this Queen is always here for the food.
Upon arrival, we sashayed into The Library Champagne Bar (yes, that’s its actual name, and yes, it sounds deliciously pretentious). But instead of being stuffy, it was sleek, stylish, and spotless. The staff? Absolutely excellent. Warm smiles, quick service, and no hint of the snooty air you sometimes get when ordering champagne in the middle of the day.
Now, their website claims it’s “a place to sip champagne, nibble artisan cheese and charcuterie, indulge in à la carte classics, or revel in one of Manchester’s best afternoon teas. Oh, and they’ve also curated cocktails inspired by art, fashion, and culture, because… why not?” Sounds fabulous, right? And it sort of is. It’s definitely a spot to unwind, pop a cork, and feel bougie, but without someone rolling their eyes if you ask for fries.
Speaking of fries — my poor Prince was left out of the menu entirely. No kids’ meals, no cheeky options, just a shrug and “sorry, we have fries.” And let me tell you, those fries didn’t hit the spot. They were the kind of fries that look better than they taste, and my Prince gave them a royal thumbs down. So, we ended up whisking him off to Ask Italian later for his beloved cheese and garlic bread — because when you’re raising a saucy heir, you feed him carbs and cheese like the little king he is.
But for the grown-ups, things were much brighter.
My King went for the Corn-fed chicken club sandwich with spicy bacon mayonnaise and fried egg (£16). Let me tell you: this was no sad little sarnie. It was juicy, decadent, and bursting with flavour. The kind of sandwich you want to flirt with. He declared it “really, really good” — and honestly, he could have eaten three. But then again, he is a big eater. For this Queen, however, the portion would’ve been just right.
I, on the other hand, chose the Rigatoni pasta with wild mushrooms, chilli, and Italian hard cheese (£15). And yes, I went veggie on purpose. Trying my best not to default to meat every time, and darling, it paid off. Mushrooms are always a winner in my royal book, and this dish was earthy, spicy, and comforting — basically a hug in a bowl.
And my Prince, bless him, did light up over one thing: the Cloudy Apple juice. Fellow parents, you know the quality of apple juice matters. Cloudy? Tick. Not too sweet? Tick. A royal thumbs up.
You know I don’t stop at the food. We must sip and swirl, must we not?
For me, the French rosé game was strong. They had Whispering Angel Rosé, Château d’Esclans at £15 per glass — my go-to. Smooth, elegant, exactly the kind of pink wine I like to hold while raising an eyebrow at my King. They also had Rock Angel Rosé, Château d’Esclans, but that was bottle-only. And let’s be honest, it’s a strong rosé for lunch. This Queen knows her limits.
The King opted for Moët & Chandon Brut Impérial NV at £16 a glass. He enjoyed it but did mutter about the absence of Tattinger. And darling, I agreed. No Tattinger on a champagne list? That’s practically a crime against fizz. They had Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label, but only by the bottle. My King soldiered on, of course, but it was a missed opportunity.
So, here’s the saucy breakdown:
Would I stay again? Hmm. Maybe not at that price for the rooms. But would I pop into The Library Champagne Bar again for pasta, champagne, and a good rosé? Absolutely. Because while the rooms left me a little cold, the food had me feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
And yes, in case you were wondering, this royal family is obsessed with food. No shame, no regrets, just carbs and bubbles, baby.
