The proud black Homburgs of the Orthodox Jews on Leicester Road speak of another era. Outside Brackman’s Bakery, the place to meet and exchange news over a smoked salmon bagel for the last 84 years, they mingle amongst the constant flurry of activity. In the array of Orthodox to more liberal eateries between here and Kings Road (the two main streets that form the heart of the enclave), I have the thrilling sense of being an outsider in a strange land. There are signs in Hebrew, and subtler signs in the people. Many women wear wigs to hide their real hair. Under the kippah, (skullcap) young boys sport sparse, dangling ringlets in deference to a biblical injunction not to shave the corners of the head. Besuited men display tzissit (stringlets), hanging from ‘any four cornered garment’ to keep the wearer ‘on the straight and narrow.’ These are the clues to a people living by the Talmud’s dictate, following a 5000 year old religion that has honoured and kept its roots wherever it has found itself.

Across the community’s clique of restaurants and delicatessen, a rabbinical supervisor from the Manchester Beth Din is present full time. Kosher eating, rich with ceremony and ritual, has strict and ancient laws which make specific demands on all elements of food preparation. A lettuce can take fifteen minutes to wash as eating insects is not simply unpleasant but prohibited by God. Before eating Challah (bread), the most sacred of foods,  hands are washed three times and a complex prayer recited. Wine can only earn the kosher stamp if Jews perform every stage of the process, from pressing to serving. Meat and dairy cannot be mixed in the kitchen or on the plate. This enforced attention to detail makes for a truly wonderful eating experience, in taking the comfort of Jewish penicillin (hot chicken soup by the tub from Shefa Mehadrin) or sampling paper-thin beef Carpaccio at the gourmet Rimonim

Despite a reputation for being a ‘closed’ neighbourhood, non-Jewish patrons are made very welcome. Whether Eastern European, Sephardic or Israeli by descent, hospitality is understood and a pithy education in what to eat, how and when, is offered everywhere, with warmth. For me, the simple foods with peasant roots are the most tantalising. At J.S.Kosher, (a legend in every Manchester Jew’s childhood), steaming, tender salt– beef with gherkins and coleslaw, or crispy, nutty falafel with homemade hoummous are staples I would never tire of.  The only complaint owner Michael Issler hears is ‘too much food on the plate!’  Within this solid tradition, a forward looking trend seeks to serve strictly kosher versions of more familiar snacks. Minestrone and a sandwich, or the light  moist rice croquettes in Italian herb, basil and tomato sauce are top sellers at nearby Manna, which focuses on the vegetarian aspect of the menu; no meat allows them to serve dairy. ‘You don’t have to eat kosher foods to eat kosher,’ smiles the owner, Jeremy Libbert. Only the mezuzah on the doorframe (for the eagle-eyed) hints at its adherence to the rules. It is a thoroughly modern European style cafe.

As I head back to London, nibbling at slices of Ox tongue from the epic Titanic’s deli, I feel a sadness. The sense of community and the sacred respect for food is something lost to the urbanite English. I already miss the ceremony, the attentiveness and passion of the people. I remember the salt-beef sandwich shop in Golders Green (run by two old boys in their eighties) and make an appointment with myself to get there soon.

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