In this extract from Around Ireland with a Pan, 'The Man Who Eats Out Most in Ireland' looks back on 25 years of Dublin dining
I didn't come to live in Dublin because I got a job on foot of a successful interview, or because it was any part of a gastronomic master plan; not a bit of it. I'd been living in Wales for what seemed like an eternity - an eternity made worse by the fact that I'd lived in France for an in-between year, and now, back in Belfast, there was no peanut oil, no Dijon mustard, no spirit vinegar, in short no means of making vinaigrette. And that, friends, meant life wasn't worth living.
And so to Dublin in June 1979, for the simple reason that Dublin had all of those things. The emporium in question was McCambridges of Ranelagh (now in Galway). I think I increased its profits a thousand-fold in the years that I worked in Ranelagh while launching my career as The Man Who Eats Out Most in Ireland.
In those days, there wasn't much in Dublin save a few scattered Italians around Dame Street, which I quickly discovered and feasted in regularly. Those were the days of La Taverna and Nicos, of which the latter still survives, serving unchanging, simple, dependable grub. It continues to be a great, old-fashioned spot for lunch; its sublime fettuccine doppio burro may be the sole reason for my ample girth. It isn't the cheapest restaurant in town, but there are two reasons why it shall ever hold a place in my esteem: the unsung pianist who played Planxty Maguire - a personal favourite of mine from O'Carolan's repertoire - for me every time I walked in, and the fact that they stock the regal Italian wines Solaia and Sassicaia at strangely low prices. (Oops, that's torn it.)
Somehow, I began writing about traditional music as a sideline (when not in restaurants, I could be found in bars playing my favourite reel, The Lads of Laois, on a battered banjo). Writing about music for In Dublin magazine led to me writing a second column, called Beano, about food - and, more specifically, restaurants. I think I wrote for the magazine for about three years, saying "I could do better" and "I would love to open a restaurant".
It came as a shock when one day a chap rang me up and said: "I hear you really want to open a restaurant." The shock was even greater when I heard myself say yes.
I duly went to inspect the premises and, without the slightest knowledge of economics, business, cooking or the daily grind of running a restaurant - and displaying an incredible and unenviable lack of sense - signed up, and opened up my own restaurant shortly thereafter.
The restaurant was named after the column. It was first mooted as Chez Beano and then, with one of the characteristic turns of the diseased mind that is mine, I decided to deploy a dazzling bilingual pun, the secrets of which shall go with me to my grave (unless large sums of cash are proferred), and call it Shay Beano. This establishment became a legend in other people's lunchtimes, caused me to die at least three times, and was the greatest craic ever.
The day it opened, I stopped writing (and therefore stopped lambasting other establishments; tut tut, wouldn't have been fair) and stopped playing banjo and bouzouki, which I do regret. And just as I was getting good, too. But, like Monty Python before me, the public decided there was a Shay Beano and that I was he, and so, while I was forever Éamonn on the outside, I was always Shay in the restaurant.
I have long had a golden rule when eating out in Dublin to eat in the best establishments at lunchtime, for a bargain was always to be found then, and in the cheaper establishments at night.These days even that rule has been knocked on its head, with excellent and cheap meals to be had in wonderful, atmospheric places such as Ar Vicoletto on Crow Street and the Old Mill in the heart of Temple Bar. Those two are currently top of my list for both lunch and dinner because, apart from their honest pricing, they are authentic. In Ar Vicoletto, for instance, you feel as though you have stepped into a trattoria in some back street in Rome, and the cuisine is spot-on.
I have to confess that I'm tired of "trying" places, and tired of overpriced restaurants. If a place is good, I will go back and have the same dish over and over again. And this is how it is in "Ar Vic", as I have affectionately dubbed it. The lunchtime bargain of two courses with a glass of wine and the best espresso in town for €12 speaks for itself. The staff are sharp, courteous and attentive, and the food is very good: generous, toothsome and cooked without flourish but with understanding. The crowning glory is from the à la carte menu, saltimbocca alla Romana. This, too, is a perfectly judged dish - thin strips of tasty veal with a strip of salty, smoky, piquant Parma ham, the whole brought to life in mid-flight by the perfect placing of a fresh sage leaf - the "jump-in-the-mouth" of the dish's name - offset by a simple light butter sauce.
Lahcen Iouani's Old Mill has been through many name changes, but remains a true French restaurant of the old school - and a pleasure to return to, as the food is both timeless and charming. The descriptions on the menu do not convey the excellence or robustness of the cooking here. It always comes as an agreeable surprise to be genuinely taken aback by confident and satisfying cooking. The menu rarely changes. Staples such as black sole on the bone, guinea fowl with blue-cheese sauce, and roast poussin with tarragon jus are perfect examples of restaurant cooking done properly.
Lahcen is Moroccan, and from time to time specialities from his country appear on the specials board. A little-known fact about the place is that, if you have a word with him and give 48 hours' notice, he will cook a full Moroccan meal for four or more - a mighty and succulent feed.
The reader might be surprised by the absence from my book of some of the loftier, starred names around town. Although some of these places have fallen into extreme disfavour with me, I still like the grands établissements. It's just that I choose others besides the obvious. For instance, the Tea Room in U2's Clarence Hotel has been my favourite for a long time now. The earthiness, nay rock 'n' roll, ethos of many of the dishes (John Dory with deep-fried snails, or the smashing study in bacon and cabbage) appeals to me. Their offerings somehow seem more real than a number of the ethereal offerings in the Well-known Places, where sometimes you don't know whether to eat the food or take a photograph of it, and where the table settings should include a magnifying glass beside the knives and forks to help you find the food.
A recent visit to Les Frères Jacques revealed that restaurant to be as kicking as ever, quietly getting on with the business of top-class food without fuss or star-hunting. It does it as it ever did - the fresh fish presented raw to you before ordering, elegant saucing that you can enjoy, not send out an explorer to find, and various amuse-gueules and titbits to complete the luxury of the occasion. This to me is what other so-called French restaurants should be: French, serving French food with panache. But so many have lost their way in their reach for the stars and their embracing of a pan-European approach, which has resulted in a loss of identity and flavour as national subtleties are ignored and discouraged.
Of particular interest on the Dublin food scene is the growth of the wine bar. This development is thanks to the daddy of them all, the basement wine bar known as La Cave. It is difficult for me to have to admit that it has been around since 1987 - and that I was in there from the beginning. La Cave is unique: a tiny, cramped place, a wine-lovers' home from home, serving great food. It can be somewhere to have an espresso at 11.30 a.m., a lunchtime spot serving great bistro food - with sometimes a hankering to the grand, until mid-afternoon - then, a place for coffee or indelicate wine drinking, listening to Piaf and Brel. Finally, it is a place for an aperitif at around six and dinner from seven, after which it turns into a great African nightclub, serving up soukous, samba and salsa.
Now, of course, it has many imitators and rivals - a trend which is very welcome. Try just off Camden Street, for almost exclusively Hispanic music and food. on Ely Place has an enviable wine list, with dozens by the glass, and is also one of the few to offer Roederer by the glass. The latest addition to the scene is Peploes on Stephen's Green, run by Barry Canny, late of Browne's Brasserie. Here, too, is a convivial bar area, with many elegant wines by the very elegant glass, and very well executed comfort food to match, as evidenced by a recent shepherd's pie I had there - the thinking man's alternative to Neurofen when nursing a hangover.
Every time my train pulls into Connolly Station I'm already thinking about where I'll eat. Will it be French Paradox for the foie gras platter? Pearl Brasserie for the foie gras with rhubarb and strawberries? Steps of Rome for meatballs? on Crow Street for couscous, tagine and zaalouk? Chips in Ocean with a bottle of Becks? Or Lahcen's fantastic omelettes.
Around Ireland With a Pan is published by Liberties Press this week at €14.95
JACO'S CAPE MALAY CHICKEN CURRY
Over the years, the Fitzers chain in Dublin has been responsible for introducing exotic flavours to Irish palates. Their newest outlet is the Chatham Brasserie in Chatham Street, just off Grafton Street. The chef at the Chatham, Jaco, is from South Africa. One of the most popular items on the menu is his Cape Malay curry, which, after a successful bout of arm-wrestling, he has given me the recipe for. ÉÓC
25g each of the following:
cumin seeds
fennel seeds
star anise
green cardamom seeds
juniper berries
coriander seeds
4 chicken fillets, cubed
1 tsp turmeric
2 bay leaves
garam masala
flour
2 onions, finely sliced
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
fresh ginger, grated
1 tin of chopped tomatoes
Grind the first six spices to a coarse powder in a food blender. Coat the chicken in a mixture of flour and garam masala. Heat some peanut oil in a pot, place the chicken in this and leave for a few minutes with the lid on, turning occasionally. Once the outside has become golden-brown, add enough of the ground-spice mix to coat the chicken, then add the turmeric and bay leaves. Then add the sliced onions, ginger and garlic. Cook for a minute before adding the chopped tomatoes, which should cover the chicken. Add a little water if necessary, it will evaporate during cooking. Cook for about 30 minutes over a low heat. Make sure to stir frequently as the flour will thicken the sauce but will also burn if left to catch on the bottom of the pot. Serve with rice.