I've never seen Sorcha and Honor so excited. We've managed to get a table – cue drumroll – in Il Sommo Poeta in Ranelagh.
For those of you who’ve never had the pleasure, it’s one of those restaurants that styles itself as an “exclusive dining club”. They don’t take reservations – they actually answer the phone with a straight, “Fock off!” – and yet there’s a 12-month waiting list for a table.
To get in, you have to be recommended by someone who's already eaten there, then sit through a 30-minute pre-interview, at which Enzo, the maître-d, explains what they call "The Rules". It's 500 yoyos to secure a seat, non-refundable in the event of cancellation; Instagramming your food will result in you being violently removed from the premises; and you are forbidden from explaining your food intolerances to the staff because they genuinely couldn't give a Foxtrot Oscar Charlie Kilo. As a matter of fact, you're required to sign a 32-page allergy waiver before they'll even confirm your booking.
It’s one of those restaurants that would make you feel genuinely proud that we’ve bounced back as a nation, and yet you know that when the next recession hits, it’ll be gone within the hour.
We arrive at the place 90 minutes before our reservation – another requirement – and we’re shown into the bor, where I make eye contact with the borman and he goes, “What the fock are you looking at?”
Honor thinks this is hilarious, by the way. She’s there, “I just love that that they don’t feel any need to be nice to people! I wish the whole world was like that!”
I get the drinks in – a Diet Coke for Honor, a gin and tonic for Sorcha and a stick of Heinemite for yours truly. I tell the dude to keep the change – it's nearly eight yoyos – but he just rolls his eyes and goes, "Yay! Hooray for Jay Gatsby! "
I'm one of Ireland's most important could-have-been rugby players. Leave this to me
Sorcha is in her element, by the way. She goes, "Erika was – oh my God – so jealous when I told her we were coming here."
I’m there, “What’s the food like – have you heard anything?”
“Why is that important?”
"Well, I'm kind of storving? "
“There’s so much more to a restaurant than whether the food tastes nice, Ross. It’s not 2011 anymore.”
“I realise that.”
“And anyway, before they take your booking, you also have to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”
“A what?”
“A contract to say that you won’t discuss your dining experience in either a private or public forum.”
“There’s a lot of paperwork, isn’t there?”
“Well, that’s how they maintain their air of exclusivity.”
Eventually, Enzo arrives over to tell us they’re ready to seat us now. We follow him to our table and it ends up being the worst one in the house – we’re talking right next to the men’s jacks.
We sit there for 20 minutes, waiting for someone to give us menus. Eventually, a waiter comes over and hands us each a sheet of A4 paper with two storters and two mains on it, written in, like, normal handwriting?
Sorcha goes, “Do you think we could - ?”
But the waiter doesn’t even let her finish her sentence. He goes, “This your table – you no like, you leave.”
She’s there, “It’s just we’re a bit too close to the - ”
"The Josh Ritter, " I go, because my wife is too polite to say the words. "Every time that door opens, it smells like the hippo enclosure in the zoo."
The dude just shrugs. “Does this look like the face of someone who cares?” he goes, then off he walks.
Honor laughs. She's there, "Oh my God, everyone is so rude! I'd love to do work experience here!"
"Yeah, no," I go, "it's nice that the Celtic Tiger is coming back, but that smell is genuinely making me want to vom."
I’ve got a three-day hangover from the Grand Slam celebrations.
Honor's there, "I'll go and talk to the maître-d about moving us to a better table."
I actually laugh. I’m there, “You?”
She goes, "Er, yeah? I'm one of Ireland's most important social media influencers, remember?"
I’m there, “Well, I’m one of Ireland’s most important could-have-been rugby players. Leave this to me.”
I tip over to the famous Enzo and I’m there, “Sorry, I was wondering would it be possible to -?”
He goes, “You no like table, I no care.”
And that’s when I give him the line. I’m there, “Yeah, do you know who I am?”
A little bit of advice that a member of the boyband OTT gave me in the queue for Renords back in the day: never say, "Do you know who I am?" if there's a more-than-evens chance the answer is a genuine no.
You can't, Honor. We've signed a contract to say we won't discuss any aspect of our dining experience on social media
The dude actually shrugs his shoulders. “No,” he goes, “I no know who you are!”
He’s obviously not a rugby fan. Of course he’s not – he’s Italian!
I tip back over to Sorcha and Honor. I’m there, “He says we have to make do with the table we’ve been given – and from the way he said it, it doesn’t sound like the subject is open for negotiation.”
Honor goes, “I’ll talk to him.”
Sorcha's there, "Honor, what are you going to say?"
“I’ll tell him that I’m Honor O’Carroll-Kelly and, if he doesn’t move us to a better table, I’ll slag his restaurant off in my next vlog.”
“You can’t, Honor. We’ve signed a contract to say we won’t discuss any aspect of our dining experience on social media.”
"You signed a contract. I'm not allowed to. I'm only 12 years-old."
She stands up and walks across the floor to Enzo. Me and Sorcha watch her talking to him with one hand on her hip. The dude is just, like, staring at her, like she’s a talking dolphin or something.
Sorcha goes, “I hope he’s not too rude to her, Ross. I’d hate to see her confidence damaged.”
I'm there, "Her confidence? Yeah, that'd be impossible."
Thirty seconds later, she arrives back at the table with Enzo following behind her. For a second, I think we’re about to be thrown out. Instead, Enzo goes, “I am so sorry! Only now, I know who are you! Come with me! I give you the best table in the house!”
