Amsterdam: Puri Mas

Lange Leidsedwarstraat 37-41, Amsterdam, NL
www.purimas.nl

Mirta and I spent the afternoon in Cologne, then collected Kruno from his office, and got on the road. There are only three of my friends who drive at supersonic speed yet in whose control I feel safe: Vernon, William and Kruno. So in his car, I knew what I was getting. But talk about contrasts: one minute we are under the soaring spires of Cologne Cathedral, which took 632 laborious and snail-paced years to build; the next we are speeding along the Autobahn/ autoweg to Amsterdam at breakneck speed in the dark and in the lashes of rain. It’s no surprise we got there in less than two and a half hours.

We had been dipping in and out of British Forces radio before we crossed the border into the Netherlands, catching the first minutes of the historic Rugby Six Nations between Ireland and England at Croke Park, possibly the best stadium in Europe. However, we lost the signal quite quickly as we moved deeper into Dutch territory. We checked into the Golden Tulip Apollo in Amsterdam and had just enough time to get to the rooms to see the final minutes of the match. Ireland had beaten England 43 to 13. It was shaping up to be an auspicious evening.

Taking the tram from the hotel into town took just a few minutes, and we alighted at Leidseplein. The hotel concierge had responded to my inquiries as to good Indonesian or Surinamese restaurants by indicating a handful scattered around the central canal areas – and as we knew we would be passing through Leidseplein at some stage or another during the night, we selected Puri Mas (the name means "Golden Temple" in Bahasa Indonesia) and turned the corner into Leidsedwarsstraat.

We climbed a narrow stairway (is there any other kind in Amsterdam?) and arrived into a first-floor dining room that was coloured blue and white, but seemed to radiate a green hue under the subdued lighting. Was this temple not going to be the golden experience advertised, perhaps? As I'd mistakenly assumed that neither Kruno nor Mirta had eaten Indonesian before (oh, that misconception has since been corrected!), I suggested that we go with the Rijsttafel. When the Dutch colonised what the called the East Indies, they brought not only their designs on trade, mineral wealth and subjugation with them, but also their voracious high-living appetites. So they took the traditional Indonesian Makan Besar assortment of food, added as many dishes as possible and turned it into a veritable banquet, fit for any seventeenth-century merchant with one eye to ostentatious conspicuous consumption, and a blind eye to the inevitably-resulting gout. What is served in Indonesian restaurants as popularised in contemporary Holland is a scaled-down version of the imperial-era feast, yet never fails to astound as a seemingly-infinite series of dishes arrives at the table.

Puri Mas offers four sizes of Rijsttafel, ranging in price from €19.50 to €39.00. Mirta and I ordered the €24.50 model, while Kruno’s frugal appetite led him to the less substantial version. The difference amounted to inclusion in the dearer menu of some excellent soto ayam (chicken curry soup with scallions) to start, and ice cream and tropical fruit as dessert; both were absent from the economy option, and replaced with a fried banana (we assumed it was for dessert, but as it arrived with the main courses, you couldn’t be certain). A large bowl of krupuk (shrimp crackers) was brought to our table at the outset, together with sambal (a chilli condiment); both were tasty and kept us going in the brief interlude between ordering and taking delivery of our meal.

At this stage, we also took possession of a bottle of 2004 Cousiño Macul Cabernet, from a Chilean vineyard of renown and which has remained in the hands of its founding family since establishment in 1856. It is a wine that would be appreciated both by red wine connoisseurs (Kruno and Mirta) and red-wine-averse (me); so good that I would actively seek it out again at an off-licence/ liquor store, or choose it on another occasion from a restaurant wine list. The vineyard also has a beautiful website: reward yourself and click through the links.

The arrival of the main courses at rijsttafel is always a grand spectacle: this time, three attractive waitresses in traditional Indonesian dress descended on our table, and spread an arrangement of silver dishes and china bowls over the immaculate white cloth, classifying the food from right to left by increasing intensity of spiciness and explaining to us the contents of each dish and its associated piquancy. Allow me to attempt to do justice to the variety now:

Sides and condiments
Acar Kuning - Fresh mixed salad
Sambel Goreng Kentang - Small fried marinated potatoes
Serundeng - Fried coconut powder

Gado Gado - Various kinds of vegetables with peanut sauce
Sayur Harian - Vegetables of the day

Nasi Putih - White rice
Nasi Goreng - Fried rice

Main courses
Spice factor 1:
Sate Ayam – six skewers of succulent grilled chicken, topped with a peanut satay sauce. I loved these.

Spice factor 2:
Babi Kecap – seasoned pork in a soya-based sauce – very tasty.

Spice factor 3:
Kari Ayam – a perfectly adequate dish of chicken in curry sauce - though I would prefer the chicken brochettes a few spice factors back. Come to think of it, there was not much evidence of this increasing scale of spiciness by now, but we kept trying level after level.

Spice factor 4:
Telor Bumbu Bali – the great surprise of the evening. These were cut hard-boiled eggs, treading a sweet and glutinous orange spicy Balinese sauce. Ho hum. I decided to add some of the coconut powder. This combines two foods I would not normally eat except under torture, but my God! Together they were a killer sensation on the taste buds.

Spice Factor 5:
Sambel Goreng Boncis – these green beans in a spiced marinade were tangy, and provided good contrast with the meat in most of the other main course platters.

Spice factor 6:
Daging Rendang – a beef stew, billed as “very spicy”, but which was actually quite mild. Until I ate a mini red chilli, after which I more than tended to agree with the original description. Not so brave after that! The chilli scale had been proven and evidenced. Document that, kids!

I would have to say that this was a fine meal to start off our evening in Amsterdam, and set us up well for our subsequent tours of bars and cafés (yes, those ones). By the time we left, it was approaching 23:00, and the restaurant which had been at 90% capacity on our arrival, was now just a quarter full, with those guests left certainly enjoying their experience.

One thing I would mention – and I find this about many restaurants offering shared meals: I am convinced that once you double or triple an order, you rarely get double or triple the amount of food that a single order would elicit. Don’t expect modern North American portions at an Indonesian Rijsttafel in Europe, and certainly don’t imagine you’ll be getting portions of the order of a Dutch colonial merchant. You won’t be. And you may have decreasing returns to scale as your party grows in numbers. But what you will come away with is a certain satisfaction of a good European-targeted meal based on Indonesian ingredients, and a headful of bravado-knocking chillies. It’s worth it.

_________________
The Damage (EUR)
Menus

• 49.00 Rijsttafel Puri Mas (*2)
  
• 19.50 Rijsttafel Speciaal
  

Drinks

• 23.50 Cousiño Macul Cabernet
  
• 11.00 San Pellegrino Sparkling Water (2*1 litre bottles)
  

Service 12.00
Total 115.00
_________________

The Score
4.0 Food and Drink
3.5 Service
3.0 Décor
3.0 Ambience
2.5 Value
3.5 Overall Rating

Milano

19 East Essex Street, Dublin 2
www.milano.ie

Yesterday was Suzanne's birthday. Unlike me, who maintains as low a profile as possible on mine, Suzanne loves hers. So when she asked me to come out for dinner for it, of course I said yes. It was following this assent that she mentioned that there would be 10 other guests: all of them women, and then me. Right. A night listening to tales of babies, boyfriends, and shoes. Even better, I'm not taking alcohol during Lent - but knowing these girls, I was sure I'd be the only teetotaller at the table. Turned out I was.

Suzanne had tried to book Milano in Dawson Street, but they were closed for renovations. I used to love that Milano. When we were 23, it seemed to have a certain level of sophistication for kids coming from pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland, where eating in restaurants was reserved for First Communion days. It had good pizzas, it served until about midnight, and it had a great noise about it. The food was Italian for non-Italians, the décor was Nordic, and the buzz meant you had to raise your voice to be heard, yet simultaneously it kept you feeling cosy. Like eating inside a kettle drum that was being beaten softly. Now we're older, and more cynical and weary, and we know that Milano got taken over by Pizza Express, so it has the negative cachet of being part of a UK high-street chain. And we don't like it so much any more.

So, when I heard we were marrying this pizza outfit with the hen-party drag of East Essex Street (an unfortunately comedic coincidence, no doubt), I wasn't overly optimistic. But it turns out I was pleasantly surprised.

I arrived at Milano with Aoife, following a quick stop at the Morgan - which is fast becoming the default choice for early-evening meet-ups in that area of town. The interior of Milano is actually quite nice: blanched wood furniture, blue glass lighting, and large ceiling-to-floor vitrines allowing you to gawp at the tourists and the tasteless tottering the cobblestones of Temple Bar in stilettos. We descended a spiral staircase to a basement room - not as nicely decorated as the ground floor. Boring, but not overly offensive. Like eating in a store café at Debenhams.

All of the other guests had already arrived, and were strung out along a series of small, square tables, placed end to end. A circular table abutted this structure, and provided the only space left. It was where I sat, totally removed physically and psychologically from the conversation further along.

Our friendly and talkative waitress, who was originally from Eindhoven, came along and took the order. It being a night of unmodulated vapidity in any discourse for me, I concentrated on selecting food for myself. Actually, I think my most intimate chats that night involved these orders. It might have been due to my ordering in Dutch. Because otherwise, I was hardly spoken to all night, and by the same token, didn't feel like initiating conversation with anyone either. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, this would have visibly annoyed me; tonight, actually, I didn't give a shit. Must mean the blood pressure tablets are still working.

My starter was a Caesar salad, presented as a large plate of cos lettuce, croutons, very long and very generous shavings of parmesan cheese (no six-week's-grated rubbish, like you often find proffered elsewhere), croutons and a pleasant creamy sauce - not forgetting a half-dozen sizeable anchovies. Loved it.

If you go to Milano, you really have to choose pizza for main course - not because there is no other choice, but because they do pizzas well. I wanted something without meat, and in too many places that means a boring old Margherita. Here I enjoyed an newly-introduced menu option: the Padana, described as "a perfect balance of big, bold northern Italian flavours – rich goat's cheese, spinach and red onion with tangy caramelised onion confit and a drizzle of garlic oil". And you know what? It did exactly what it said on the tin. Rich, creamy cheese; onions sweet and tangy as described; spinach, a perfect addition; and a wonderful meeting of flavours. I added a fried egg on top. I had also asked for some chilli oil, but it never arrived; that might have been the ultimate element in making this a 100% great pizza.

By this stage, I was completely disconnected from the rest of the invitees, and so tunnel-visioned the dessert menu. Surprising, as prior to arrival, I had had no intention of enjoying this restaurant. I chose a simple-sounding Caffè Reale, consisting of about six sumptuous baby figs in a cinnamon and sweet wine syrup, served in a small ramekin dish, topped with a large spoonful of Mascarpone, and accompanied by a satisfyingly-bitter espresso. I knew Suzie and the girls were enjoying themselves: the wine was flowing, as were the laughs, the chat and the make-up. But I think that in my isolated little corner, right at that moment, I was having the best experience of them all.

What can I say? Against all my previous prejudices, I'm liking Milano again. It's not the Savoy, but you know what you're getting, and the service is still friendly. I am not a fan of their below-stairs area in Temple Bar, and would probably return only to their Dawson Street restaurant. But I am liking it, and if it takes me back ten years every now and again, so much the better.

PS. This was a communally-paid bill, so my data below refers only to my own choices, and service is not included.

PPS. The link to the website given here will take you to a one-page static template, which acts as a cover to the Pizza Express UK site. I am tired of the increasingly lazy approach to web-marketing in Ireland by foreign HQ'd firms. One of the first advertisements you see on the way into Dublin Airport arrivals, once you walk past the glass engravings in semi-literate Irish, is for a Dublin-located business operation. Their ad is emblazoned with a .co.uk website. Yeah - céad míle fáilte an' all that to you, too. Do you know it costs far less than €100 a year to get a .ie address, and buys far more than the equivalent in goodwill? Almost unbelievably, Milano's website directs you to a menu quoted in sterling and a restaurant locator that tells you the nearest outlets to Dublin are in Belfast and Liverpool. It's just not good enough.

PPPS. Happy birthday, Suzie. This year is gonna be a great one.


_________________
The Damage (EUR)
Starter

• 6.50 Caesar Salad
  

Main

• 12.50 Padana Pizza (including fried egg)
  

Dessert

• 4.65 Caffè Reale
  

Drinks

• 3.95 Clausthaler non-alcoholic lager
  

Service paid communally
Total 27.60
_________________

The Score
3.5 Food and Drink
4.0 Service
2.5 Décor
1.5 Ambience
3.0 Value
3.0 Overall Rating

Chai Yo

100 Lower Baggot Street, Dublin 2

When the headaches start taking over the office, you know it’s time to get out and go Zen. And today, my search for Nirvana took me to Chai Yo.

Several years ago, I had lunch here, following a client meeting at BOI HQ opposite, and the positive memories stayed with me. I walk by the door a few times a week, and as there are few good and affordable Japanese places in Dublin (I am having sushi withdrawal since leaving Canada), I always tell myself to check it out again. I had some unwitting guinea pigs go through the hoops last night – I recommended it to some colleagues for dinner, and they seemed pleased notwithstanding the absence of tuna from the sushi menu (no, I don’t understand it either). OK, you get the drift: it had been recently tested and approved, I was itching to go, and the headache wasn't getting any better - so Chai Yo it was.

Greeted by an east Asian woman (not sure – Malaysian? Filipina? Not Japanese, anyway, but dressed in costume like a hostess on Singapore Airlines), I was asked if I had a reservation. On answering in the negative, I was escorted downstairs, and seated at a table partially hidden by a decorative Japanese screen. Not that I minded: it afforded me some privacy from most of the rest of the dining room, and allowed me read my newspaper in peace.

The first question my waitress asked was whether I would like wine. She must have thought: he's got a suit, and a newspaper; must be a banker in need of a boozy lunch. I imagine this is a popular restaurant with visitors to the finance houses around Baggot Street; indeed, Irish accents were in the minority among the other patrons (mainly English, some American). I asked for water.

The lunch menu is shaped by three types of meal: main courses (seafood or meat); teppan yaki; or the “lunch special”. It was this last that I chose, and was pleased to find it served within ten minutes. I progressed through the "starters", presented on a miniature Lazy-Susan, as follows: spring roll – good consistency, and accompanied by a rivulet of a tangy crimson sauce; chicken yakitori – three good-sized morsels of chicken, tender and well-cooked, and separated one from the other by slices of red or green pepper; and a salad – one slice each of tomato and cucumber, settled on a bed of chopped cabbage and lettuce, and what I detected as some Asian horseradish. All three starters were right on target for size, variation, and flavour.

I had chosen egg fried rice over the boiled variety, and a china bowl of it was ample to provide a carb base for the two main courses. First was sweet and sour prawns: five succulent crustacean samples, with semi-caramelised onions, and red and green peppers in a tangy, gelatinous sauce. Secondly, I attacked the ginger chicken, which came with baby corn, carrots, mushrooms, peppers and scallions. Again, both dishes were hungrily appreciated – though if I had one pointer for Chai Yo, it would be: go easy on the peppers. They’re very acidic vegetables, and too much of a good thing can make more sensitive diners feel that their stomachs are haemorrhaging, most of the afternoon.

The final course consisted of some fresh fruit – a generous slice of honeydew melon, a bunch of about 10 green, seedless grapes, and an orange wedge. Having decided that the peppers had provided more than enough ascorbic acid for one day, I left the citrus untouched.

Chai Yo is a strange place if you think you’re going for a Japanese meal; this is not exclusively a Japanese restaurant. But if you look forward to a taste of the (albeit Westernised) cuisine of several east Asian cultures, then you won’t be disappointed. Especially not when the bill comes - €14.50! In my opinion, this represents outstanding value for a full lunch in Dublin. The food is great, the service is snappy yet unfussy, and the bill tops it all off.

Finally, an insider tip: the downstairs room is fully in the basement, fairly insipid, and lacks natural light; whereas the upstairs room is bright, airy, and very attractive on a sunny spring day. On the way out, the woman who greeted me told me that the top room is available to diners also, but mainly to those reserving it specially. Next time – and there will be a next time, soon, and with a group of people – I will be sure to ring in advance and book the premium spots.

_________________
The Damage (EUR)
Set Lunch Special

• 14.50 Spring Roll, Chicken Teriyaki, Salad, Sweet and Sour Prawns, Ginger Chicken, Fruit
  

Drinks

• Water
  

Service 2.00
Total 16.50
_________________
The Score
4.0 Food and Drink
3.5 Service
2.5 Décor
3.0 Ambience
4.5 Value
4.0 Overall
_________________

Gruel

68A Dame Street, Dublin 2

Do you remember that scene in Trainspotting? The one where Renton, having taken the only drugs he could get his hands on, is dying for the bathroom, and slinks through a bookie's until he finds his convenience? And as he goes in, the message across the door changes from "Toilet" to "The Worst Toilet in Scotland"? Well, today I think I found its Dublin counterpart. Of that, more anon.

My text to Rohan, at about 9 o'clock this morning, read: "Ahhh... Saturday morning. Great feeling. Like you have the power to do just about anything for two whole days...". Five and a half hours later, after Aoife had tried on every dress in Dublin (OK, she's going to look hot for that awards ceremony on Thursday, but I still reserve the right to complain about the process, if not the result), all my early-morning superpowers had been drained, and I just needed food. I'd been hearing from Aoife and Orlaith about Gruel on Dame Street, so the three of us traipsed over Millennium Bridge - stomachs rumbling - and came to the door of this particular emporium.

Inside, a food bar occupies the right hand side of the restaurant, with a half-dozen tables of decent size further back. Watch for the popularity of this place: Saturday at 14:30 will see all of these tables occupied; luckily, we were offered a spot in the basement. The first indication that this was a restaurant of two very different halves was the furniture below stairs. Veneered tables, with mismatched chairs that wouldn't look out of place in a church hall in Ballydehob, circa 1983. We engaged in our own pick-and-mix, and finally put together a set of furniture that seemed least likely to collapse or sent us home with splinters.

Now, anyone who knows me will aver that I am not the type to slum it. Why camp in the woods and shit there too, when a nice boutique hotel will let you take care of such things in a much more stylish way? Spoilt? Perhaps. Know what I like? No question. Give me chrome, leather, dark wood ... a general feeling I won't get dysentery with my main course. The odd furniture was just the first sign that this place may not be my usual kind of eatery. The second, and confirming, indicator was the bathroom, where I had my Renton moment. A tiny, damp-feeling, green-painted cubicle, with graffitied walls and a (dare I say it? not-unmoist) toilet roll perched on a cannister on the floor). Maybe Mountjoy-chic is in this year? Anyway, needs must ... but I scrubbed my hands to within an inch of flaying myself once I finally got to the hygienic cleanser at the sink.

I came back to the table, frightened the girls about the bathroom (Aoife's later tentative trip corroborated my previous description), remarked on the unfinished, bare flagstone floor - and then our waiter arrived, and I never looked back from there on in. Good-humoured, the waiter outlined the day's specials to us. They had lamb tagine soup! When have I ever said no to anything with any of those three words in it? But as the waiter took the trouble to explain the portion size of the starters, it became apparent that this option would have proved a meal in itself. Nil desperandum - there was also a very tempting frittata on the menu - Aoife and I both went for this, a rare example of synchronicity of taste in food. Perhaps the shared horror of the bathroom had pushed us towards some comfort food. Orlaith ordered a decaf cappuccino, as she was due to meet Brian for lunch just half an hour later.

We had taken some newspapers from upstairs, and scanned these as we waited about 10 minutes for our lunch to arrive. Delivery of two large plates soon obliterated memory of the insalubrious washrooms. The frittata, over a centimetre thick, covered the plate almost entirely, and was in turn shielded almost from view by a generous helping of rocket, shot through with a parmesan dressing. The centre of the frittata, once we'd gotten through the salad leaves, was found to be topped by a large circular helping of goat's cheese, which was half-melted and oozed over its boundaries and out onto the ovoid base. The tomato relish (no "drizzle", "jus" or "compote" here - and refreshingly placed on the food rather than alongside it) was rich in flavour, both of tomato and something else.... I thought I could detect a hint of liqueur somewhere, but I am fairly sure I was wrong on that account. In any case, it was the best relish I have tasted in a long time, in Europe or in North America. As a further refinement of an already attractive dish, I had opted to include bacon in my frittata, and it played off wonderfully against the egg and baby spinach base.

Gruel seems like a functional restaurant - you're there to eat, you eat very well (on today's evidence, it really does deserve its reputation for quality food), but when you're finished, there's no reason to linger. We climbed the stairs from our underground lair (in future, I would accept seating on the ground floor only, not in the batcave), paid at the food bar (where they include an acceptable 10% service charge as standard), and moved back outside into the February sunlight. The food was satisfying, if a little expensive compared to expectations - a place touted as a budget option, yet serving what is essentially a €12 omelette, seems to be misaligned somewhere. I just hope they plough that money back into ongoing delivery of quality ingredients in their dishes - they sure as hell haven't invested it in the décor. Or their toilets.

_________________
The Damage (EUR)
Mains

• 11.00 Goat's Cheese, Baby Spinach and Tomato Relish Frittata, with Rocket and Parmesan
• 12.00 As above, but with Bacon added
  

Drinks

• Water
  

Service 2.30 (mandatory 10% added at till)
Total 25.30
_________________
The Score
3.5 Food and Drink
3.0 Service
0.0 Décor
3.0 Ambience
3.0 Value
3.0 Overall
_________________

Rubicon

6 Merrion Row, Dublin 2
August, 2006
www.rubiconrestaurant.net

This review relates to a visit in August of last year (2006) - sorry, but clearly I don't get out much ;) Now that there is a blog what a great excuse - I have to eat out more regularly.

My colleague Kathryn and I took our marketing trainer Antony Brewerton, Subject Team Leader, Oxford Brookes University, out to dinner as a courtesy for his training exchange. A balmy summer night led us to a chic restaurant on Merrion Row in Dublin 2. It’s the kind of place you might walk by but something about the open exterior with large glass windows might catch your attention - so you stop and take a closer look. What’s on offer at this restaurant is a laid back atmosphere in a central location.

Walnut-coloured tables surrounded by fresh orange-lit flowers gave a warm welcoming feel to the place. The evening menu presented a good selection of starters particularly appealing to those of a seafood persuasion (not me). Two of the group cautiously opted for the ‘soup of the day’ and I went for the slightly more adventurous smoked chicken salad. Service was warm and friendly and the starters were washed down with a crisp white pinot grigio chosen by Antony. Antony, being vegetarian, chose the risotto which came with a generous helping of rocket salad, much to his delight. Kathryn chose the milk-fed rack of lamb and I went for the steak. Portions were just right and the three of us polished off each dish with gusto, just leaving enough room for a tasty desert. 2 lemon tarts and a fruit salad with mango ice cream were served up, followed by conversation and coffee.

The Rubicon is moderately priced, comfortable for a group or a couple, and the food is highly recommended.

FXB Temple Bar

Crow Street, Temple Bar, Dublin 2
www.fxbrestaurants.com

I was going through one of those moments where my job spec seemed to prioritise looking out of the window, when Suzanne rang me and suggested we go for dinner in town. I scouted around the early bird menus on offer in town, and decided on FXB’s. I had been there with Bruce a few years ago, and liked very much what was on offer. The quality of food reminded me of Hy’s in Winnipeg, with an ambience different to many of the restaurants you’d find around Temple Bar. Plus, something on the menu really attracted me - more of which (or indeed, less), to follow. Suzanne and I met at the Morgan, and a quick scoop later, we wandered across Fleet Street and up to FXB’s.

We hadn’t reserved a table, and on passing by the window, it appeared that the restaurant was full. We walked in and up a few steps, at which we saw that while the front of the dining room was packed, the rear was completely empty. We were shown to a corner table, and told we needed to vacate by 20:30. As we had arrived at approximately 18:20, we were unconcerned about this time limit – being fairly sure it would not take us over two hours to eat an early dinner. To give them their due, FXB state this policy on their menu.

There was a nice buzz in the restaurant, even at this half-empty stage, as we consulted the menus. The early bird offers two courses for €19.95 or three courses for €23.95; Suzanne decided on the former, while I chose the more substantial selection. From the wine menu, we chose a St. Clair Sauvignon Blanc – a crisp New Zealand wine, with citrus hints and very drinkable. I must say, I haven’t as yet come across a Kiwi wine that I didn’t like. They’re obviously doing something right down Marlborough way.

The starter section allowed us pick from a soup or a chowder, a Caesar salad, bruschetta (Suzanne) and pâté (me). The bruschetta consisted of two well-proportioned lengthways-sliced ciabatta, covered with diced tomatoes, and complemented by garlic, parmesan, and fresh basil. The duck liver pâté was presented as one large slice atop two toasted brioches, nestled against a goodly helping of spiced peach and apricot chutney. Both starters more than passed muster, and between these and the wine, our taste buds were well enlivened by the time the main courses came.

We had both chosen steak. No surprise there – aside from the wild mushroom and truffle risotto, it was the only thing that stood out on this part of the menu. FXB’s always makes me think of the Dublin butcher’s shop of the same name: I imagine there must be some connection, and the likelihood of savouring steak from a locally-renowned victualler certainly inspired some good scenarios in my head. Presently, two plates arrived, each with a 10oz dry-aged rib-eye steak – wide, not too thin, cooked medium-well, and accompanied by mashed potatoes for me and chips for Suzanne. A little pot of pepper sauce accompanied each order. When combined with the meat, it made for an exquisite pairing and lifted the admittedly pedestrian choice of steak into another realm. We had also ordered shared sides of sautéed mushrooms and sautéed onions, for which there was a charge outside the set menu price; however, the choice was deemed justified, as perfect dishes of vegetables were quickly devoured.

By the time we had finished the main courses, the restaurant was packed. The early bird menu had finished, and people seemed to be ordering steak and seafood all round – much of it ordered from a large blackboard with daily specials, and all of which looked divine on the other tables.

Anyway, now for the science bit. There is surely a law of physics that says that when a guy sits in a restaurant with a girl, who professes an overarching lack of hunger, she will still manage to eat more than he does. This usually happens when the lady opts out of the brunch buffet or the “all-you-can-eat” sushi, but then eats so much of what you’ve ordered that you generally end up uncomfortable, being eagle-eyed by the waiting staff who know you’re screwing them and probably have a junior in the back reviewing the CCTV footage in real time (Brendan, back me up here). In other variations, it involves girls pretending to be on a diet and eating green salad or some such vegan hippy stuff as an entire meal, only to go cavewoman when the dessert arrives. To this point, and my rant: I ordered a lemon and lime crème brûlée. This was, in truth, what had first attracted me to the menu when I checked it out online in the afternoon; again, Vernon’s influence at work here. Several minutes later, the ramekin arrived to the table, and ever the gentleman, I offered Suzanne a taste before I destroyed it. She cracked through the glaze, and I knew the murmurings meant she liked it. But then … she dived in again. And again. Suzanne! No! Bad Girl! At this point, I was on the verge of rolling a newspaper and slapping her on the nose. Suzie, you snaffled half my bleedin’ crème brûlée! Ladies, please learn: men like desserts too. Sweet things after meals aren’t just to satisfy oestrogen-driven cravings – we X-chromosomers get turned on by them too. (Suzie, you know I’m just employing author’s licence – but that’s what you get for telling me you can’t write, when that’s what you spend half your day doing!).

I wolfed down the rest of it, keeping an eye out for swooping vultures or passing females. Of the dessert itself, my expectations were more than fully met. I would go back to FXB’s just for that little thing. I would order it for each course, and ask for second helpings. And a doggy bag to take home.

Suzanne asked for a coffee, while I polished off the remnants of the wine. We were coming towards 20:30, our appointed eviction time – though by now we had both become so ensconced in our corner, that we would happily have stayed a while longer for drinks. The bill arrived, and I did what I rarely do – I checked it. Irony of ironies – there was a separate charge for a second crème brûlée! I’m thinking: did they mean to halve the price, taking pity on me on seeing how little of it I had managed to salvage for myself? A quick check with the waiter saw us delivered of a new bill. Just over 90 quid, all in – a deal. After a quick chat with one of our waiters – detained solely because he was from Vancouver and I can't let a Hiberno-Canadian connection go – we moved off into the street and escaped Temple Bar ASAP, to the lovelier environs of Spy at the Powerscourt Townhouse.

Go try the early bird menu at FXB's. Judging by the rest of the clientele, we weren’t the only ones really enjoying ourselves that night. I know I will certainly be back – perhaps later of an evening, to try the rest of the menu too. And next time: a dessert each. If nothing else, it'll stop me moaning for weeks afterwards.

_________________
The Damage (EUR)
Early Bird Menus

• 19.95 Bruschetta
• 10oz Rib-eye Steak

• 23.95 Duck Liver Pâté
• 10oz Rib-eye Steak
• Lemon and Lime Crème Brûlée
  

Sides

• 2.95 Sautéed Mushrooms
• 2.95 Sautéed Onions
  

Drinks

• 30.00 75cl St. Clair Sauvignon Blanc
• 2.45 1 Coffee
  

Service 12.00
Total 94.25
_________________

The Score
4.0 Food and Drink
4.5 Service
4.0 Décor
4.0 Ambience
4.5 Value
4.0 Overall Rating

El Bahia

37 Wicklow Street, Dublin 2
www.elbahia.com

Aoife managed to score us a couple of VIP invites to a book launch – The Dubliner’s 100 Best Bars 2007 – and so we trooped up the steps of the Odeon about 18:00. Joint half empty. Four glasses of white wine each later, and the place was black. Oh yeah, would have been about 18:45 by then. Anyway, having managed to listen to one of the worst speakers in the world, helping to launch the guide, and being fairly stunned that most of the “best bars” seemed to be tumbledown dives haunted by alcoholics pretending to be artists, we nicked five copies of the book, and set off down Harcourt Street. Totally forgetting my bag, containing a small fortune worth of Louis Feraud. Luckily, Aoife had shoved it down the back of a couch earlier on, and with the Odeon populus becoming progressively/ regressively drunker on the free booze, there was little chance anyone would spot it and make off with it. I picked it up the next evening – props to the staff at the Odeon who salvaged it for me. Sometimes you get to see that Dublin isn’t gone as nasty as I’d normally have you believe.

So, back to that walk down towards the Green. We were both in the mood for something good but easy to enjoy – so we hit on Moroccan to fulfil both criteria. I had often passed by the doorway of a restaurant, situated on Clarendon Street near the junction with Wicklow Street, and thought about recreating my experiences of Souk in London, which I had visited so often with Nabil and William in recent times. There’s a small, narrow, red-hued staircase that you climb two storeys to reach the restaurant floor of El Bahia. It’s a bit like climbing up an oesophagus, waiting to inhale once you reach the top. We were greeted on the landing by a waiter, who took our coats and bags (the ones we had managed not to lose so far), and were shown into the dining room. There wouldn’t have been more than about 10 tables max in this space, and only one of them was occupied (by a young Israeli couple). North African music was playing softly, and the dining room walls were decorated in purples, reds and golds, as if someone had asked Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen to redecorate a box room as a Maghrebin brothel. Obviously, we both felt at home.

We decided to skip the starters, it being a Wednesday night and there being no guarantee of the speed of service. From a main course menu divided helpfully into tagine, bastilla, cous cous and (somewhat incongruously) fish sections, I chose an Elham Bi Tmar (a tagine of lamb and figs in a date sauce), and ordered cous cous as an accompaniment; Aoife went for the Tangier Cous Cous (described on the menu as “mouth-watering chicken cooked in a sweet sauce with sultana, onion and chic peas”).

Confounding our earlier fears, both dishes arrived together after a delay of no more than ten minutes, during which time we necked two Casablanca beers (of Moroccan origin, but brewed and bottled in the UK). The portions were more than respectable, Aoife’s cous cous being served alongside a generous helping of chicken and sultanas, with perhaps an overly-liberal serving of chick peas. My own choice came served in the traditional tagine earthenware dish and funnel, accompanied by the requested base of bulgar wheat. The lamb was tender and flavourful, and perfectly complemented by the sweetness of the fruits. Cous cous tends to swell the stomach quickly, so we were both fairly full by the time the surface of our plates began to show beneath the food; ah yes, satisfaction, thy name is bloating.

El Bahia is definitely an establishment worthy of repeat visits. Food is excellent, décor is exotic yet tranquil, and on a Wednesday night, it’s a perfect place for a pair of KGB agents, or a couple in an illicit affair, to share a bowl of cous cous and merguez and a few Moroccan beers, safe in the knowledge they’ll never be traced or disturbed.

A final note of appreciation goes to our waiter, who chased down the stairs after us to return the mobile I’d left on the table; whatever the opposite of kleptomania is, I certainly had it that night. All I seemed to hang on to was a memory of a delicious dinner with great company, and – sorry for ruining it for the spies and the adulterers - the need to publicise a great little restaurant that deserves not to be overlooked.

_________________
The Damage (EUR)
Mains

• 18.50 Elham Bi Tmar Tagine
  
• 17.00 Tangier Cous Cous
  

Drinks

• 10.00 Casablanca Beers (*2)

Service 6.00
Total 51.50
_________________

The Score
4.5 Food and Drink
4.5 Service
4.0 Décor
3.5 Ambience
4.0 Value
4.0 Overall

L'Gueuleton

1 Fade Street, Dublin 2

The first Friday following my return from Toronto saw me wanting to mark the night with something special. During my absence, I had heard copious tales of L'Gueuleton - all good, but all relating how next-to-impossible it was to get a table there. Having previously been disappointed to have been refused a table at 20:00 on the Friday before Christmas (no, I'm not hugely surprised either), and not wishing to resort to the usual "don't they know who we are?" approach, we planned this evening with the precision of a military campaign. By which I mean, I played desktop general while the infantry took the flak.

L'Gueuleton opens its doors at 18:00, and doesn't take reservations by phone or online - meaning that you turn up early and you take your chances. Aoife arrived at the restaurant at 17:30, to find she was already second in the queue. Thirty minutes of standing in line later, she gained entry. By the time I arrived at 18:05, the guy on the door had just allowed the last couple in for the opening sitting, and I squeezed in behind them. Then squeezed between several tables, then squeezed into our table without upsetting too many other punters behind me. Get the idea? This place is small. However, Aoife had come up trumps and procured us a table right at the window, where we spotted the early crowd for Market Bar across the road, and watched the same space on Fade Street being occupied by three different Mercedes in about 20 minutes. But on the other side of the vitrine, and notwithstanding the heater box on one side of the table meaning we had to sit at 90-degrees to each other, we took the coats off and settled in to eat.

Now, I said I wanted something special, and that's what we got. The buzz in L'Gueuleton is enveloping and contagious; it is full of diners sharing a knowledge that they are here as much for the experience, and to be immersed in that ambience, as they are for the food.

The restaurant décor itself is simple: small, dark-wood tables and French-café style chairs - the type that will make you sit up and pay attention to your French-style fetishised 1940s table manners. A chrome serving bar fills a not-insignificant proportion of the rear of the room, while a large blackboard mounted on the side wall displays wine specials.

Our waitress - a lively, personable Catalan, on her last week in Ireland - took our order, and gave excellent advice when I could not decide between several starters and mains. Was I really looking for information? Was I still jet-lagged and genuinely semi-confused? Or just flirting a bit too obviously? In any case, I'm glad I asked for and took her advice. Here's how it panned out...

After taking delivery of two kirs - pleasant, though we've had better - Aoife chose foie gras, which came in a sizeable glazed earthenware pot, containing more than would have been thought at first glance. This was one of the best samples of the dish that we had tasted in some time, and came accompanied by toast, pickles, a fruit chutney, and some leaves. I chose Carlingford Oysters - prompted by memories of many trips to the Blue Point Grille in Cleveland with Roman, or to Press Gang in Halifax with Steve. These, however, came baked (not explicitly stated on the menu), covered in a spinach-based sauce, and presented on white china with indents to hold the half-dozen shells. If you want to know how good they were, consider this: Aoife, whose aversion to seafood is legendary, tried one, and loved it. I managed to fend her off the rest of them, and enjoyed five oysters that were warm, smooth, and well complemented by the sauce. A good omen of things to come.

Our waitress had advised me to go for the venison shank rather than the steak - and she wasn't wrong. A fair-sized portion arrived, surrounded by garden vegetables, including some flavoursome baby carrots. As we touched the venison for the first time, well-cooked, succulent pieces fell from the bone into a gamey jus, and attracted much murmuring of approval. Our friend from Barcelona had chosen well. On the other hand, Aoife was left distinctly underwhelmed by her chicken choice. Presented in a broth and accompanied by dumplings and a medley of garden vegetables, the chicken was lacking in anything that could honestly be described as approaching flavour. It was like eating water. Actually, it tasted closer to water than the broth in which it lay. Aoife wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the parsley dumplings either, though I found them quite delicious. Both of us having lived in France, and being connoisseurs of a few regional Gallic cuisines between us, we knew that this dish was not up to standard.

To accompany our main courses, we asked for a carafe of the house red, as posted on the blackboard. Type and origin unspecific when advertised, this was a passable French, though a little too earthy for my tastes. As with all such wines, it got better as the glasses were emptied and refilled.

After the crescendo of the mains - me up, her down - we decided to wait on for desserts, and see if our slight disenchantment could be erased. I believe they were. Aoife chose an apple and cinnamon tart, accompanied by a Toblerone sauce over nougat ice cream. Chocolate? Ice Cream? Cake? Together? What's a girl not to love? I opted for crème brûlée (you see, Vernon? I DO listen to you). It was nice at the time, but not memorable enough to stop me having to check my receipts ten days later to see what I actually ate. Or have I got that backwards - perhaps it was so nice that I agitated internally for ten days trying to recall the exact composition.

Overall, this was an enjoyable evening meal, with the bill including service coming to €124.70. We exited the restaurant to go catch "The Last King of Scotland" at the Savoy: from France to Uganda, and without doubt, a strange juxtaposition of experiences in just 5 hours. We left the cinema hardly remembering that we had been to this much-hyped restaurant earlier that evening. I felt we'd been closer to Kampala than to Paris that evening. Is there something wrong with us, or is this feeling pervasive across all of L'Gueuleton's new clientèle? Perhaps this is the problem with restaurants such as L'Gueuleton: when expectations are raised so high, even an excellent meal (and one that was in the main well above par, and for which I feel overly-critical in finding fault) can fail to match expectancy due to just a few small gaffes. Better perhaps to go for satisfying diners rather than promoting your excellence, and thus reaping the rewards certainly due to an outfit such as this.

That said: since my visit, I have been telling anyone who will listen what a great place this restaurant is, and directing all discerning diners in its direction.

I will go to L'Gueuleton again; I will recommend it to anyone who asks; yes, I might even be mean enough to get some kind-hearted soul to queue up for me for 30 minutes so as I can get my Lilliputian table (#7) at my hallowed pane of glass. But I may be more careful in thinking that the marketing always meets the product in Dublin these days.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'll probably be writing the same line again each week for the rest of the year. Marketing victims never die (or learn).

_________________
The Damage (EUR)
Starters

• 13.50 Carlingford Oysters Rockefeller
  
• 11.40 Chicken Liver and Foie Gras Parfait
  

Mains

• 24.80 Venison Shank with Seasonal Vegetables
  
• 18.40 Chargrilled Cornfed Chicken with Parsley Dumplings and Organic Vegetables
  

Desserts

• 7.40 Crème Caramel with Biscotti and Apricot Vodka Compote
• 7.40 Apple and Cinnamon Tartlet with Toblerone Sauce and Nougat Glacé
  

Drinks

• 14.00 Kir (*2)
• 15.00 50cl Barrique
  

Service 15.00
Total 124.70
_________________

The Score
3.5 Food and Drink
5.0 Service
4.0 Décor
5.0 Ambience
3.5 Value
4.0 Overall Rating