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.

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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
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The Score
3.5 Food and Drink
3.0 Service
0.0 Décor
3.0 Ambience
3.0 Value
3.0 Overall
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