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
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
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
- 24.80 Venison Shank with Seasonal Vegetables
- 18.40 Chargrilled Cornfed Chicken with Parsley Dumplings and Organic Vegetables
- 7.40 Crème Caramel with Biscotti and Apricot Vodka Compote
- 7.40 Apple and Cinnamon Tartlet with Toblerone Sauce and Nougat Glacé
- 14.00 Kir (*2)
- 15.00 50cl Barrique
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
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