London: Maroush V

4 Vere Street, London W1G 0DH
www.maroush.com

I really wanted to like Maroush V. I’d had an outstanding meal in one of their Edgware Road sister restaurants in December 2005, and a middling one at this off-Oxford Street branch in April 2006 – both times with a Lebanese colleague. It wasn’t even that I’d decided to go there from the outset tonight: I’d been in Harlow all afternoon with Tim, to see the new baby, Holly. From there, I’d raced back into town to catch T.S. Eliot’s Murder at the Cathedral in St. Paul’s the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden. Tough enough play, but a moving production in a location no doubt lending itself to the verisimilitude intended by the playwright.

The performance ended at about 22:00, and I walked off up towards Souk on Litchfield Street – then for some reason decided I would walk further, stretch the legs after 3 hours in a church pew, and come back to eat a little later. Continuing on through Saturday-night London, I was drawn towards an old favourite, Randall and Aubin. However, it looked packed (and a bit camp on a Saturday night in Soho, truth be told), so I decided to go on to Carluccio’s at St. Christopher’s Place. Of course, they were closed by the time I got there, and were tidying away the tables from outside. Now it was near 23:00, I was hungry, and running out of options. Walking back eastwards along Oxford Street, I saw the flame beacons of Maroush up Vere Street to my left and so walked up to the torches, passed between them and went inside.

This Maroush has a large balcony overhanging the downstairs dining area, and while I could see plenty of space on top, downstairs was fairly packed. And though I stood like a spare tool waiting to be seated, the copious staff just ignored me, and so I climbed the stairs and took a seat at a table at the edge of the balcony railings.

Ah, great, finally I get noticed. Some slick-haired Lebanese guy in a shiny grey suit comes over to me, and asks if I’m alright. I could have told him the truth, but instead I said yes. Then he said that they were closed upstairs and after I mentioned about the lack of attention downstairs, he offered to take me down and find me a table. I really wasn’t in the mood for messing around, but options were limited at this time of night, so I went down with him and took possession of a two-berth table in the centre of the floor.

I can’t go much further without saying this: the staff at this Maroush are terrible. Do they look down at everyone who is fairer than the average Leb, or do they treat their own nationals this way too? Some girl slammed a bowl of olives on the table, without looking at me, and after another interminable wait, another grease-coiffed waiter came over to me. Here’s the dialogue:

- Have you decided?
- Yes. Could I have the Kibbeh Nayeh, and…
- You know that’s raw meat?

Obviously a mere non-Leb couldn’t possibly know anything about Arabic food, so hey: why not treat the Irish guy like an imbecile when he orders the lamb tartare that he’s actually eaten in your restaurant and elsewhere many times before?

- Yes.
- Well, anyway, I don’t think we’re doing it.

He walks away, without another word, confers at the counter with someone (possibly a chef? Who knows?), and clearly decides neither of them could be bothered fixing up that option for me.

- We don’t have any left.

I decide not to push the point that they surely have enough for lunch tomorrow for their usual crowd, although an early Sunday morning delivery of tartare-grade lamb would be a rarity in London these days.

- Alright then. Could I have the kalawi …
- You know they’re kidneys?

See point above. Yes, I know they are bloody kidneys! Not only do I know the word in Arabic, they are explained in English as – yes – “kidneys” on your menu. God!

- Yes, I know. And could I also have the maqeneq and the hummous shawarma? Thanks.

Did he say “yes”? Or “ok”? Even a grunt? I have no idea. I was beginning to get the feeling that I was being seen as a troublesome customer by this stage: sitting in their Lebanese balcony; asking for Lebanese food; knowing Lebanese words for things. Kis Airta, you’d almost think I was in a Lebanese restaurant or something!

The hummous came – a large bowl of it, topped with lamb strips and delivered with a puffed-up flat bread that nearly scalded the hand off me when I punctured it. Still, it all tasted nice enough – you know, it’s hummous, it’s not an Escoffier signature dish. You can’t go too far wrong with it.

I ordered a second Coke as the other two dishes arrived. The maqeneq are little inch-square sausages in a tomato, butter and lemon sauce, and were undoubtedly the triumph of the evening. Loved them. I alternated tasting them with putting away the kidneys. I squeezed the citrus slice over them, as they sizzled on the hotplate. Eating these organs always brings to mind Ulysses, and Leopold Bloom’s classic line on enjoying the “fine tang of faintly scented urine” from his breakfast kidneys. I don’t run to the same level of fetish there – in fact, the subliminal reactions to the wafting aromas, even before they reach my mouth, often puts me off. But there’s something satisfying in the renal textures, in knowing that these filthy organs purify the body, and that in any case someone has made them comestible well before they reach my table. Kidneys prepared properly, with all the ducts removed, will taste of neither urea nor ammonia. Maroush did itself proud here.

As I finished, all the young dolled up Anglo-Lebanese at the other tables seemed like they were just getting the night started. I tried to catch the eye of any of three waiting staff I could see, to get my bill. That’s an ordeal that took the best part of ten minutes. Finally, a russet-haired girl – likely East European rather than Lebanese, and who seemed inordinately run off her feet while her colleagues took it easy – presented me with the bill. I left a service tip – I felt sorry for her, having to deal with this sort of business culture – but really, it wasn’t deserved by any of the staff there.

Remember at the outset, I said I really wanted to give this restaurant a good review? I love Lebanese food, I have an undying interest in the national culture, and the vast majority of Lebanese people I’ve come across have been fun beyond belief. Without irony, I can honestly say that some of my best friends are/ were Lebanese. But that terrible trait of arrogance – “everything is better in Lebanon” – is in evidence at this Maroush. I feel like I was the object of a certain racism: if your hair is fair and your skin any less than swarthy, don’t go here. The food is great (if and when they actually agree to make it for you), but it’s just not worth the attitude.

On the other hand, DO try one of the Maroush restaurants on the Edgware Road. I would recommend Maroush IV or the nearby Maroush Gardens (Connaught Street) – Sunday lunch can be spectacular at either location, and I would not hesitate to award them both a 5. In general, it’s a very good suite of restaurants: and I rather like the continuity of the Roman numerals defining most of the outlets they have. I just think it’s unfortunate that the one occupying most of the space in this review is billed as “Maroush V”. From the website, I had assumed it was their fifth branch; having been there, I'd say it's more likely the V-sign they give to paying customers.

London: Yo! Sushi

Brunswick Centre, Bloomsbury, London WC1N 1AE
www.yosushi.com

This morning I woke up and had no idea where I was, and that instantaneous panic, the one that comes with that child-like sense of being lost, took over. On realising that I was in my hotel room at The Club Quarters in the City, I calmed down completely. For a few seconds. Until I tried to remember getting back there last night. No idea. None. The last processes I semi-remember involved finishing up at the Portobello Star in Notting Hill, where the Gang of Eight at 19:00 had dwindled to just Ben and me - and then Ben getting off the Central Line and leaving me to continue on home. I know that, much the same as in vino veritas, there is a certain lucidity to drinking that always leads you back to your bed, but it's still disconcerting nonetheless to wake up sober yet amnesiac of the previous conscious moments. It'd all be OK, if only I could also forget that I was trying to get everyone to stay out all night. Great idea. I guess at this stage I have Ben to thank for saving us ending up at some dire karaoke into the small hours (surely not my idea?). Time to move on...

Got up, got ready, got out. Down to Covent Garden, kicking as always on a Saturday morning, although my oyster people seemed to have shut up shop. Usual nerdy squizz around the Transport Museum shop - the refurbished location had just opened the previous day, and is a designer oasis from the hordes outside in the piazza. Then off to Russell Square. I've been to Yo! in Poland Street, where Nabil and I ran up the expenses to our hearts' content many times. Been to a slightly less ambient one on the Haymarket once. Also to the outlet in Harvey Nick's in Leeds on a New Year's Eve afternoon last year, where I ate alone as Aoife and Suzanne were too scared to contemplate raw fish and seaweed and went to the "real" restaurant instead. But this time, I'd been sent a 50%-off-voucher from the Yo! mailing list, usable at Brunswick only, so two stops on the Piccadilly Line later, I was there.

The Brunswick Centre is a new, inner-London shopping centre, low-rise with paved outdoor malls, linked to an enormous block of council-type flats, and has recently undergone a £24m facelift. Probably what the designers of Harlow had in mind 50 years ago, but never quite managed to achieve. London was bathed in the Spring sunshine, and clientèle at other Brunswick Centre restaurants were taking advantage of it by eating outside on patios. However, Yo! Sushi is centred on the conveyor-belt concept, and so clearly doesn't lend itself well to exterior dining in the vernal brightness. I took a high seat at the bar abutting the sushi belt inside the door, ordered some miso soup and a spicy tuna hand roll, opened up my Times, and watched the selection go by.

Yo! has the usual scheme going: different coloured plates cost different prices. The difference here is that, what you'll get for $5 in East in New York (and that'd be seen as pricey there!) will set you back £5 in Yo! Sushi in London. I ended up with my spicy tuna tamaki (it's large, the red tuna is spilling out of the cone and the green onions are in perfect rings and ooze onto the plate, without the aid of any of that gloopy sauce you get in lesser establishments) delivered by my Ukrainian waitress, and over the next hour and a bit, chose another load of orange and pink plates from the kaiten. Tuna tataki, seared, and coated lightly with broken sesame; slices of premium salmon and sashimi-grade tuna, the flavour accentuated with squeezed lime juice; seared beef with a mustard mayonnaise; a crunchy tuna salad; and the signature Yo! Roll, which is salmon and avocado, wrapped in seaweed and rice and enfolded by an outer layer of bright orange tobiko. I eschewed my regular off-belt orders of tuna gunkan and miso black cod (I defy anyone to eat this and not dream about it that same night), in favour of a plate of dorayaki (a trio of custard-filled sponge cakes, accompanied by a raspberry sauce). I don't know quite how Japanese this dessert actually was, but it's something I'd been meaning to try at Yo! for ages, and it was pleasant enough, if not a Kobe-style ground-shaking gastronomic experience.

It should be mentioned that the miso soup for the price of £1.75 is unlimited, and is good value if you have three bowls like I did. On the other hand, water - self-served in unlimited quanitites of still or sparkling - is £1.00. Now, if you were charged this in a normal restaurant for a bottle of water, you'd probably think it a good bargain. But there's something psychologically annoying to pay it for water from a tap, and that you have to pour for yourself. Funny old world.

I had eaten my fill, so asked for the bill - and whipped out my voucher. Miss Ukraine tells me that it's only valid between 15:00 and 19:00, and it's now about a quarter to two - and anyway, it states it clearly on the coupon. Arrgghh! I need to RTFM before I go off half-cocked to sushi belts in future! Still, I was essentially on holidays, so it didn't impinge on my enjoyment too much that I paid over £30 for lunch. And I will be back - this Brunswick Centre is a great alternative during the daytime when the sun is beaming outside and you don't mid a little shade and air-conditioning; but for an evening atmosphere, you're best advised to try Poland Street. Nothing beats the original and best.

Aya

Clarendon Street, Dublin 2
www.aya.ie

Long, long ago, when I was young and idealistic and yet to be corrupted by nutcases and karaoke bars, I lived in Stuttgart, Germany. Even writing it like that – name, country - makes me understand how much time I have spent in North America since. But this was 2000, I was in my Euro phase, and I didn’t have to distinguish between homologous towns in Germany and the US.

Anyway, to the story: I was hanging out with my new cosmopolitan gang, including Rosa from Chicago, Ronit from London (via Amsterdam, Tokyo and Tel Aviv) and Ana from Ljubljana. When these three asked me to come for a sushi lunch, I didn’t wish to appear ignorant and so told them: oh yes, of course I LOVE sushi. Yes, let’s go. Truth be told: I had no idea what sushi was apart from some sort of raw fish that cats might sniff at and walk away from. We ended up at a little place on the corner of Kalverstrasse, and sat around the belt. A waitress brought us some condiments. I thought: “Ooh, green mayonnaise”, and had a good old lick of it.

Wasabi.

I had devoured the whole lot in one go. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. My skin went puce. The others were in shock as I walk behind the bar and helped myself to two pints of water. It could have put me off sushi for life.

As anyone who knows me can corroborate, however, it didn’t. Canada was a great Nihon gastro development for me, with a sushi place every few yards across the country … Ho Su, Sushi Island, Wasabi, Guu, Hapa Izakaya … I could sashimi my way along the TransCanada Highway if required. And so it was great to get to sit at a belt in Dublin and feed the withdrawal symptoms I’d been having since my return seven weeks ago.

Sam and I turned up to Aya at about 18:30. You have to press a sort of “wheelchair access” button, and the glass door of the restaurant slides back electronically. Once inside, you see plenty of tables towards the window, and a conveyor belt that runs nearly the length of the aft of the restaurant. There are booths in front of the belt, perpendicular to it, and chairs strung out along the side furthest from the door. This is where we sat.

Mondays at Aya is advertised as the “What’s Happening in Tokyo Show” night, with a virtual DJ and what I understood to be some sort of interactive video show. When I clicked through the links (the Aya website is frighteningly poor, by the way), I got a podcast and something about Toronto. Coincidence, surely, but no closer to giving me the info I wanted. Really, we didn’t notice much of a show in real life either – mirroring the cyberspace dead ends.

At any rate, the glass cabinet at the front door of the restaurant contains all you need to know. And really, the Sushi 55 is the only thing you need worry about. Concept: all you can eat off the belt in fifty-five minutes (except the platinum plates, of which there were few anyway), plus a glass of wine, beer or a soft drink, and it costs you €29. However, on top of this they levy a €2 “seating charge”. Makes you wonder if they’re part of the Ryanair empire. Surely if the cost is €29 including a drink, they could either: a. charge €31 and get it done with (and nobody would bat an eyelid), or b. charge €29 like advertised, and stop messing around with made-up expenses and annoying all their customers with pettiness. If I had stood the whole time, could I have organised a refund, I wonder? Shame good ideas always come to me after the time they’re actually needed.

I was slightly concerned about quality before eating: Aya in Dublin is linked in people’s minds with the chilled counter in supermarkets where they deliver plastic boxes of sushi for office lunchtimes, and which don’t have the greatest reputation for inventiveness. Turns out, I needn’t have worried. The belt carries the usual things you’d expect, but all are of high standard: sushi, various maki, some salmon and tuna sashimi (nice inclusion in an all-you-can-eat option), and nicely seasoned edamame. Sweet red pepper was an unusual ingredient to see on one maki plate, but pleasant nonetheless. At times it was difficult to determine which plates were blue, silver, white, or platinum, as they often carried traces of at least two of these colours. Nonetheless, we managed to stack them up fairly shamelessly, before both diving into chocolate mousses that we’d been eyeing up for ages as they passed on the belt. And I managed to avoid the wasabi all evening.

Something I really liked about Aya: although we had finished eating within the hour, we sat back and had some more of their excellent white wine, and a really good laugh about nothing. And the bill was not adjusted for spending more than the allotted 55 minutes at the belt. Finally: a restaurant that treats its customers like paying adults rather than freeloading schoolchildren.

Oh sorry, meant to say: I was berated by Sam after the Market Bar review, as I detailed the alcohol intake of the meal. I’ll have to watch myself in future.

PS. She had three glasses of wine tonight.

Toronto: Bright Pearl

346-348 Spadina Avenue, Toronto ON, CA
www.brightpearlseafood.com

The first time I ever went to dim sum was in Chinatown in New York with Brendan, several years ago. We ascended an escalator that, no doubt due to our pressing hunger, seemed as long as those in the Budapest metro. At the top, we entered into a garish pink, red and gold-bedecked room that seemed the size of an aircraft hangar. Imagine an obstetricians' conference with décor and exhibits designed by Vivienne Westwood, and you’re half-way there. We sat at a communal table for ten, where little old ladies pushed trolleys and shouted unintelligible Cantonese through toothless mouths. I was scared shitless, and convinced I wouldn’t get out of there without some hepatitis variant on board.

Amazing what a few years can do for you. One Saturday morning in 2005 after an Adventist service, Caroline took me to Bright Pearl on Spadina Avenue. Being with her, who though 100% Canadian is also a fluent Chinese speaker, probably made ordering easier; it certainly made eating more relaxed. Frequent dim sum lunches with Howie in Winnipeg throughout the second half of 2005 also opened my eyes to the wonders of this Chinese ritual tea.

So when Phil suggested dim sum for lunch today, we knew there was only one place to go: Bright Pearl on Spadina and St. Andrew’s (a block or two north of Dundas, as you enter Kensington Market). I’m not sure if there’s some connection between spiritual rejuvenation and dim sum, but yet again, I was coming from a service – this time at Metropolitan United on Queen Street, where Rev. Malcolm Sinclair always holds the attention of the congregation with his insight, his compassion, his showmanship and his rhetorical mastery of the English language. I took the streetcar over to Spadina, and arrived at the Bright Pearl at just after 12:45 to find Kavita and Amar sitting there, waiting for a table. We were finally seated at 13:15, although the wait was shorter for smaller parties. In the interim, I tried to control the detox tremors from the previous day’s SPD celebrations.

We were shown into the room – yes, reds and golds abounded – and were seated at a large round table, set for eight people. We started ordering straight away. I had been to Bright Pearl so many times that I knew exactly what was needed: cheong fun beef and chicken secreted in flat rice noodles and drowned in soy sauce; char siu bai barbecue pork buns; shrimp won tons; pai gu spare ribs; nuo mai gai sticky rice, wrapped in a cabbage leaf and containing marinated pork, mushrooms and scallops; and a big bowl of congee with mushrooms and scallions. Rabih arrived, and we ordered more of the same, and the best pork and vegetable guo tie pot-stickers ever. When Phil and Vicky finally made it, having been caught in the traffic diverted from the St. Patrick’s Day parade (held a day late, but hey, there’s Canada for you), we called our trolley ladies over again – doughballs in rice noodle envelopes being Vicky’s special exhortation to the team to try. And finally they came: what we had been waiting for all lunchtime … siu mai steamed pork dumplings; and har gow shrimp dumplings. In my opinion, no dim sum lunch is complete without these two essentials. We washed all this down with copious amounts of jasmine tea and chilled water.

The bill came to just under $96, which is reasonable for the amount of food we had, and the compendium of large, medium, small and special dishes we ordered. However, here’s an insider tip, and one of which I have taken advantage numerous times in the past: if you go to Bright Pearl on weekdays between 13:30 and 16:00, all dim sum – ALL – cost just $1.65 per plate. I have often come out of that place absolutely stuffed through gluttony for less than $15. Anyway, price notwithstanding, it was a good call on our part to sustain ourselves today with dim sum at the Bright Pearl.

Now, my next missions (and I choose to accept them) are:
1. find a dim sum palace in Dublin;
2. convince friends here to join me;
3. stop them freaking out on the first attempt like I did, and just sit back and enjoy it.

On a final note: I went back to that same NYC dim sum place with Brendan in December 2006 – and loved it. I’m a natural now. Might even learn some Cantonese so I know what I’m ordering next time.

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The Damage (CAD)

• 96.00 Dim Sum for 6
  

Drinks

• Water, Jasmine Tea (included above)
  

Service 14.00
Total 110.00
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The Score
4.0 Food and Drink
3.5 Service
3.0 Décor
4.0 Ambience
3.5 Value
4.0 Overall Rating

Toronto: Marché

BCE Place, 181 Bay Street, Toronto ON, CA

www.richtree.ca

I arrived in Toronto this morning, and got downtown to the Cosmopolitan Hotel at about 03:00. Howie had recommended this place to me last year on one of his visits from Winnipeg, and needing somewhere for just one night (due to my late arrival in Canada), I decided to try it out. Very appealing hotel, suite-like rooms, latest technologies, and the special fixture of a waterfall in each bedroom. Breakfast was of lower quality however, and so I was looking forward to lunch by the time I met with my JW crew. Being downtown, and cognisant of their need to return to work after lunch, one restaurant stood out above all other choices.

Marché is an absolute institution in Toronto. You could bring even the pickiest eater here (and I have), and they would still find something to please. I’ve been here so often since my first visit with Monica back in summer 2004, and I can still see the layout now: bocca-di-verità water fountains on the way in; passing through Indonesian stall, olives and soup, juices, chicken, steaks, omelettes, fajitas, sushi, seafood, the oyster bar, rösti, pizzas and pasta; and the absolute zenith of the experience, the all-important dessert counter. I’ve had breakfast at Marché; I’ve eaten there at 1:30 in the morning; I’ve treated myself to a dozen oysters and a bottle of champagne for a private celebration late last October. I’ve eaten there with just about everyone I know in Toronto, and with everyone who’s ever come to visit me there. I’ve never heard Marché suggested as an option, and thought: nah, not today, not in the mood. The French market theme is attractive and fun, and the prices are so good, they're stunning. But there is one problem…

With a self-service type venture on such a scale, you always run the risk of not being able to make up your mind, and of various diners’ dishes being made available at different times. This time, that loser was me, by a mile – and it was all my own fault. I just could not decide. In the end, I chose Bouillabaise – which I had never eaten here before, but for which I envied Roman the last time he took it. It took 12 minutes to make, but when it was ready, I took delivery of a 12-inch wide, 6-inch deep bowl of fish, prawns, mussels and other assorted seafood in a saffron-coloured broth. It was delicious, though by the time I actually made it to the table with my food, the others were finishing up. They had chosen a variety of chicken and steak dishes, and seemed to enjoy them all. I skipped the dessert option today: it’s such a temptation in this place, and certainly not easy to walk out without sampling the cheesecakes, strudels, Napoleon desserts or even just their ice cream. But I knew there was a big night ahead, and I needed to keep space for what was coming next.

_________________

The Damage (CAD)

• 12.00 Bouillabaise
  

Drinks

• Water (fountain)
  

Total 12.00 (before tax)
_________________

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

South William

52 South William Street, Dublin 2
www.southwilliam.ie

Every so often, Caroline, Aoife and I get together to recreate the old Grenoble spirit of 1994. It’s gotten harder as we get more … mature … as our tolerance for partying has decreased somewhat and we realise we now have to get up in the mornings, and can’t just get notes off someone else if we don’t turn up to work. Still, it’s always a blast to catch up.

I’d been itching to go to South William since discovering it by accident one day on a walk through town. It’s where Viva used to be: this was a very cool bar back at the end of 02, crammed with alternative/ beautiful people, and both soothed and energised by an accomplished DJ. You’d recognise it from the red lights spelling out its name, strung between either side of South William Street, and giving you the impression you were in the Jewish Quarter if you approached from the south and saw “AVIV” beaming away in the night-time. Since South William had been involved in the recent Swedish Festival, it was intriguing me even more, so we decided to act on semi-impulse and arrange to meet there.

South William is best described as a bar that offers food, rather than a bar with a restaurant. It still holds the same interior shape as Viva did, but the tables and chairs are less plush – more like a university canteen, perhaps. Wobbly tables, chairs lacking veneer, but with a large bar down the left-hand side of the room as you walk in. We sat towards the end of the bar, and ordered a couple of glasses of Merlot. The menu is displayed on a huge blackboard behind the bar, but if you don’t like pies, you’re in trouble. Just like London went mad on pies in recent years (Square Pie being a particular favourite of mine, especially down the Spitalfields market), Ireland seems to be rediscovering the homely tastes of pastry-crust delights.

I chose a duck and red cabbage filling. The pie itself was probably about 6 or 7 inches in diameter, and was served with a really flavoursome side salad of dressed lamb’s-leaf lettuce. Aoife decided to go vegetarian, for some reason, and chose a pie filled with chilli beans, avocado and cheddar. Sounds like a strange mix, but the melange actually worked. That said, we both agreed that my duck and cabbage one was vastly superior: succulent duck, complemented by a moist yet not soggy cabbage, encased in a robust yet delicately-flavoured pastry. Around this stage, Caroline arrived, already full from dinner elsewhere, so she didn’t get to contribute to this review apart from as a scene-stealer – didn’t get food, but still has her name dropped in!

South William is a good place – by the end of the evening, we were really getting into the music. The staff are a lot of fun, the clientèle is warm and slightly artsy, but most of all, the food is good – and with a standard price of €8.50 per main course (seemingly anything you want so long as it’s a pie!), it won’t break the bank. This place is a definite when you want somewhere chilled, respectful and unpretentious – we will be back.

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The Damage (EUR)

• 8.50 Duck Confit and Red Cabbage Pie
• 8.50 Chilli Bean, Avocado and Cheddar Pie
  

Drinks

• To be loaded
  

Service to be Loaded
Total to be loaded
_________________

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

Bruno's

Eustace Street, Dublin 2
www.brunosdublin.com

Suzanne told me she was on her way into town, and so get ready to leave work. Well, I’ve heard that tune played before. I had enough time to walk into town from the office, buy books and cufflinks on the way, discover newly-opened restaurants in Parliament Street and newly-unveiled buildings up by Dublin Castle, and walk down to Temple Bar – and she still wasn’t there. When she did arrive, she seemed unusually flustered, and told me she had been pestered by two east European gypsy kids at the bank machine. Now, the worst that had happened was that she was so flummoxed she withdrew €20 from her account and put €100 credit on her phone instead of the other way around, but she was evidently not at ease. Don’t want to say “I told you so”, Suzanne, but maybe now you’ll agree with my theories that the small proportion of immigrants who contribute nothing to the economy except some gaudy new headscarves and an increase in begging statistics really have no business being welcomed here by the hippies and communists and bleeding-heart social workers that seem to drive opinion in the Irish media these days. But as I said I don’t want to say it, I won’t. Ahem.

The best move was to get to the nearest establishment, sit down and enjoy ourselves. As luck would have it, we were standing outside Bruno’s. To be honest, it wasn’t luck: I had engineered that spot on Eustace Street and Temple Bar for a reason. You couldn’t count the number of times I’ve passed by Bruno’s and thought: Hmm, must try there sometime. Then went on my way. Well, tonight was to be the night that thought turned to deed and that the good intentions of myriad passings-by would pave the road to culinary hell or heaven. We went inside.

The dining room at Bruno’s is attractive: it feels like one of those large Georgian drawing rooms that have now been turned into recruitment agency office receptions on Baggot Street or Ely Place. The colours are one hue shy of primary, and the spring light flowed through the large windows as it waned for the day. On the way in, we checked some information: two postings outside gave contradictory information as to the early-bird menu. For future reference – it does last until 19:00, rather than just 18:00. Perhaps it was this confusion that led to the restaurant being empty apart from us and one other table at 18:10.

Bruno’s cuisine is billed as French: yet I managed to have a completely Croatian meal, washed down with a Swedish drink. Suzanne’s choices were American and Irish, with Australian wine. The rest of the menu seemed to consist of Italian staples. Strange.

While we waited for our starters to be brought by our extremely pleasant waitress - who was later replaced or aided by another of no lesser gentility - we enjoyed some wine and a Kopparberg’s pear cider (remembering the taste of the recent foray into Swedish fruity stuff at Porterhouse). Suzanne’s buffalo wings arrived – about eight or nine of them, large enough, with some side celery and a blue cheese dip. They looked nice, but I was determined to remain clear of them and avoid getting filthy too early in the night (there’s a first time for everything, so). Instead I went Adriatic, and took reception of some börek, presented as three triangular filo pastry envelopes of feta cheese, potato and onion, and delivered with that orange chilli jam that seems to be ubiquitous in Dublin these days whenever you order anything with prawns or pastry. The börek were just fine, and while not a huge portion like the chicken wings, it was adequate.

On to the main courses: Suzanne had chargrilled chicken breast with a side salad, and an accompanying mushroom sauce. Suzanne found the chicken a bit pedestrian, but the sauce was a whole different story. I tried some, and pronounced it nice enough, but perhaps it has a different effect on women: I thought we were going to have to call the police to restrain Suzanne as she finished that sauce and scraped the sides of the bowl. Needless to say, the accompanying eyes and gestures and murmurings made passers-by think we were filming the sequel to When Harry Met Sally. I noticed later that many other female diners had chosen that chicken dish too: maybe they had all wanted what she was having.

The reaction to my risotto was slightly more prosaic on Suzanne’s part (what do you mean, you don’t like risotto?!?), yet no less ecstatic on mine. Although I did manage to keep the Swedish influence to the drink, rather than porno dubbing the meal in appreciation. The dish was a healthy-sized bowl of starch-bound rice, coloured with tomato and lightly spiced, generously shot through with little shrimps and topped with an enormous tiger prawn. Being one of my own specialities when cooking, risotto is something I am always eager to try when other people make it. This sample did not disappoint: perhaps a little less rich than out in Zagreb or Rijeka, and certainly without the white wine included as standard out there, but delicious nonetheless. As a shared side dish, we ordered some garlic potatoes: baby versions, in a pool of garlic butter, tasting delicious, and something else to team with that mushroom sauce that knows no limit.

We finished our meal with a cappuccino for Suzanne (I have decided to stop telling Irish people you don't drink this after midday, seeing as it doesn't seem to get through. Ever.), and a peppermint tea for me (legacy from too many dinners with Nabil, I think).

I had just experienced another great meal with Suzie’s sparkling humour, but now for the best bit – the almost unbelievable bit: we got these two-course menus, with tea and coffee, for just €14.95 each. This is almost unheard of in Dublin in 2007. Bravo Bruno’s! This is a good little restaurant, and although smack-bang in the centre of touristville, it deserves good, repeat Irish custom. As we were leaving, the restaurant was heaving with diners, including one large group along the back wall where the staff had pulled several smaller tables to make a party-sized area. Bravo ancora! We’ll be back.

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The Damage (EUR)
Early Bird Menus

• 29.90 (*2)
• Buffalo Wings with Celery and Blue-Cheese Dip
  
• Börek with Sweet Chilli Sauce
  

• Chargrilled Chicken with Creamy Mushroom Sauce and Side Salad
• Spicy Tomato Risotto with Tiger Prawns and Shrimps

Sides

• 3.90 Garlic Potatoes

Drinks

• 4.95 Glass Australian House Red
• 5.00 Bottle Kopparberg's Pear Cider

• 1 Cappuccino (included in EB menu)
  
• 1 Peppermint Tea (included in EB menu)
  

Service 7.00
Total 50.75
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The Score
3.5 Food and Drink
3.5 Service
4.0 Décor
3.0 Ambience
4.5 Value
3.5 Overall Rating

The Chameleon

1 Lower Fownes Street, Temple Bar, Dublin 2
www.chameleonrestaurant.com

For a restaurant with a name like “Chameleon”, it is overwhelmingly to be celebrated that while it blends in seamlessly to a small side street off Temple Bar square, it hasn’t needed to change its colours to fit in with other low-class dross in the area. I was scheduled to go to my first ever Xing meet-up (notwithstanding my network membership of four years’ standing), but it wasn’t due to start until 20:00. With 90 minutes to kill between evensong at St. Patrick’s and the event at the Stag’s Head, and remembering the recent Indonesian Rijsttafel in Amsterdam, I decided to indulge my cravings and head for the Chameleon.

I had only ever been here once before, in 2004. That evening was a candlelit affair, with the environs lending an intimacy that several weeks later, I wished I could get out of, but didn’t know how to. I won’t mention names in order to spare any blushes, recriminations or outbreaks of psychosis. However, at the time it all seemed great, and I repeatedly and incessantly recommended this restaurant for months afterwards to anyone who would listen.

Arriving at approximately 18:30, I could see from the street that the restaurant was fairly full. This standing point is deceptive, however: the Chameleon is indeed tiny on the ground floor, but enjoys a large space upstairs, decorated to resemble an Asian eating house and which is often booked out by large parties. I feared the response that “table for one” might elicit, but was pleased to be offered a two-berth position near the front door. Although later in the evening, collective amnesia seemed to overcome the denizens of Dublin like the pillar of death – and they’d forget to close the door on the their way in, or on their way back out to smoke in the street, while I was left shivering in the evening spring cold of about 8˚.

The early bird menu at Chameleon is simple: no choice. Ya gets what ya sees on da page. First to arrive is a large silver bowl of prawn crackers, with that omnipresent chilli jam that denotes an Asian restaurant in Dublin these days. However, the jam is the only commonplace item here. I am soon presented, simultaneously, with the following four dishes:

Asinan – a salad of Chinese cabbage, cucumber, mango, and a chilli peanut dressing. This was something of which I would gladly have eaten 10 kilos. Light, crunchy, juicy (God! Those mangoes!), and with a great kick from the dressing. Definitely the bets of an astoundingly opulent selection this evening.

Sambal Goreng Kool – peppered white cabbage in a light coconut sauce. The coconut milk and the light peppering provided for a lavish treat for the taste buds.

Rempah Daging – not unlike albondigas that you see at Spanish tapas, these were a couple of deliciously-spicy meatballs in a chilli-highlighted tomato-based sauce. The meatballs fell to pieces when touched with a fork, Perfectly cooked, quickly eaten.

Ayam Bumbu Rudjak – the one I kept till last, and which rewarded me with chicken in a spicy coconut-based curry. With mild undertones of turmeric. Four out of four.

These dishes came with boiled rice – most of which I used to soak up the milky curry sauce (dish #4 above) – and condiments in little silver pots: soy sauce; lightly-pickled cucmber and carrot; sambal chilli paste; and serundeng (coconut flakes with lime leaves and lemongrass). Each contributed in its own way to the meal, producing a unique and specific joy when complemented to each main dish.

I didn’t see anything that stood out on the dessert list when it was passed to me, but I did decide on a peppermint tea (trend emerging here, I think).

I should be Machiavellian here, and tell you this is the worst restaurant ever, and never to darken its doorstep: that way, at least, I would be guaranteed of a seat. But not only would the restaurant close down if everyone believed me, I would be guilty of a great travesty against both the owners of the Chameleon and the diners of Dublin. The truth is that the Chameleon is one of the most lavish gastronomic treats in Dublin, and is astonishingly good value for money. You will also notice the service: the first time I went, in 2004, I was bowled over by the graciousness and hospitality of the waiting staff, and I was similarly rewarded with friendliness and respect this time. Although this was an alcohol-free visit, I can attest to the quality of their wine list also.

I took the restaurant’s business card on the way out. It features the shape of a lizard-like reptile embossed in raised bumps. Just the way your skin will feel once you are tempted to the delights of the Chameleon.

Footnote: “How do you pronounce “Xing”?”. That was the question of the night. I assumed it was “crossing” as seen on roadsigns in California. Everyone else at the Xing event in the Stag’s Head seemed to think it was some form of Chinese as pronounced by the cast of Star Trek. Somebody at HQ in Germany needs to clarify. Vorsprung dürch Technik – yeah, mate, but only if you can say it right.

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The Damage (EUR)
Menus

• 15.00 Early Bird Rijsttafel
  

Drinks

• 2.60 Small bottle of Badoit sparkling water
  
• 2.50 Peppermint Tea
  

Service 2.01 (10% added automatically to bill)
Total 22.11
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The Score
5.0 Food and Drink
4.5 Service
4.5 Décor
4.0 Ambience
5.0 Value
4.5 Overall Rating

Porterhouse Central

45-47 Nassau Street, Dublin 2
Saturday, March 3, 2007
www.porterhousebrewco.com

Lunch with Casper is never something you plan far in advance. The last time was at Dunne & Crescenzi in December, where we gave each other about two hours’ notice. This time, we let ourselves down however, by settling on a meet-up a whole two days beforehand. The impetus was my long-standing Swedomania (no, not love of turnips) and the happy coincidence of the Swedish Festival in Dublin this week. I would have killed to try South William, one of the other spots offering the Nordic menu – but I was too late. Casper suggested Porterhouse, and at the risk of not getting another slot in his diary for weeks, I said yes.

I arrived in town far too early, and decided to walk Parnell Street to see the ethnic blossoming I had heard about. It was three years since I had been anywhere near that quarter, and honestly, if you had kidnapped me, blindfolded me, and set me loose up there now, I couldn’t have told you where I was. Had a good look around, including the enormous new Chapters store, then headed for Nassau Street thinking: ok, now from East Asian and East European influences on the Northside, to American cuisine down south of the river.

Now, you may notice that the cuisine tag on this review is not “American”, after all. That’s because if you were in America and you ever served anyone food like we got at Porterhouse, you’d be shot or sued – or, likely, both. This is Modern Irish, in the more mediocre application of those words to the restaurant trade.

I’d eaten with Casper at Porterhouse before, in their Temple Bar location in December 2005. That was the weekend Nabil was in Dublin with me. If I had any sense of omen or conjunction after that whole sorry affair, I would have known that this chain was bad for me. I’ll have to start reading the chicken entrails more closely.

We sat at a high table and leather-cushioned stools up on the raised dais towards the back of the bar, and consulted the menu. After we had been asked twice if we had decided on drinks, we ordered two Kopparberg beers. What we were given, however, were two Kopparberg ciders, but we didn't realise this until we poured the bottles into glasses. These drinks were some mixed-berry-flavoured concoction with 5.3% alcohol, and were gratifyingly easy to drink, and so we didn't complain. Definitely a tip for the summer. That, however, was the last Swedish element to the lunch. The Festival menu consisted of steak (at €16.50, at lunchtime! In a pub!!), meatballs, and another nondescript item which clearly doesn’t even rate recalling. We went for burgers instead.

Porterhouse in Covent Garden, London is a good place – we spent Hallowe’en there in 2005 with William, Bridget and Catherine, following on from Belgo. But the variety the chain revels in with respect to beer is sadly missing from its food menu. All of the offerings read the same way to me. Sorry, what’s that – you want fish? To quote Peggy Mitchell: Get outta my pub. Naaaaaaaow. (To give them their due, there was a salmon option, but it sounded so dreary, it didn’t ever figure in my reckoning).

You remember that old philosophical chestnut: if a tree falls in the woods, and no-one hears it, did it really fall? Similarly, if everything on a menu seems so similar, can you really be said to “choose” anything? Nevertheless, we tried our best: I took the grandly-titled Porterhouse Mushroom and Beef Burger, while Casper went for the Smokey. What we are going to do now is match description to reality:

Casper’s Smokey
Advertised:
100% Irish Angus Beef burger, smoked bacon, smoked cheddar, smokey (sic) BBQ sauce, beef tomato, butterhead lettuce, red onion and mayonnaise.
Received:
Burger with very large circumference and very little depth. Dry. Topped with one round slice of smoked cheese, rind still on. Rest as indicated.

My Porterhouse Mushroom & Beef Burger
Advertised:
100% Irish Angus Beef burger, Portobello mushroom, Emmental cheese, garlic & mustard mayonnaise, beef tomato, butterhead lettuce & red onion
Received:
Burger little smaller around than Casper’s, but noticeably thicker. Dry. Boring. Large juicy mushroom in centre, stalk still attached. No perceivable taste of garlic or mustard from mayonnaise. Had to add ordinary mayonnaise to moisten the sandwich. But the chips were good; whether this was just in comparison to the burger or on a stand-alone basis, I'm still not sure.

This place used to be Judge Roy Bean’s – where you’d go on a Friday evening for happy hours before they got outlawed. You wouldn’t come to the new incarnation for anything cheap, that’s for sure. Actually, you know what? Don’t bother going there for anything if you’re hungry. But I might catch you there for a Kopparberg come the May Bank Holiday.

PS. The day wasn’t all bad. I got to meet up with Casper, who is as smart and enlightening as ever. I also managed to renew my IFC membership, catch Zozo (great little Swedish/ Lebanese film showing for the Festival), and realised that there are loads more Scandinavians in Dublin than I thought. All good! Tak så mycket till Svenska Festivalen!

PPS. Anyone know what the hell butterhead lettuce is? Even my spellchecker won’t recognise it. Is it the Cos lettuce we got?

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The Damage (EUR)
Mains

• 10.50 Smokey Burger
  
• 12.50 Porterhouse Mushroom and Beef Burger
  

Drinks

• 12.40 Kopparberg Ciders (*2)

Service 4.60
Total 40.00
_________________

The Score
2.0 Food and Drink
2.5 Service
3.0 Décor
2.0 Ambience
2.0 Value
2.0 Overall Rating
_________________

Market Bar

Fade Street, Dublin 2
www.marketbar.ie

The first part of this review comes to us courtesy of Tim who, on seeing I was to review Market Bar, offered his own content based on his first ever visit. I was thinking of censoring the names to avoid psychosis, tears and possible bloodshed, but then in the spirit of the night that was in it, I thought: feck it. Publish and be damned. The night is question has been referred to ever since as Black Thursday: it occurred in December 2003, and is the first night (of many) that we all went out together. The transcript of the evening and the repercussions follows:

Thursday 18:00

1. Pub somewhere (Grafton St., maybe) for civilised drink
2. Market Bar for tapas dinner
3. Pub
4. Pub
5. Bar - sat outside, cold
6. Bar
7. Eddie Irvine's bar
8. ...[Blank]...
9. Cafe En Seine
10. ...[Blank]...
    
11. Lillie's Bordello
12. ...[Blank]...
13. ...[Blank]...

Friday 04:00

14. Sin
15. Al offers to streak through Temple Bar but gets thrown off disrobing by an automatic searchlight, highlighting the whole escapade.
16. ...[Blank]...

Friday 09:00

17. Being woken by the sound of Al screaming "Aaaaaggghhhh, it's 9 o'clock"
18. Seeing missed calls from client and London office, wondering why we aren't at our 8am meeting in Ballycoolin. Realise we are in Ballsbridge.
19. Thinking career was over.
20. Hailing taxi and rubbing toothpaste into teeth on journey to client office. Realise we can't lie our way out of this one.
21. Having worst day at work ever, but manage to salvage career.

Friday 18:00

22. Driving to Enniskillen in a crappy Fiat hire car, in torrential rain with ineffective wipers, on roads with potholes that could swallow the car, with no lights/cats eyes and lorries driving down the wrong side of the road.
23. Arriving in Enniskillen to be greeted by a scene that wouldn't have been out of place in Father Ted - instead of a cup of tea, soda bread and bed which is what I’d spent the whole journey dreaming about.

The adventure this time was tamer, less inebriated, and at least nobody lost anything this time ... like their dignity, their self-respect, or their clothes. I arranged to meet Sam there at 19:00, and while I waited for her at the table I was lucky enough to have procured at peak time, I enjoyed an alcohol-free Erdinger – tall, cold, great mousse of a head, and absolutely no after-effects. Sam arrived after a while – it was her first visit – and we commented on the beauty of the building exterior and the sheer size of the dining room. I remember that this space had changed so much in recent years: in 2001, it was a disused sausage factory; by the first anniversary of September 11, it had become a temporary art gallery housing the travelling photography collection of here is new york; a mere 12 months later, it had morphed into the Market Bar. Noticeable about the venue is the lack of music – something to do with planning permission and disgruntled neighbours, apparently – and the collection of clogs on the far wall. The restaurant proper is at the aft of the restaurant, and walking in the main door, you pass a blackboard with the full menu chalked up for perusal and approval. I somehow never seem to notice this board until I’m on the way out. Same again this time.

Sam and I had come to Market Bar following my excellent experience of Swedish-influenced cuisine at Eden the previous night. Market Bar was listed as participating in the food festival and, given their usual array of food, we were expecting the full Smorgasbord of Scandinavian delights. What we were offered was salmon. Oh yeah, in large or small portion … you can have salmon. And that’s as far as the Swedish influence went – it didn’t seem like there was too much Nordic ingenuity in the menu planning here. We had a laugh at this, and ordered.

Market Bar is a staple favourite of mine; they offer a menu that I would describe as Franco-Spanish tapas – plates of food flavoured through regional cuisines of Langedoc, the Pyrenées, the Basque Country and Catalonia. The fixed-priced concept means you can order large portions for €10.50 for or smaller ones for €7.00, and all orders arrive in appropriately-sized glazed earthenware.

No prizes for guessing that, even though the “selection” was both laughable and negligible, my own take on Stockholm Syndrome propelled me towards the gravadlax as a starter. I’m glad I chose it: consisting of a half-dozen slices of salmon, layered over a green salad including the obligatory rocket, and doused liberally with a dill and mustard dressing, it was delicious. Sam, on my advice I think, chose the smoked pâté, and was rewarded with a dish of tureen, sea-fresh and substantial to the palate, served alongside light toasts.

I suppose I’m wrong in describing the dishes here as starters and mains: all dishes are served together, it’s only the size that differs. It’s service à la française, rather than the usual service à la russe. The “mains”, then, consisted of my choice of duck confit – two large portions of gamey duck, supported by a deep tier of puy lentils and caramelised baby onions. I had had this dish before, most recently with Aoife and Suzanne after the one-day trip to Amsterdam in December, and with fond memories restored, I tucked in to find it as satisfying as ever. Sam ordered a dish I hadn’t tried before; getting conservative in my old age and sticking with the tried and tested on repeat visits, I had missed out on the brochettes of chicken – several skewers of flavoursome though not spicy chicken, the morsels on each skewer interspersed with roundels of quality warmed Spanish chorizo. We also had a portion of patatas bravas, that even in the smaller size seemed substantial. Great combination, great taste, great choice on Sam’s part.

When I had managed to cajole a table at about 19:30, I was told we’d have to vacate it by 21:30. Well, we didn’t. We could see the staff hover slightly nervously as the waiting line grew longer and the clock edged past half nine, but they had the professionalism to allow us a few minutes’ grace before presenting us with a bill. This is what I like about Market Bar: in addition to the pleasing interior, the table settings, and the consistently great food, the staff are dutiful, informed and friendly, and don’t treat you like just another table cover. But I guess there are exceptions to every rule: Aoife went to Market Bar the day after Sam and I had been, and the staff told her the Swedish menu was “a mistake” and they had never offered it at all. Like I say, such wilful ignorance among the staff is a true exception here; so long as it remains so, Market Bar will remain a regular fixture in any good restaurant guide to Dublin.

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The Damage (EUR)
Starters

• 7.00 Swedish Gravadlax
  
• 7.00 Smoked Salmon Pâté
  

Mains

• 10.50 Duck Confit with Puy Lentils and Caramelised Onions
  
• 10.50 Chicken and Chorizo Brochettes with Green Salad
• 7.00 Patatas Bravas
  

Drinks

• 4.50 Non-alcohol Erdinger (*1)
• 15.00 Malena Red wine (*3)
• 2.00 Espresso
  
• 2.00 Black coffee
  

Service 9.00
Total 74.50
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The Score
4.0 Food and Drink
4.0 Service
4.0 Décor
4.0 Ambience
4.0 Value
4.0 Overall Rating