If you’ve even thought about traveling to Ireland in the past couple
years, you’ve no doubt heard conflicting views of Irish cuisine.
The critics usually fall into two separate camps: Camp 1 is the old school
and aren’t afraid to laugh and wink and give you a good poke with
their elbow saying things like, “Well, I hope ya aren’t going
there for the foood” and “Jasus! It’s nothing but mushy
peas…and MORE mushy peas.”
The other camp is decidedly more proper and a bit proud. They regale modern-Irish cooking as some of the best in the world. And indeed, it is changing. There is fresh produce in abundance and farm-fresh cheeses, sea food, land food, and fast food galore. Dublin, naturally, is leading the way, where dining out is no longer looked at as merely a source of fuel or a show of wealth. An energetic food scene has proudly pitched its tent here. Up-and-coming chefs are dabbling with the latest trends from America and the continent – foam was as haute along The Liffey as it was down The Hudson when we left. And culinary schools like Ballymalou are garnering excellent reputations.
First arrived
I have to admit, I was a little apprehensive stepping off the plane. My father grew up in an Irish household in the Bronx and rightly ditched his mother’s bland meat-and-potatoes cooking the first chance he got and never asked for it again. So, when my mother served lamb stew and soda bread one cold March afternoon, my father’s only comment was that if there were more spices in the world than salt and pepper, how come no one told the Irish. He was Camp 1.
After a couple days in dear dirty Dublin (which isn’t all that dirty), I debunked for Camp 2. A simple stroll through Temple Bar and I was agrin, my head reeling at all the choices. Indian, French, and Spanish restaurants abound; we passed Japanese noodle houses, Irish pubs, and something called Rome to Mexico which I quickly forgave because at least it wasn’t Dingle to Limerick. We popped into the Porterhouse for a pint of the house-brewed Oyster Stout and stayed because of the Guinness and Lamb Stew that an Aussie couple was devouring at the next table. By the time a local trio took the stage for a lively traditional session, we were in heaven; old and new Ireland, it seemed, were mixing rather nicely.
The hip and trendy – youth, fashion, and food – are everywhere. Did I mention the foam? Salad is served with everything. The butter in this country is to die for. Irish breakfasts – eggs, link sausage, blood sausage, rashers (bacon), stewed tomatoes, mushrooms and beans – can be amazing if you don’t eat them every day of every week. We had fantastic Indian take-away in our hotel room one night, udon noodles in a back-street dive the next, followed by real Italian served by real Italians. If food in Dublin was this good, we had to find out what was going on in the rest of the country. By Kilkenny we’d fallen in love with the dense, grainy Irish bread. In Cork we dined on Thai food to rival anything we could get in Chicago; I was sure a Thai mother was back in the kitchen, but it turned out to be a local boy who’d obviously done a bit of traveling.
South of Cork City is Ireland’s self-proclaimed gourmet food capital, the tiny sea-side town of Kinsale, where we sampled a heavenly chicken liver paté. In fact, we were so charmed by Kinsale and its reputation that we’ve rented a flat here for the next nine months. But more on that and the town’s Autumn Flavors Food Festival in a bit. We still had the car and planned on eating our way up the west coast.
We picnicked on local cheeses and breads above the high cliffs of the Dingle Peninsula. In Galway, we slurped plump and meaty oysters, and went again and again to Sherridan Cheese Mongers where I’d happily work for free if only to be around such an amazing selection.
After several weeks
We were excited to get back to Kinsale, our little gourmet haven away from home. Quaint cafés follow cute pubs and door after door of upscale restaurants. Once again we were faced with a delightful dilemma: which to try first. Just close your eyes, spin around and follow you nose, right? And so we did. Over the next couple days we tried several. But it wasn’t long before our enthusiasm – and our wallets – began to grow thin. There are many fine restaurants in town, and if you’re here for just day or two, you’ll go away pleased. But stay a little longer and you’ll find yourself saying things like, Is it just me, or are all the menus the same?
Admittedly, if you live in the urban US, you’re spoiled, if only for the cultural influences alone; and if you’re associated with the restaurant industry as we were, you’re probably a food-snob. I’ll come clean. But sheesh, if “new-Irish cuisine” consists of nothing more than redundancies of menus and price-points, I’d rather eat in. Unfortunately, the cooker (stove) is electric and jalapeño peppers are seen about as often as the Pope’s disco shorts. Mexican food is either nachos or chicken fajitas which, strangely enough, are on enough menus to comment on. We’re dying for sushi, or a decent Chinese. And forget about finding kimchee or Moroccan tagine. The meats still tend to be over-cooked, as are most of the “veg”. The Autumn Flavors Food Festival was a truly a delight, with 22 restaurants turning out huge spreads of the best they had to offer, but even there it got a little repetitive by the end.
Last night Cheong was talking to a local chef about how she’d love to open a tapas place here, bring the price-point down and serve good cheap wines. He must not have known tapas because he kept saying Topless, oh yeah, if it’s done tastefully, it’s great. No, tapas, you know, the small Spanish dishes, taken amongst friends, usually late-night. Topless? Sure, and it’s not just for men. I like the pole they use. The poor guy turned three shades of red when he finally got what we were saying and he still didn’t know what it was.
But I shouldn’t poke too much fun as I am now working in his kitchen.
In the kitchen
Mark is a 24, has been working in restaurants since he was 12, and has been nothing but gracious about having me back in his kitchen. It’s his first season owning his own restaurant and although it gets tense at times, he’s always respectful (Can you do this for me, Chris, please; and thank you for that, Chris, that’s grand). Better still, he’s taken the time to show me some of the techniques he’s learned working in the kitchens of Kinsale and Cork over the years. I’ve de-boned, de-scaled and filleted whole fish, trimmed and measured steaks, touched and tasted everything at Mark’s encouragement, burned the hell out of my fingers grabbing a pot of mussel and monk fish chowder off the stove, plated, prepped, garnished and cleaned up. I’ve learned to press my fingers into every steak served to measure its doneness – don’t think this isn’t done in the kitchens you’re eating in, by the way. And lest you think I’ve been standing around, Mark’s sous chef quit, so it’s been just the two of us in there. Luckily, the season is slowing down, so we have time to talk. I ask about everything: rules on cross-contamination, knife skills and knife brands, temperatures for storage and the cost of equipment. I was shocked to learn that all the good Irish lamb you see roaming the hillsides are exported to the continent where they are willing to pay for quality; ditto with the seafood. I learned what ingredients you can skimp on and when milk versus real cream makes all the difference in the world.
It’s been a true joy working with a local. Mark is a gentleman through and through. Yet, his steak au poivre is no different from that of the White House Restaurant where he trained. He might stuff his pork with hake rather than shrimp, or gratin his potatoes with a choice gruyere, but where’s the originality in that? Set yourself apart. Surprise me. Make me want to come back, not just leave satisfied. Cheong and I have both made several of our own menus in the past couple days, and if I can convincer her, I will post them to the site. There's even an old church-cum-bistro for sale that we've been eyeing, but don't hold your breath.
Ireland is indeed showing culinary promise. Give it time and it may even be great. But I will leave here having staked ground in a third camp, which falls somewhere in between the other two. I have hope that as the country changes, it will find its own way in the world and map a culinary landscape that isn’t exactly the same as you can find in Chicago, Paris, Sydney or Seoul. Perhaps Mark will open an Irish tapas place after all.