Gunternation

On the wall at Havana on South Great George’s Street, a TV screen displays waves crashing and caressing a sunny beach, beckoning you to come away to a chilled-out place where time is measured by the tides. The people gathered here on Saturday afternoon were ready for a relaxing adventure, to seek out the sun, if only in the spicy flavors along the Tapas Trail. The group of five men and thirteen women sat along the bar and at small tables as dark-haired waitresses served platters of tapas: a pinxto with spanish tortilla, a slice of jamon, and an olive anchored to a piece of tomato bread with a wooden pick; a spicy chicken spring roll; prawns nestled together in a citrus garlic sauce. The platters passed by twice. And to drink, a glass of ruby wine, a Rioja.

At one point a man in a tight t-shirt got up from his laptop in the corner and took the hand of the woman behind the bar. They began to twirl around the small open space, silkily running their hands along each other’s shoulders and hips. There was a slight pull to join them, but only one glass of wine had been consumed and the guests were still shy.

This gathering at Havana was the first stop on a tapas trail sponsored by Campo Viejo on Saturdays and Wednesdays during June. At the same time across City Centre, tapas trekkers were gathering in the four other stops on the trail: Port House, Bar Pintxo, and the Andrews Street and Parliament Street locations of Salamanca. The five regiments would crisscross city centre, led by a guide in a Campo Viejo golf shirt and red apron, armed with a radio–“Bar Pintxos, come in. Are you ready for us, Bar Pintxos?”–and some Dublin trivia along the way. Before departing Havana each person received a ticket to be stamped at each location which would serve three tapas and a glass a Campo Viejo Rioja. The price for each participant, a mere €20.00.

The Havana contingent moved next to The Port House and were directed upstairs to a room lined with wine bottles and candles, cozy and cellar-like despite its first floor location. The furniture looked messily pushed to the side, as if the previous group had been desperate to dance, but these visitors stood along the walls as the manager told the history of the restaurant and described that tapas that would be served–a paella, Pinchos Morunos (chicken marinated in smoked paprika and oregano on a skewer) and patatas (potatoes) mojo . Traditionally cooked in sea water, the potatoes are boiled until the water evaporates leaving a sparkly salt coating and are served with a deep red sauce made with ground chiles, garlic and almonds. The serving of paella was generous and the smoked paprika flavor was delicious on the grilled chicken skewer. Finishing these treats, the trekkers started to realize that the €20 investment was better than a value, it was a steal.

Heading from The Port House to Salmanca, the group traipsed through the streets feeling that combination of self-consciousness and sense of purpose in being, or at least acting, like a tourist. Stopped outside the Dublin Tourist Centre in the former Church or St. Andrew, the guide talked about the Irish 5th Brigade that fought in the Spanish Civil War . She passed out lyric sheets to Christy Moore’s Viva La Quinta Brigada and led the tapas choir in song, although it was not apparent that anyone knew the melody. A survey with a very small sampling indicated that no one had even heard of the song. That did not stop the guide from starting again at the beginning (On the radio “Five more minutes, okay!) and setting a poor example for some passing tourists of Dublin’s busking talent. Later one participant pulled up a video of Christy Moore’s version on his phone. “It sounds more Irish when he does it,” he said.

At Salamanca, the crew stood around a few tall tables and were served adorable mini pork burgers with a teriyaki mayonnaise, Russian salad with smoked salmon, and another take on paella adorned with Dublin bay prawns. After a pause to appreciate a young woman dancing Flamenco, it was on to Bar Pinxto, a sister restaurant to The Port House, for a grilled pork sandwich, chicken marinated in garlic and a stew of chickpeas and black pudding. Finally, a short walk through the bustling streets with just a sprinkle of rain brought the group to the second Salamanca location. The tapas were served here buffet style–a fried prawn, beef skewer and a seafood stew with Calamari served in a scallop shell. At this last stop, the diners relaxed in a nook of tables while a gentleman played Spanish guitar.

Along the way it was revealed that three Spanish citizens were among the group, although the guide was unsuccessful in persuading either woman to sing or dance. Later it was further revealed that the small Spanish woman with long blond hair is a Spanish cook, as her friend started handing out cards and testifying to her friends cooking talents. “This is good,” the blond woman was heard to say a few times, “But when I do, better.”

Possibly true, but for this crowd, Dublin’s tapas offerings made for a perfect Saturday afternoon.

Crackbird

Word of Crackbird is getting around and I’m hearing accounts of visits to the ephemeral chicken shack on Crane Lane. The lure of limited time only is certainly working for me. Several dining decisions have been finalized by saying, “Well, if we want to go to Crackbird, we need to go now. Won’t be here forever.” That’s why I loaded a crew of co-workers into a mini-van taxi for a field trip to Crackbird for lunch on Thursday.

Consensus is that Crackbird turns out tasty chicken. I’ve settled on the wings, which come only in the Soy Garlic version, as my favorite. It’s a dozen whole wings and is plenty to share. The sumptuous Soy Garlic doesn’t really need a sauce, which is a shame as I’m a fan of dipping and the attractive array of sauces are tasty (try mixing the feta and jalapeno).  A few items have been hit and miss–coffee cake was delicious with creme fraiche (evoked Southern US to me), but the ginger cake was dry; twice the slaw was really bright and refreshing, but this last time weird (flavor proportions were off). But after three visits I’d still happily return. Because it won’t be here forever.

I love the casual fun of Crackbird. The free food tweet seats we enjoyed our first visit. Picnic tables and and jars of rhubarb lemonade and handmade napkins. The simple presence of cloth napkins shows that Crackbird may be a pop up but it is not slapdash. It’s thought out and constructed to provide a certain experience–an experience I’ll happily consume. On a recent Sunday afternoon as Bill and I awaited our bucket of bird, he lifted his Pilsner Urquell (they were out of Double LL cider that day) and said, “You know, if this were a Shiner, I’d be in Austin.” He was spot on. Crackbird is quirky, but it’s the kind of quirkiness that lives in service, ultimately, to the food (along with admittedly some self-knowing hipness)–a vibe that we know as Austiny.

I’ve wondered if Crackbird would hang on longer–a final final tour if you will. Your man did say that they would be closing, but when we asked where he’d be going next he said it’s more what will he be doing next. And that, he said, he couldn’t tell us. I’d love to see Crackbird pop up every summer. Maybe if the food trailer concept ever makes it to Ireland. That would be brill.

But for now, less than 30 days remaining. Vote now, vote often. Eat Crackbird!

West goes East

A few weeks ago Bill spotted the following notice in the Irish Times Food file:

Galway comes to Dublin : The pop-up phenomenon continues, with the arrival a one-night-only restaurant in Dublin’s Hibernian Club on St Stephen’s Green.

It will be run by chef Martin O’Donnell of the Twelve Hotel in Barna, Co Galway, who won last November’s Bord Bia Just Ask commendation. For the night of Tuesday, April 12th, a 20-seat pop-up will showcase the local ingredients that O’Donnell uses in his cooking, such as McGeough’s air-dried lamb, Galway Bay scallops – diver-caught by the hotel’s general manager, Fergus O’Halloran – served with Barna sea vegetables and wild rabbit. The dinner is priced at €95 including wine pairings, and places can be booked by calling 091-597000.

Within minutes I had called the mysterious number and talked to several people with no clue about any pop up restaurant. But I shortly received a call back and we were booked in. Then the questions began–What does one wear to the Hibernian Club? Are they really selling only twenty tickets? Who is this McGeough fella out there air drying lambs?

We settled our wardrobe questions fairly easily and made plans to meet at the Hibernian Club. Taxi, please. Yes, to the Hibernian Club, located on St. Stephen’s Green since 1840. I had received a call inviting us to a reception before dinner, so we arrived shortly after 7:00. We were directed upstairs to the Reading Room which overlooks the green and already contained at least twenty people. We theorized then that the twenty tickets represented twenty in addition to club members.

The Prosecco was flowing freely and we had three glasses along with a shrimp canapé before moving downstairs to the dining room. Bill and I were seated at a table for two by the front windows. The dining room was full with approximately 60 people, and we were on the low end of the age range. A feat when you’re in your 40s. What ensued was a terrific dinner of West Ireland ingredients, but I’ll tell you right now, this was no pop up. I appreciate the notion that you could pop up within a 150-year old establishment, but you would have to pop up pretty hard: Sneak in in the middle of the night, have a fish fry in the snooker room or a menu made entirely of bourbon and cigars. The clincher was when I was told, very kindly and politely, that texting was frowned upon in the dining room. No self respecting pop up would ban tweeting!

That being said, I think it was a smart idea to bring the West restaurant to Dublin, and also smart for The Hibernian to open up the dinner to non-members. The serving staff, a combination of West restaurant and Hibernian employees, were outstanding. Our dinner was delightful. The glasses of delicious wines were generous. One regret is there was no discussion of the wine pairings. I think the chef intended to make a appearance earlier in the evening to describe the dinner and wines, but we didn’t see O’Donnell and his two assisting chefs until well after dessert when we were about to leave.

The Menu

Rabbit Croquette with Leek Fondue and Atsina Cress
served with Pinot Blanc, Cuvée les Amours, Hugel et Fils 2007

Galway Bay Scallops with Sea Vegetables and Peas with a Dillisk Butter
served with Pouilly Fumé, Domaine Tinel-Blondelet 2007

Beechlawn Organic Parnsnip and Smoked Bacon Soup with air dried Pork Crisp
also served with the Pouilly Fume

A Study in Connemara Lamb–Rack, Shoulder and Kidney Pie
served with Conde de Valdemar Rioja Reserva 2004

Galway Market Rhubarb crumble and clotted cream
served with Oremus, Late Harvest, Tokaji 2006

Coffee and Truffles

The standouts for me were the rabbit croquette and the lamb pie. (I am at my core a casserole girl!) The croquette contained some rabbit liver and was luscious but not heavy. And it was fried. Yum. I could have eaten much more of the leeks, and the Atsina was a nice licorice-like bite. The little lamb pie was so cute with a rich-tasting crust and intense lamb flavor. And it was garnished with a slice of air-dried lamb. McGeough, you’re a genius! The air-dried lamb was procuitto-like, as I expected, but also very spicy. Must buy McGeough air dried lamb.

The scallops were perfect as well. Bill and I reflected that scallops are a unique combination of sweet and meaty. An interesting outcome of advertising that the West restaurant serves diver-caught scallops is that the manager and scallop diver, Fergus O’Halloran, learned that it is illegal to harvest scallops using scuba gear. They can only be harvested by free diving. Or by dredging apparently.

After our experience with the West restaurant road show, I’d definitely seek them out when in County Galway. A lovely meal, especially for a Tuesday.

I took a half day off work Thursday. This is what happened.

It’s 3:30 and I’m sitting in Stephen’s Green. I left work at 12:30 and had a long lunch with friends. A two-hour lunch to celebrate a birthday. A lunch that included wine and dessert. Afterwards my friends returned to work and I walked down some leafy streets I had never walked down, near my office. I took pictures of churches and bought a Diet Coke at a narrow SPAR. I got a cold one from the back of the case.

I walked up Camden Street and checked in Listons for some smoked duck Bill had told me about. They didn’t have the duck, so I didn’t buy anything even though Listons is full of lovely food. I like to buy lunch there. They frequently play music I would consider “Austiny.” (Austiny=Lucinda Williams.) At the Fresh market I cut across to Harcourt Street on my way to the green. I noticed a beleaguered woman in a sundress and impractical sandals pulling a suitcase. She noticed me and asked if she were going the right direction for the Harcourt Hotel. “Someone told me it was this way,” she said in her English accent. I didn’t know the Harcourt Hotel, “but you are on Harcourt Street,” I said. “That’s a good sign.” I made sure to say Harcourt Street because residents of the UK and Ireland get annoyed when Americans leave off Street and Road and Lane. I’ve walked along Harcourt several times and don’t remember the Harcourt Hotel, but there are plenty of buildings, at least 65% of which could conceivably house hotel lodgings.

The green is full of people walking and sitting and lounging upon the grass. I find a bench looking out on the central section with fountains and formal flower beds and pull out a Paris Review I had bought in Texas but have yet to read. This issue has a section of photographs of beaches. Beaches in Italy and Croatia and the U.S. I think of the beach Bill and I visited last month in Spain. We had been driving North from Portedeume to Cedeira. As we passed through Valdoviño, Bill said, “Quick, check the book, there’s something here.” I flipped through the Lonely Planet and exclaimed “Praia Da Frouxeira! A beach!” We whipped our heads to the left and spied a patch of brilliant blue rimmed with white foam and sand. “Holy Crap!” we cried and Bill turned the car around.

The sand was soft and not hot like the Gulf white sand. Gulf white sand is almost molten. We walked along the edge of the water which was yelping cold. A few people were in the water, mostly children. Water temperature is of little concern to a frolicking child. There were also a couple guys para-surfing–they were wearing wet suits. We walked toward the rocky part of the beach and climbed up on a dune. We plopped down and sat for a while, looking at the auqamarine water and listening to the waves.

I love the sound of the waves and looking out at the expanse of water. One photo in the Paris Review is a centerfold panorama of Coney Island. The beach and water are packed with people and beach umbrellas. It looks like candy sprinkles on a giant cupcake. I don’t like busy beaches. I like quiet ones where you can hear the waves. Like in Valdoviño and Anna Maria Island, Florida.

I like sitting in the green as well. This afternoon is full of sunny spells. I’m wearing a celery-colored cardigan with three-quarter length sleeve, trimmed with a small ruffle. I’m also wearing a light scarf. I chuckle to myself about wearing a scarf on July 15–the height of summer. Between the sunny spells a chilly wind blows at my back and brings a few drops of rain. Sometimes the rain doesn’t wait for the sun to quit shining. The wind blows cold against my lower back because I’m wearing the ass crack jeans I accidentally bought in Texas. Well, I was intentional at the point of purchase, but I didn’t realize they would stretch easily and fall below my hips. Sometimes you can be in full possession of your faculties at the time of the transaction, but not be truly aware of what you are transacting.

I consider staying in the green all afternoon reading the Paris Review, but I had intended to do a bit of shopping, so after a while I’ll walk through the green toward the shops. Later Bill will meet me for dinner and as I’m telling him about my day he’ll look up the Harcourt Hotel on his phone. It is just a little ways up Harcourt Street, and I’ll be confident the woman in the sundress had found her accommodation.

Here’s an informative video on the DART Underground project and how it fits into the Transport 21 initiative. It doesn’t say anything about the mess the project will make of St. Stephen’s Green for several years, however.