You can’t swing a cat these days without hitting some kind of wine bar, from the city to the suburbs it seems. Coffee shops have learned from shoppy shops and now many of those are wine bars too. I don’t know whether this state of affairs will shake out better for cats or bars or where the wine bar mania will take us next, but my money’s on either bookies or post-offices. You could celebrate paying the tv licence with a flinty draught of Sicilian Fiano or steady your nerves ahead of the 2.40 at Epsom with a jolt or two of Manzanilla. Only the me-nanny state stands in our way. Grushy out the Apple money to the peoples etc.
Perhaps by sheer weight of wine bar numbers the subject of wine is being democratised or demystified. I’m quite sure that I read a lengthy piece about this by a young female vinfluencer (pass the spittoon) recently but I can’t remember where I read it or recall the woman’s name, perhaps as a result of wine itself. What I do remember though is her casual use of the term throwing the cat around, which is absolutely my favourite slang term right now.
This in turn reminded me of the time another female wine person (miss you Wine Rover) explained the meaning of the term mouse to me as it pertains to (so-called) natural wines. For those unfamiliar with either of those terms it is (to me) a lot more favourable to have a cat thrown in your direction than it is to find mouse in your glass.
For this Double Take™ then I’ve chosen a couple of places feted for their food offerings, because that’s what I’m here to talk about. I decided to bring an uncharacteristic formalism to my wine ordering in a bid to impose some kind of structure on this piece. Also as a token recognition that I am, to a certain way of thinking, reviewing a couple of wine bars. I would have something by way of an aperitif and then put myself in the hands of my servers by asking for them to recommend a red and a white by the glass that could work up and down the menu.
A Fianco opened about two years ago, a kid-sibling to the phenomenally successful Grano next door. You could think of this vibrant little vineria as a consolation prize or overflow for that restaurant but you’d be wrong and missing the point. Our evening though is punctuated with intermittent visitations from Grano-chancers gamely looking for an upgrade to the mother ship or just wondering whether they could have the Grano menu here? Some affect charm, others profound disappointment. None succeed. You’ve got to admire the neck nevertheless. A Fianco requires card details upon booking and (rightly) charges €20 per head for no-shows. I suspect that at least one couple (who declined to read the menu) with a booking here went next door to plead ignorance.
It’s a compact and yet perfectly proportioned space to enjoy food that doesn’t require a lot of room to prepare. You’ll want your elbows on the handsome L-shaped marble bar so specify that if you make a booking. I order a glass of pleasingly astringent Calabrian vermouth to go with the menu, the testa rossa at my side lengthens hers with some tonic. The menu should come with a Monaco attached – that’s what my phone note read, an ironic predictive typo that will not be lost on the middle-aged or myopic. Braille would be almost as comprehensible. Bring your own monocle. A word of warning – the dishes fly out at a ferocious clip, at a rate I don’t normally associate with Italian restaurants. Maybe the chef had a Sunday night date. I guess it’s an in-and-out kind of place. Nevertheless with a succession of small plates as delightful as these the hasty delivery is barely burdensome.
If you’ve ever been to Rome you may have enjoyed a Maritozzo with your morning coffee. If so the light, yeasted bun was probably split and filled with sweetened cream and orange zest. The savoury version here with gently lactic stracciatella cheese and Cantabrian anchovies is revelatory. Just warm from the oven it’s a beautiful thing to enjoy with a glass of red wine, in this case a fresh, fruity (and unfiltered) Malgiacca Dali Tro from Tuscany.
Salsiccia e Cime di Rapa brings a fat coarsely-textured Calabrian sausage sitting on a tangle of ferrous, wilted turnip-tops. It’s as salty and bitter as some of my favourite people. The meatballs here have developed a following all of their own among the Stoneybatter elites and (this time) they’re not wrong. These Polpette are tumid and moist with a beautiful yielding texture. The tomato sauce is bright and fruity with the hot breath of nduja. Probably best to order one each. Bombette di Martina Franca brings grilled parcels of pork-neck pancetta stuffed with caciocavallo cheese.
These are a signature street-food from the Apulian region and served over cubes of fried rosemary potatoes and they are one of the most delicious things I’ve eaten for some time. I dispatched them with a pour of dry, elegant Calabrian white made from the local Zibibbo grape and sighed deeply.
The tiramisu ate quite well, to me at least, but it lacked the requisite slap and tickle of booze and coffee according to the woman who ordered it. She knows about this stuff. It’s a one man show out front and our genial host/barman/server pulls off that trick of being good company without being in our company. I could subtract a point for the absence of grappa in the casa but really this place is a pure, unalloyed joy. It’s a sincere celebration of regional foods and wines that leaves you with a lasting afterglow. Bravo.
Frank’s is something of an elder statesman of the wine bar racket and has been plying its trade behind the butcher’s shop facade for about five years now. Like A Fianco it’s a sibling to a swankier place, in this case Delahunt, the restaurant where the prince wined and dined the woman who upset Jeremy Clarkson so. There is no website and no menu on their Instagram channel but it did helpfully point out that (the kitchen) ‘take(s) it handy on Sundays and Tuesdays’. Fair enough. I pushed my visit to Wednesday. Their trademark communal table is heaving (and cacophonous) with kids hopped up on the barnyard bang of brett yeasts. Everyone’s having a swell time.
When presented with the menu however there’s something of a needle-scratch. It’s very much a ‘taking it handy’ list. When I inquire whether this is indeed the full, regular menu I’m assured that it is. More than a little baffled I go about my business of eating, drinking and writing it up. Only when our photographer makes a subsequent approach to shoot the food does the owner disclose that the kitchen staff (a couple I’m told) are on holiday and that he doesn’t want our dishes photographed because he prepared them himself. As a result I’ve had to eat my words and deliver a low-to-no-intervention review.
Here’s the thing – I’m not going to begrudge anyone a vacation, especially when they work in such a demanding and draining industry. My gripe is with ownership not acknowledging that they’re white-knuckling the food while the cooks are away. Either get someone in to cover (a tall order) or put your hand up and tell your clientele that it’s cheese and charcuterie for a couple of weeks. Just a heads-up, that’s all. Does that count as a take? I get to expense my visit, most others will not. I suppose I’ll circle back to Frank’s at some point. In the meantime, take it handy.
Words: Conor Stevens
Images: Killian Broderick
Unit 6, Norseman Court,
Stoneybatter, Dublin 7
22 Camden Street,
Dublin 8
