I spend a not inconsiderable amount of time walking the ‘storied’ streets of The Liberties, in weather fair and foul, in the (admittedly late) morning light and the black of night. I’m not leading one of those rare ‘aul times walking tours or heading up a community-based vigilante collective, although at least one of those things seems like something I could get behind. No, I just happen to live here and am daily led by the nose of our increasingly creaky and dogged dog to zigzag the neighbourhood, following patterns that defy human comprehension. These peregrinations sometimes result in one of us carrying the other home. Always the same one. Nevertheless the often funereal pace does encourage an appreciation of one’s surroundings.
While others are blithely pushing on with their blinkered ‘lives’ Ellie is affording me the time to discern the details. Framing things differently really can help with the anger. One such detail that revealed itself to me recently was the spectral outline of the words The Old Dublin on a sign-board above a shop front on Francis Street. I’m not sure it even qualifies as a ‘ghost sign’. It’s been covered in blackboard paint for many years but at a certain angle in a certain light you can just make out the name of a restaurant that once attracted the gastronaughts and apparatchiks of the day. Just imagine it – Gavin Friday every Saturday, table for six. Pádraig Flynn with borscht down his front again. It was an odd proposition in an odd location, with a menu that drew heavily on Scandinavian and Russian cuisines. Orna Mulcahy’s Irish Times review in 2000 drew attention to the great value lunch menu at £13.50 for three courses. You read that right. This in a restaurant with napery in two quite formal dining rooms. Different times.
And yet just around the corner on an even more insalubrious stretch (of The Coombe) is a restaurant with a similarly singular bent that appears to be thriving. Spitalfields opened about five years ago from the folks who bought us The Pig’s Ear (latterly Lotus Eaters) in a space that’s been home to a number of public houses, although not all at once. I recall that there was once a crater on the pavement outside where a grenade had apparently exploded. Again, different times. I’m pretty sure that the last time I set foot on the premises it was called Grumpy Jack’s and I was in search of smokes. Almost GBH for a pack of B&H. DM me if you get the reference.
For my TikTok fanbase – this is back when corner shops would close at dusk to conserve candle-wax. The notion of retail being convenience-adjacent was still some way off. Hyper-specialism and esoteric opening hours were the order of the day, depending on the day and angle of the sun. The caul-fat stall on Meath Street traded only on oddly numbered Tuesdays at low tide. The coal merchant on Francis Street would sell but sacks of slack when the parish priest was believed to be between vestments in the nearby sacristy. God be with the days. You are less likely to be blown up in The Liberties these days but you’re probably not going to be blown away by Spitalfields either and this is not a bad thing. Sometimes you just want to be fed well by people who know how to do just that.
That was the remit for a recent get-together with a former editor and current wife (two distinct individuals) and the place (over two levels) was humming with the sounds of contented people having an agreeable time. The tavern-baronial style might not appeal to everyone but then what does? It’s an old boozer done up real nice. There’s a lot of wood and polish. It is not I think a gastro-pub in the sense that a Londoner might understand that term – essentially a tap-house with a deceptively fancy restaurant in a different room. This is a restaurant that used to be a public house. Many will feel reassured when greeted by Declan Maxwell upon arrival. He is something of a monumental figure in Dublin front-of-house circles, with 19 years under his belt in Chapter One alone.
He has presided over other notable dining rooms too. Ask him to tell you the Luna-bathroom-champagne story some time. Or maybe don’t. Whatever, whenever he’s running the room the welcome will be genuine and the service imperceptibly smooth. He’ll oversee one of the better dirty martinis in town too, although it could have been a couple of degrees colder. At least I didn’t have to run home for the olive brine. The menu ploughs its own furrow with a couple of Teutonic references that I very much like. What you’re coming for here is the kind of uncomplicatedly satisfying food you want in a good hotel but rarely get because the kitchen is more interested in lip sticking gold-leaf onto a timbale of pig’s face.
Bone marrow with chimichurri is perfectly executed and Bitterballen are the deeply savoury Dutch croquettes that you never knew you needed. Get an order for the table. Gnocco Fritto with confit duck sounds interesting but I insist upon the signature Parker House Roll that comes with oxtail and beef-cheek baked in. The act of splitting this buttery purse has stayed with me. You expose the super-rich, mahogany-dark filling and then douse the steam with a slow slick of bone-marrow gravy. It really is quite the thing. The much lauded Pork Schnitzel deserves the plaudits perhaps because this is no ordinary battened and breaded schweinfleisch, this one is made with Iberico pork. Makes a kind of sense. Germans like to vacation in Spain, this dish decided to go native. It’s broad enough to saddle a Shetland pony though and the accompanying ‘Sauerkraut’ is not quite sharp enough to sustain interest in what becomes an arduous amount of meat. Maybe split it.
It’s not just a meat-market here though, the kitchen is capable of skilled fish-cookery too. This was exemplified by a dish of monkfish tail with charred corn in a pool of light but lip-smacking sauce, bosky with girolles and bolstered with a rich bump of chicken butter. It’s a very nicely composed dish. At the time of writing the preparation involves peas, broad-beans and clams. I’m sure that’s good too. Consider the house (hot) smoked trout if it’s on also. I’m not generally one for ‘fun’ desserts (or desserts in general) but the signature ‘Super Split’ brought a smile to my old face. I was transported to my short-trousered youth, thighs stuck to the vinyl back seat of my father’s Morris Marina and frantically trying to strip away the orange ice before the August heat did. The grown-up version here is almost as good. A huge scooped out orange-half is filled with milky vanilla ice-cream and topped with gelid shavings of blood-orange granita. You can’t go home again but this is a worthy drive-by.
In the restaurant survival stakes the place actually has a lot going in its favour, starting with its location. The Coombe is no restaurant row but the opening of The Hyatt-Centric hotel a couple of years back has delivered a cohort of plausible punters to their doorstep. Maxwell also tells me that a New York Times travel piece a year ago has resulted in a meaningful number of bookings. They should thank their lucky stars (and stripes) that it happened before the orange king has had a tilt at shutting down the free press over there.
There’s an assuredness to the cooking here that’s increasingly rare. The kitchen is not modish but never staid, this is not a restaurant that’s trying to change your life. It will however almost certainly improve your day. In the spirit of the season then, let’s be generous this year with the comfort and joy. I think we could all use it. Maybe consider slipping a restaurant voucher into someone’s stocking while you’re at it. Happy Christmas folks.
Words: Conor Stevens
Images: Killian Broderick
25, The Coombe
Dublin 8
*Congratulations to Irish Times restaurant critic Corinna Hardgrave on her recent win at the Irish Food Writing Awards. Bravo to her.
Food Editor’s Note: Bravo indeed… We were delighted to see the brilliant Conor Stevens nominated in such fine company for his work for Totally Dublin in the prestigious Restaurant Critic category of this year’s Irish Food Writing Awards. Well done to Conor and all involved. Roll on 2025! – MM
