It was whilst in Dublin that someone described me as their “favourite middle class food blogger”, which was both lovely and a little disconcerting. The favourite blogger bit was never in doubt – I’m incredibly talented and the bar is also low – but I’ve never thought of myself as middle class. In my head I’m still the working class kid from the council estate who went to a slightly rough comprehensive school in Acocks Green. Still the kid whose relationship with food was dreadful until my mates parents Doug and Hillary introduced me to rustic French food in their home. Still the kid who went through a couple of eating disorders before I fell fully in love with food in my mid-twenties when I could afford to go to nice places out of my own pocket. There is little about me that’s middle class, though I guess my postcode, work, and lifestyle would suggest otherwise. I’ve eaten in enough great restaurants to no longer feel a fraud in those settings. I know good food as well as anyone. I have the reference points to call upon when required. I’m qualified to do this. Christ, I’m paid for my palate. It’s a very good one.
And it’s with these reference points of two and three starred restaurants, that I can be absolutely sure that Chapter One will make the transition from two to three Michelin stars very soon. It has to. It’s simply the best meal I’ve eaten in years, straight into my top three of all time. Knew it would be from the off; the wafer sandwich of pea, mint and sheep’s cheese striped varying shades of green like a freshly mown lawn, with a broth of vegetables that has the back-note of blistered and barbecued outer shells. We get the tutu of caramelised onion and anchovy that echoes pissaladiere, and the tartlet of oyster pearls and emulsion that smacks of the ocean. Best, and arguably one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth is the beignet of black truffle and parmesan. The concentration of flavour is extreme. We haven’t even reached the proper menu yet.
It’s obvious that the ethos here is to buy the best possible ingredients, regardless of price or air miles. The black truffle which shelter the Gouda soufflé are from Manjimup, Western Australia, adding a high perfumed note that bounces off the soufflé and foam heightened with French yellow wine. That dish, by the way, is a masterpiece. Then foie gras from a top producer in France, varnished in a fig gel so deep in purple it can play the opening bars to ‘Smoke on The Water’. We smear this onto laminated bread flavoured with Guinness, add a little of the spiced fig compote and devour in mouthfuls of festive goodness.
And then the lobster. That lobster. I will never forget that lobster. Barbecued, poached, and then barbecued again, glazed in cacao pod and kari gosse. The meat is tender, full of subtle accents. To the left of it are various citrus elements; redcurrants, yuzu, bergamot, a kind of marmalade that’s bitter and top-noted, unexpected but brilliant with the lobster. Absolutely superb. One of the most memorable dishes I can recall just about anywhere.
We split for mains. I take the rabbit saddle with kohlrabi and apples compressed with tarragon, a dish that sings because of the gentle nuances such as the pickled mustard seed in the sauce, the little tartlet of liver, and the yellow wine in the pomme purée on the side. Sophie has cod, perfect cod, with caviar, razor clams, various brassicas, and a sauce that showcases the curried flavours of the vadouvan spice. The balance of spice and saline is spot on, each complimenting the mother of pearl sheen of the cod. What a dish. What a restaurant.
Three desserts. Proper desserts full of technique, not blobs of soft stuff or vegetables. Creme caramel barely set so that it teeters like a drunk in heels, kissed with dewy jasmine and served-up with an apricot and sauternes sorbet. A complex delice of dark chocolate, buckwheat tea, and olive oil, with miso and soy caramel and baguette ice cream. I’ll say that again; baguette ice cream. There’s a lot going in but it all sits in harmony. Incredible. Equally as good is a savarin – the baba’s lazy sibling – with raspberries and peaches in various forms in multiple bowls. I’m conscious of reaching for the hyperbole again and again and again, but everything is so considered and layered and impeccable.
There’s a cheese service that could win an Oscar, followed by Irish coffees made table side with typically generous Irish pours of whiskey, and petit fours that we half finish and I half lose in a hotel bar afterwards. I don’t see the bill – the entire Dublin trip is one very expensive birthday present from Sophie – but she didn’t wince that hard whilst reading it back. We’ve made plans to go back soon, which, given there is a sea between us, stands to tell you all you need to know. It is magnificent, one of the greatest meals I’ve had in any restaurant, anywhere. Put money on them to go three stars next year, when hopefully I’ll be sat in the restaurant sipping on a cold martini their first service back.
10/10
