Brownes, Sandymount Green

Are you as pissed off as I am with the posturings of celebrity chefs? RTE’s recent hype-up of the man from Mint was the final nail in the coffin containing my love affair with TV cookery programmes. Okay, so Zimmerman McRaw or whatever he’s called, is a righteous chef, Michelin star and all that but does a day at the office really require all those bloody histrionics? Half playground bully, half nagging wife, your man snarled, whined, huffed and puffed his way through the best part of an hour on screen, juxtaposing cuss words and WWII RAF slang, as in “Come on you ferkin’ wanker, chop-chop!” Cheffing is a stressful occupation, this we know. So is working in a hospital; so is flying a plane. I hope no nurses or airline pilots watching the programme cottoned on to this as ‘way-to-go’.

I can condone the odd blow-up. In any other walk of life your accountant comes up to you just before the end of the financial year and says “Christ, what happened on March 28th? It was a disaster.” As a chef proprietor you know March 28th was a disaster on March 28th. In truth it’s the only job where a cock-up hits you in the ego and the pocket at one and the same second. But isn’t it about time the restaurant industry put its house in order and accorded kitchen workers and waiting staff the same rights the rest of us enjoy at our place of work? Rights like freedom from systematic verbal abuse and occasional physical assault.

You might wonder why I am going off on a rant as a preface to a restaurant review. One, it’s a guilt trip. When I was cooking for a living, I was as bad as the rest. Growing up in my aunt’s hotel kitchen I was a largely mute witness to savage physical assault and nervous breakdown inducing verbal battery. Years later, when I got my own place, I slipped effortlessly into the idiom and dished out scathing tongue lashings to those unable to meet the standards I had set myself. What a tosser I was.

The second reason why all this slipped out is because I’ve just just finished dining in a place where I used to cook. It brought back memories of me cast as Mr.Grumpy, throwing a hissy fit because the plater-upper had put together a salad that was a cross between a haystack and a regurgitated dog’s dinner.

Brownes of Sandymount Green was a very different place then. I was there, after I’d sold Dublin’s Best Kept Secret, helping out an old mate as a short order cook, fettling all-day breakfasts mostly. Apart from the kitchen porter the staff were all female; each one carried in her handbag a Diploma in Mutual Dislike that made for an interesting working day. They had nicknames for all the punters, the best one being ‘Planet’ for a large rotund lady.

The cafe’s owner, was so laid back he was almost horizontal. I think he lived for the day when he could flog the place, become a couch potato and watch football on telly. The electrics were decidedly dodgy; you couldn’t have everything on at once. If somebody loaded the microwave the grill would blow a fuse; so would the cook.

Eventually flog it my pal did. Brownes fell fortuitously into the hands of one of its regulars, the energetic and fervently food-loving Peter Bark. Peter set about revitalising the daytime menu, extending the hours and opening on Sundays and public holidays. Then, he pulled his master stroke, putting in some real kitchen equipment and opening evenings, as a French bistro.

The bill of fare is familiar as the French tricolour, comfortable as my old Breton gansey. No innovation, no arty-farty takes on classic dishes. Your duck does not arrive at table sliced, fanned out and flanked by dabs of simulated Marmite. Instead, it’s a generous confit leg, served on a bed of red cabbage, slow braised with wine and apples. Starters included a rather fine terrine du maison and mussels, offered mariniere or Provencal (with a tomato, white wine and shallot sauce).

The carte itself is splattered with enthusiastic notes penned by the patron. My steak was an 10oz aged sirloin, served with bearnaise sauce and quality frites. It got my vote by a short head from the cod, itself elegantly teamed with a pure red wine jus. Desserts were of the schoolboy’s treat persuasion and none the worse for it.

The wine list is short but put together with the same enthusiasm as the menu. Coffee can be a bit uneven unless Peter can be persuaded to tweak the knobs himself. The Decor is monumentally boring and the seats bum-achingly uncomfortable. All-in-all, like every bistro down the whole length of Route Nationale Six; Browne’s must be authentic, so.

All the while two chefs were criss-crossing the improvised open plan kitchen without any dummy spitting or fecky little dramas. According to the menu, the main man is called Cyrille. To whom I can only say “bien fait”, nearest my rusty French can get to “nice one”.

The Damage: 118 for 2, 3 courses each, coffees, modest bottle of wine, inc service.

Ambience: **

Service: ***

Quality: *****

Value for Money: ****

Overall ****

Brownes, Sandymount Green, Dublin 4, Tel: 01 269 7316