Chez Max

It has got to be one of the most congenial locations for a restaurant. Chez Max is pitched hard up against the gates of Dublin Castle and the relative absence of traffic lends credence to the proprietor’s evident intent to transport you back to an earlier age. Curiously enough, he’s actually called Max. It’s twenty past seven on a Tuesday night and the place is heaving. A few are even braving the weather at the pavement tables. Maybe to show off their Fench flic raincoats or perhaps Max has the last stash of Gauloises caporale in Europe and the word has spread among nicotine heads.

Indoors, the decor is all dark, well-weathered wood. This and a plethora of knick-knacks help recreate a thirties’ Paris bistro. The clientele were split 50/50 between pearls and twin-set ladies and young couples. The tables are quite close together and we got some cracking earwigging done while we were waiting rather a long time for a waitperson. Sample: “Zis is ze last time I walk ‘ome from your ‘ouse after un date,” said the young French guy with the soulful eyes. His squeeze, a fair Fionnuala, gave a nervous little laugh as if to say “Well I hope you have your own toothbrush and can sleep on the left hand side of the bed.” “Non,” continued Bertrand, “Ze next time I will take un taxi. Eet ees too far,” he sighed.

Eventually we were handed the menu, printed in the style of an old newspaper, fading text and all. It was sub-divided into Breakfast & Pastries (croissant, pain au chocolat, scone); All-day Platters (various meats, salamis and French cheeses; Lunch and Dinner (with a Sunday-Thurs Early Bird we were too late for). The French onion soup was €5.90, desserts all €5.50, with the dearest main, the Côtelette d’agneau grillé with Gratin Dauphinoise at €24.50. Scattered throughout the four pages were ads for the likes of la Mobylette, a form of transport that may come into its own again should fuel prices continue to rise, Savon Palmolive and ‘la nouvelle voiture Panhard’, now consigned to the void with the Dusenberg, the Invicta and other gas guzzling dinosaurs, hopefully soon to be joined by the ubiquitous ‘Ballsbridge tractors’.

All the while French music featured on the sound system. Chiefly Henri Krein and his Montmartre gang, plus maybe some Piaff and George Brassens. I thought I detected the odd track of St.Etienne in there too, presumably a sop to the young staff who must get pissed off with chanteuse and accordians all night.

Max was accommodating enough to let me have the moules, listed as a main with frites, as my starter. He gave me a generous helping. Sibella had a Crottin de Chavignol, a small goat cheese, wrapped in filo pastry together with fresh tomato, nicely executed and presented. For our mains, I took the leg of rabbit, clearly farmed but nothing wrong with that, which came with a prune sauce and good pilaff rice. Sibs had the Boeuf Bourguignon, just the job on the cold, damp night that was in it.

The wine list on the back page was, refreshingly, all French but startlingly unbalanced. Starting at £22.50 with a couple of eminently forgettable AOC Gaillacs, there was little choice amid the lower echelons and not much worth drinking under €35. We took a bottle of the Alsace Riesling 2006 at €28.50 and I have no hesitation in saying it was the worst example of this normally reliable region I’ve ever had; steely, subdued and wholly lacking in personality. A glass of Domaine Juliette Avril’s good Châteauneuf du Pape (€11) with my main helped take the taste away.

The pair on our other side were happily tucking into an Eiffel-sized slab of chocolate gâteau but, as our mains were substantial, we needed lighter fare. I took the crème brulée and Sibella the tarte aux fraises on which she said the pastry was a tad tough but the flavour of the strawberries was wonderful. My crème brûlée suffered by comparison. The brûlées sat there in the chiller cabinet winking at me all night. On my order, the waitress extracted one, took it to the back of the bar and caramelised the sugar topping with a blowtorch. In doing so, she must have curdled the crème. We didn’t take coffee. I always assert that coffee in French restaurants, bistros or otherwise, is always shit and I didn’t want my cherished theory disproving. Not that it would have been.

Of course, Chez Max, despite the undoubted authenticity of its cooking and of its bric-a-brac, is not really a French bistro. To understand why, you’d have to have seen the Billy Wilder film version of the musical ‘Irma la Douce’ for which they actually re-created the massive Les Halles market in the MGM studios. The result was amazing. Chex Max, likewise, is a kind of Hollywood reconstruction of a French bistro, almost too perfect to be true. This is not a criticism by the way. We liked the place a good deal. Loved the fidelity of the food, the simplicity, the keen prices; liked the fact that it’s open all day so it can fulfil a different role to different people. Max himself is charming. The staff are gorgeous. Even the place’s imperfections, wine list apart, contribute in some small way to the restaurant’s appeal.

Chez Max, 1 Palace Street, Dublin 2 Tel: 01 633 7215

The Damage: €93.70, ex-service for 2 x starter, main, dessert bottle + 1 (expensive) glass of wine.

Ambience:*****

Quality: ****

Service ***

Value ****

Overall ****