Dax

Dax is named for a town in Southern France, a hotbed of le rugby and the alma mater of Olivier Meisonnave who owns and runs the Pembroke Street basement restaurant of the same name. Olivier looks like and, indeed, has the bearing of a rugby player. Not your actual Anglo-Saxon-Celtic sweat’n'grunt type, you understand, all boils and post-pubescent acne and a cast iron promise of a beer gut on retirement. He looks more like one of those elegant old style Gallic heroes, capable of gliding through defences without getting so much as a finger mark to sully their blue jerseys. If Patrick Lagisquet was ‘The Bayonne Express’ Olivier could have been ‘The Dax Destroyer’.

Picking our way past a gaggle of swooning ladies, we entered the restaurant and sat down at the bar to have a pre-prandial. From the detailed list I chose a half bottle of a Sancerre called ‘La Poussie’. This was by way of reprisal as Bangles, in nudge-nudge mode, had earlier presented me with a gift of a magnificent comb of honey bearing the title ‘Titiz’. At that point Olivier spotted me, came over and countermanded my order, saying, “I’d like you to tell me what you think of this”. His substitution was a Bergerac Sec Blanc, Chateau Les Eyssards, a blend of Sauvignon Blanc and Semillon from what is a respectable area but strictly not Nobsville. I’d had it before. It’s on the list of quite a few smart restaurants including, from memory, The Nuremore at Carrickmacross. Rounded, balanced, versatile food wine, it represented reasonable value at €7 a glass, €26 a bottle and we opted to stay on it, with the proviso that we might also need a drop of red, depending upon what we eventually ordered. The wine list as a whole is mainly French, comprehensive and chosen with care, with a brief nod in the direction of the rest of Europe. New World offerings are conspicuous by their absence.

I took the ballottine of Brittany rabbit stuffed with mushroom, which came accompanied by an appropriately tart rhubarb compote with ; she, the tian of fresh crab, apple, avocado and beef tomato. A delightful cream of corn soup was served as an amuse bouche, supported by really good bread. Flavour, texture and presentation of both starters were beyond reproach and, as we sipped our wines, we awaited our mains with more than the usual degree of anticipation. The red we had chosen was a Chinon, from the ever-reliable house of Marc Brédif, light enough to compliment the subtle flavours of the rabbit without dominating.

Bangles took the cutlets of spring lamb, served with a ‘Provençal garnish’ and a garlic and thyme jus. “He didn’t ask me how I liked it cooked”, she said, as she speared her first of a trio of medium rare chops. “Cop on girl,” I said, “We’re in France here. They sort of think they know these things.” “Well they got this right,” said Bangles, attacking her second.

My generous tranche of halibut was a feast fit for King Louis XIV but my thoughts weren’t on The Sun King but on someone else who would have gone into ecstasy overload over this fish. Halibut was always my late mother’s favourite and I offered up a mental portion to Doris, rocking away on her cloud. Its sheer succulence needed hardly any saucing and the chef had got it spot on with scant traces of spring onions, garlic, tiny pork belly lardons and a cumulus cloud of peanut and lime foam. This was very intelligent stuff.

All the while the waiters came and went. Refilling glasses, bringing appropriate cutlery, ensuring that things were to our liking. It wasn’t quite Patrick Guilbaud-style military precision but it was impressive enough. All the while Olivier ‘hovered’, something he does rather well. During his nine year stint as maitre d’ at Thorntons he was one of the best hoverers in the biz.

A word on the décor. There’s not much of it. You could call it ‘understated’ , ‘minimal’ or, if you were being churlish, ‘boring’. Incongrous binnacle lights hang off walls; mirrors seem placed haphazardly, slightly too high to catch a reflection. It’s another French thing, I suppose. Some of the best meals I’ve ever had have been in some of the blandest rooms.

No, at Dax the food is the thing and if the point needed ramming home all we had to do was take a look at the dessert menu. Desserts, I find, are all-to-often a restaurant’s Achilles heel. Not here. From a listing of half a dozen we selected yellow peach clafoutis with pistachio ice-cream and pistachio tuile; also chocolate and hazelnut fondant, hazelnut nougatine and vanilla ice-cream. They tasted even better than they sounded. Alas, the fanfare ended on a bum note. My espresso cost a rip-off €3.90, which left a bad taste in the mouth even exceeding that of the coffee.

The bill came to just under €174, which included 12.5% ‘discretionary gratuity’ so net €154. Expensive? Yes, but this is very serious food indeed. If you want to get a hint of what Dax is about without spending this kind of money you should take the €29.00 3-course lunch (Tues-Thurs) or the Early Bird. Verdict? I’ll stick my neck out and say the food at Dax is as good as anything Dublin has to offer, well up there with Ireland’s Michelin mob.

The damage: £174 for 3 courses x 2, 2 bottles wine, 1 coffee

Quality:****1/2

Ambience: ***

Service: *****

Value: ****

Overall: ****

Dax Restaurant, 23 Pembroke Street Upper, Dublin 2
Tel: 01 676 1494 www.dax.ie