Layla

Last week Richard Corrigan disconcerted me twice. Firstly, when the big, amiable, marshmallow-centred, life-is-for-living Meath man told me he’d bought a plot in God’s Own County (not Meath). Worse, he name-checked the next village to the one I regard as my personal antidote to the rigours of working in Dublin. My knee-jerk reaction was to envisage a time when I won’t know whether the knock on the door is a neighbour looking for a cup of sugar or Richard, hell bent on dragging me down to the local for a liver-corrosive lock-in.

My discomfort was nothing compared to the hammer-blow I received when I learned Richard had joined the ‘It’s a Cook-out’ brigade of chef-sycophants vying to be allowed to show off at Lizzie Saxe-Coburg-Gotha’s 80th birthday junket. Aw come on, Rich, whatever happened to the spirit of 1916? Your great-grandad, wasted in the GPO along with everyone else’s, must be turning in his grave.
Before I proceed further I should state my position. I am an English republican. It’s in my blood. An ancestor expended a deal of toil and sweat helping boot nasty Charles I off the throne. It turned to tears a few years later when some silly sod invited his son back to rule us and my man had to hot foot it across The Pond, escaping, by the skin of his teeth, from being hanged, drawn and quartered like venison destined for a Balmoral banquet.
I’m right off chefs at the minute. It’s not entirely your fault Richard. Dining out on average three times a week during March and April has me sick to death of what I call ‘cuisine peinteur’ – porcelain-framed edible Klees and Mondrians, squiggle of this, square of that. It would be civilised if someone would buck the trend and present me with an untidy brace of ray wings balanced on a big heap of basil-free or untruffled mash, with a pool of parsely sauce and proper mushy peas.
To compound matters, taking a break from from culinary art galleries I got laid low by a dodgy lump of farmed salmon (knew I shouldn’t have eaten it), a dodgy beef-and-stout pie, or possibly a dodgy clump of nitrogen-laden lettuce. At least I had the good sense to dodge the dodgy coleslaw. Libel laws forfend from revealing the source of my nigh-terminal nausea. Fortunately the establishment in question is a private club wherein the members, few under 50, must be long inured to the chef’s malfeasances. Anyhow, the place maintains an aura of faded mock-posh exclusivity that will deter most from asking to join, hence few will suffer.
With all this churning round in my head (though stomach rumblings had ceased) it was a relief to get to Layla, Ireland’s first Turkish restaurant and a chef-free zone. The cook is the proprietress, LL who cheerfully admits a lack of professional training. If she’s to be believed she seems to have started the restaurant as a relief from housewifely ennui. Layla is family run. Her son does the front-of-house thing, in a manner too delightfully informal to damn him as a maître d’. Another young Turk sees to the bar. He seems to function as family too, like one of those friends of your children who hangs around your house so much you give him his own key. He’s a handy guy, makes a mean Bloody Mary. I’m not sure whether the daughter has a role to play or whether she just hangs around for the craic looking demure. I suspect the former.
The food is, surprise, surprise, Turkish. Rustic, honest, unsophisticated, the sort of grub you find in downtown Istanbul, Kusadasi, Bodrum, name the town, served by friendly people intent on showing you a good time. We started with mixed mezze, taking a choice of three from the fifteen or so hot and cold dishes on offer. Our selection comprised tender squid rings in a minimalist batter with a bespoke garlic sauce; ciz bik kofte, delicately spiced lamb and beef meatballs and delightful cheese-in-filo cigars served with a small green salad and Turkish flat bread made on the premises.
We had a hiccup with the wine. The list was nicely structured, fairly priced but short. We curtailed it still further by asking for two wines which, after a search, proved to be “not here”. Our third choice, an unwooded Chardonnay, was corked. It was replaced willingly and cheerfully, with non of the pouting and sulking that sometimes accompanies a critical thumbs-down. We settled for a Chilean Sauvignon Blanc, Cousino Macul 2005, simplistic but decent, therefore a good partner for the food.
The Dark Lady took the Sultan’s Pleasure, shredded lamb on a bed of herb-scented puréed aubergine. I had the Hungry Person’s Plate aka the Chef’s mixed grill and good it was too, atop its bed of pita or whatever the Turkish equivalent is called. The generous portion of lamb shank, long-cooked into submission was especially tasty as were the spicy kebaps. The burghul was excellent.
Milady’s figs (preserved) were advertised as coming with ice cream, perfect counterpoint, but wisps of aerated cream were the sole accompaniment supplied. Baklava was good but not great. A pity because in Turkey desserts are a particular delight. In the sweet shops, ‘baklava’ is the generic name for a dozen or so sophisticated sweet pastries with exotic handles like twisted turban, lady’s navel or nightingale’s nest. Muhallebi or pudding shops shops often have a dozen different types including the best crème caramel you’ll ever taste. The Turkish coffee didn’t seem as strong as I remembered although that may have more to do with my accentuated caffein tolerance these days.
About the only thing non-ethnic in the whole evening was the Spanish belly dancer. She made up for it by being both beautiful and talented. Belly-dancing displays are all too often a wobbly, nudge-nudge end-of-pier type of entertainment but hers was a graceful ballet.
We liked Layla a lot. It’s unphoney and loads of fun, the food wholesame, tasty and unprententious, total antidote to two month’s overload of unremitting cheffery. The service simply couldn’t be faulted. The bill came to e112 including wine, coffee, a G&T and the aforesaid Bloody Mary, very reasonable. Dublin needs more restaurants like this.

Layla, Pembroke Street, Dublin 2