Marco Pierre White Steakhouse & Grill

Well, I finally got a booking at Marco’s gaff! “Seven o’clock but we need the table back at nine.” I was there on the dot. Munster Man rocked up at 7 minutes past precisely. We were ushered to The Worst Table in the Room, back to the doorway in a 90% packed restaurant, proving once more that the notion that critics are always recognised and get a better deal is so much bollocks. Ambient noise was a mix of insistent boom-boom via the PA and a superfluity of animated ‘How clever am I’ drivel masquerading as conversation, so loud I wondered if they were giving away a free megaphone with every glass of wine. While I adore the chatter of happy diners, this gob-fest was too OTT for me.

At 7.25 we were given a menu. At 7.45 a waiter came to take our order. At 8.15 the starters arrived. The Carlingford oysters had all gone so MM had to content himself with fresh crab. It came prettily presented, a two-tier round, the lower being dark meat which Munster Man didn’t eat but which I snaffled. I chose asparagus, newly in season. It cost €2.24 a spear for four fat rascals smeared ungenerously with a sauce I presumed to be Hollandaise but turned out to be Bearnaise (with the addition of tarragon and vinegar). The acetic acid clanged off teeth and palate, zapping the delicacy of flavour and buggering up the wine. Cynical old me wondered whether they had made up buckets of Bearnaise to accompany the serial steaks that were flying out of the kitchen and couldn’t be arsed fettling a sauce more befitting to the asparagus. The house bread, an off-white loaf sawn into slices, didn’t excite.

We received our mains at 8.48, causing me to grimace “There’s no way they’re getting this table back at nine.” In fairness, they didn’t ask. We chose two steaks, a fillet (medium) and a T-bone (rare). Both were precisely cooked as ordered although, to be hyper-picky, the butchery of the T-bone had gone a little cock-eyed, the slab of meat tapering off steeply to one side, creating about an inch’s worth of medium-to-well done. We supped a bottle of Cline’s Carneros Californian Zinfandel; hearty, uncomplicated fruity stuff. It cost €30 on the wine list, €32 on the bill.

Our side portion of caramelised onions was not over-generous. It had us nostalgically yearning for Shanahan’s huge cop’s helmet brimming with crisp-fried rings. The waiter, when his attention could be obtained, was a pro-active sort, not afraid of a stint of up-selling. His plea for us to have the mushrooms almost moved me to tears. Was he perchance a fledgeling barrister doing a nightly nixer? If so, he could have put in a plea in mitigation on behalf of the chips which deserved to get community service at the very least; five bulbous soggy villains, pseudo-roasties impersonating French fries. ‘Fat’ chips be damned, what’s wrong with ‘normal’ chips?

Young Rumpole was soon back on his feet again to laud that well-connected dessert, Eton Mess. The jury gave the thumbs down to this posh school pud beloved of working class chefs, opting for treacle tart instead. It was “off”. We resigned ourselves to bread and butter pudding which can be ambrosial. Shame this one was dry, chewy and charmless.

How to sum up MPW? Well, for a start, the menu bores for Ireland. There’s little on it that couldn’t be done by your average mammy never mind your average foodie armed with a sharp blade and a nodding acquaintanceship with Rachel Allen’s TV programme. Initially I was tempted to say “stay at home, save money and do your eardrums a favour.” That’s without considering the question of whether or not we want or need another Irish restaurant run, conceived or endorsed by an absentee chef from over the water. But I’ll refrain.

As the packed house proved, there is a market for this uncomplicated homey fare. If the punters want kipper pâté, followed by steak and chips, with a treacle tart encore someone has to provide it, so why not Marco? I just hope people who’ve read ‘White Heat’ or tasted his cooking in the halcyon days of The Oak Room don’t come here expecting culinary fireworks.

But if Marco Pierre White Steakhouse and Grill is not going to go the same way as Rhodes D7, another celeb endorsed restaurant that had similar aspirations, it will have to gear up its act. The La-La land service we got is simply not on. We eventually quit the restaurant just before 10pm. I went to the loo before leaving and on the back of the door was pinned an inspection and cleaning roster. It hadn’t been updated since 5.30pm. This neglect underpinned the impressions gained at table. Either the place is understaffed; or training is deficient; or management is not as ‘finger on the button’ as it might be. Or all three.

The damage: €123.60 for 2 starters, 2 mains, 1 dessert, bottle of wine.

Verdict: Good steaks, homespun, humdrum supporting cast. Service has room for improvement. VFM only fair-ish. Bloody noisy.

Rating **1/2

Marco Pierre White Steakhouse and Grill Restaurant, 51 Dawson Street, Dublin 2 Tel: 01 6771155