Mint

The only table we could have was was for 6.30. We hit Ranelagh at 6.15 and because trudging up-and-down in the prevailing deluge held no charm for us we went straight to the restaurant. The front door was locked. Through the rain coursing down the window we glimpsed the man himself. He appeared to be dancing, or, at least, bouncing up on the balls of his feet waving his arms about. Someone opened the door and we stepped inside. “Ah Ernie,” he said “You were writing nasty things about me in the Herald, weren’t you?” I had one of those dumb moments like I get when RTE ring me up for an instant quote on a topic like ‘does molecular gastronomy mean the end of the world as we know it and why?’ “Yes,” I said. Dylan didn’t seem to mind. He kissed Sibella on the cheek, said “Have a nice meal” and waltzed off back to the kitchen.

Did we have a nice meal? Oh my God we did. Seven spectacular courses, if you include two amuse bouches, a pre-dessert and a plateful of highly original petits fours, plus a selection of bread as good it gets. And a class act of an Austrian riesling that reached those parts other wines frequently fail to. 24-hours later I’m still salivating but now I’m stuck with the task of explaining to you lot how dining at Mint is the best thing you can do for \300 with your clothes on.

Let’s get the décor out of the way because that’s only average-to-nice whereas everything else is fab. A realignment of the dining area has removed the (maybe) irrational fear I used to have – that a bus would come sailing through the lights on Chelmsford Road and join us, via the front windows. Mirrors on both walls reflect light back into the room and double its apparent size. In reality, it’s tiny. Only 32 covers means (a) many people seeking a table will be disappointed and (b) these guys will really have to go some to make money, which is why I’m not going to fall into the trap of criticizing the two-sittings policy. High-backed upholstered leather banquettes along the walls help give the place some tone. As do the staff.

Watching the six of them move around the room it’s obvious that Mint’s front-of-house people have had the bejasus trained into them. They don’t quite glide like Guilbaud’s guys but, from decoding the menu to removing the debris, there’s an on-the ball demeanour that shouts professionalism. My late mother, in her lifetime a gimlet-eyed supervisor of banquets for the benefit of Britain’s booted and horsed, would have approved wholeheartedly. She would also have appreciated the crisp linen, sparkling glassware and gleaming cutlery though maybe she’d have preferred a gilt-rimmed, crest-emblazoned Royal Derby plate to Mint’s thoroughly modern and very distinctive delft.

When I first tasted Dylan McGrath’s cooking I thought it had a nervy, slightly overwrought edge to it mixed in with the aspects of brilliance. Now his cuisine is considerably less aggressive, more relaxed. There’s still a lot going on but it all seems to make complete sense. I hope it’s not ‘maturity’; I’ll always be “the world’s oldest juvenile delinquent” (as a friend once labelled me) and I fervently hope the stroppy, striving, boundary-pushing elements of Dylan’s persona continue to influence his cooking. I’d say they will.

I’m no fan of those cop-out reviewers who painstakingly detail what they had for dinner, graduates of what I term ‘the endoscopy school of restaurant criticism’. I prefer to sketch an impressionistic picture. My starter was a yin-yang thing of springy langoustine and succulent glazed pork belly, linked together with contrasting yet entirely harmonious foam and jelly; Sibella’s fat tranche of turbot swam in a sea of langoustine stock, dotted with tiny white bean islands. I was given a sexy olive wood handled Laguiole steak knife with which to attack my smoked loin of pork (from a grunter that had spent its young life tearing around a wood, gobbling up acorns) but it was, in truth, overkill. The delicious meat was so tender it would have come apart with a stern glance. I would have thought mango and passion fruit to be incompatible but, no, coconut and warm caramel contributed balance. The entire meal was a stunning kaleidoscope of sweet, sour, light, dark, soft, hard, hot, cold; a constant ringing of the changes of aroma, flavour and texture.

The wine list is a house wine free zone, marked up higher than Prince Harry’s A Levels and nothing below €45. On the cover there’s a quote from my mate Tomas Clancy praising it to the skies. He’s right to do so, but you have to steel yourself and say “Okay. This is serious food. We should be drinking serious wine with it.” The young sommelier, with his enthusiasm, managed to raise me from a €65 riesling to a €90 aged riesling – “it will cope nicely with the pork”.

I’m sure many people, on foot of the TV documentary, aspire to go to Mint, at least in part, for the firework display. Well, I’m sorry for you drama junkies but there’s nothing to report. Sibella sat with one ear cocked, like a gun dog, all night but the only ‘f’ to emerge from the tiny, cramped kitchen was ‘food’. Brilliant food.

The damage: €306 for 2 plus 12.5% optional service, inc 1 bottle of expensive wine + 2 glasses dessert wine. More austere drinking would knock €50 off the bill.

Ambience: ****

Quality: *****

Service: *****

Value: ****1/2

Overall: *****

MINT CLOSED IN 2009

Mint, 47 Ranelagh, Dublin 6 Tel: 01 497 8655