Mint

Now you see me, now you don’t.
Zucchini, a restaurant that graced Ranelagh’s trendy dining strip for barely longer than a wet weekend, is no more. Under the same ownership it’s made a fresh start as Mint, as in “Is this gonna cost me a mint?” for it was clear from the minute we walked in that the joint had jumped upmarket. The interior was pleasing, all pale wood and pastel shades. Good table linen, decent cutlery. In the modish ‘no hiding place’ style, chefs could be glimpsed at work in the kitchen if you sat with your back to the door. Those facing the other way were less fortunate: the plate glass frontage afforded a view of the street and the street a view of you. Lefty, my dining companion remarked that the feeling that a light-jumping lorry might come careering off the Appian Way and through the front window was ever so slightly neurosis inducing. Maybe some curtains, or are curtains passé?
It’s normally our policy not to review a restaurant unless it’s been up and running six months, theory being it gives the staff time to bed down and sort things out that need sorting. Sometimes I think this is crazy: you buy a e200 fridge and if it doesn’t work straight out of the box you tell the world it’s crap. Why can’t you do the same with a e200 meal? Anyhow, this month we’re breaking the rules because we wanted to review both Dublin’s oldest and latest restaurants and Mint, a mere two weeks in existence when we walked through the door, qualifies for the newbie title.
In fairness, I’d been buttonholed only the day before by another reviewer, not one of the shot-in-the dark pseudos who wouldn’t know their artichoke from their elver but someone I respect. He drawled laconically “Get to Mint. Have the sweetbreads!” a signpost that wasn’t difficult to follow. We found it on the Starters menu – ‘boudin of veal sweetbread and wild mushroom with truffle scented celeriac purée and truffle jus.’ Starkly presented on a square white plate, it set the neo-French classical tone for the whole meal and both of us agreed it was utterly delicious. Lefty went for the confit chicken and ham hock terrine, with a French bean and celeriac salad and truffle dressing, another winner.
The wine list was, I have to say, all over the place. Of the house wines, e18.50 a pop, De Bortolli William’s Well Chardonnay is pretty respectable. Not so sure about the Espirit (sic) de Nijinsky (Ballet dancer or racehorse?) red. Two adjacent diners claimed they weren’t enjoying it all that much. The Mint with the hole? Absolutely. Above base level the list was as full of holes as the Naas Road with one or two yawns (if I see Martin Codax Albariño again I’ll scream); a few ho-hums (Madfish Bay Sauv/Sem e32.50); and some crazy prices (Sancerre, Domaine Vacheron e42, Ribera del Duero, Moro £41, Ch.Gloria 1999 e64). Biggest complaint was the two wines we ordered arrived as different vintages to those specified on the carte – the Lawson Dry Hills Sauv B 2002 was 2003 (hooray!) and the 1998 Salice Salentino was 2000 (boo, hiss!). All in all, the hallmark of the dilettante was clearly evident, more enthusiast’s wine rack than restaurant cellar.
I spent last Sunday in the company of BrookLodge’s Evan Doyle, the pair of us bemoaning the fact that no-one hangs game anymore. As if to prove the point, my venison tasted as though Rudolph had walked in off the street and died in the oven.
Yes, it was very, very pleasant, tender and succulent, but it lacked real oomph – I really can’t see the point of serving venison that’s merely beef with boy racer go-fast stripes. I want the full bifta GTi Turbo. Still, it was smartly conceived with a fine turnip and prune gratin with ‘confit cabbage’ whatever that is. I was always taught that to confit was to cook something in its own fat and preserve it. Confit cabbage is yet another of those ugly, inaccurate food neologisms creeping into the vernacular.
Lefty’s roast rib of beef, though, was veritably the real McCoy, tender yet full-flavoured, with a stylish accompaniment of new potato fondants, caramelised shallots and a red wine jus, perfectly cooked à point. The young chef, Oliver Dunne, with a background comprising The Tea Room at the Clarence under that great bringer-on of chefs Anthony Ely, Gordon Ramsay’s Aubergine, Gary “he wasn’t around much” Rhodes and Shane Warrington at Pied de Terre, is clearly one to watch. His flair and professionalism is already making itself felt. Nowhere was this more evident than in the desserts which were edible embodiment of Ramsay’s mantra “save the pictures for the puddings”. The Mille-feuilles of chocolate and chestnut mousse with toffee chestnuts and crême anglaise was pristine. Lefty and I stuck the spoons in and found it was imaginatively conceived, too; a wonderful balance of flavours and contrast of textures. We finished by sharing a plate of French cheeses including some ripe Epoisses that had me back in Burgundy and wonders, wonders, a decent espresso.
The bill came to e148, ex service and you could easily go up or down – wouldn’t have minded seeing if the Avignonesi Vino Nobile di Montepulciano (e50) was as good as I remembered. Alternatively, 2 x 2 courses, a bottle of house wine and coffee would set you back around e85, really good value, I fancy, given the quality of the ingredients, the skill and bravura pizazz of Oliver’s cooking and the enthusiasm of the young staff, including Paul, a face I remembered from One Pico.
I’d love to see this restaurant succeed and take its place as a valued member of Dublin’s fine dining establishments. Having made an impactful start I think it just might.

Mint, 47 Ranelagh, Dublin 6. Tel: (01) 497 8655 Lunch 12-3pm; dinner 6-10pm, 7 days.