Paul's Restaurant

How far would you go for a good meal? Michel Bras’ restaurant outside Lagiole in Southern France has been described as “four hours drive from anywhere” but plenty, me included, have found it worth making the trip. What’s more I’d happily undertake to act as chauffeur from Biarritz to Juan Mari Arzak’s gaff in San Sebastian should anyone offer me dinner there.

These thoughts coursed through my mind last Saturday night as, grim-faced, I negotiated the nightmare that’s the Red Cow roundabout in the piss rain; my destination, Kilcullen in Co.Kildare. For a couple of months now, glowing reports have been travelling up the N7 in the reverse direction, from foodies singing the praises of a restaurant called, simply, Paul’s.

The drive took about an hour from my part of Dublin, via the M50 and the aforesaid Red Cow. I wondered if anyone was going the other way that night, perhaps to dine in Guilbaud’s, L’Ecrivain or Chapter One. Probably, I decided.
Kilcullen is a satellite of Naas, an overgrown village with evidence of much recent expansion in the way of both apartments and substantial houses. Paul’s occupies a prime spot by the bridge with a pedestrianised area outside that permits alfresco dining, given the weather for it. Must be bliss to lunch there in summer.

There was no doubting the genuine nature of the welcome. From the minute we entered we were made to feel at home, even though road conditions had made us late by twenty-five minutes and we had been warned when I made the booking that they may require the table back by 9.30 (in the event, this didn’t happen).

We were led to a table at the far end, backing up to the wine storage area. I’d question the wisdom of storing wine in a centrally-heated dining room while realising that many restaurants have no option but to do so. Sibella and I took issue over the décor; for me it was a bit like a designer take on the living room in a successful builder’s “manshoon”, an effect exaggerated by an excess of chandeliers and a piped Frank Sinatra crooning his syrupy, sanitised version of Mrs. Robinson – who the f*ck is “Dilly” for godssakes? But hey, herself found the dining room warm, charming, opulent and uber-trendy. Aw, what do I know? I did concede that the dining chairs were as comfortable as any I’ve ever sat in.

There was some delay in the arrival of our amuse bouche. Others who came in after us were happily slurping their bonus bacon and lentil soup while we were left to munch on the (excellent) bread. Were we getting a freebie at all or were we being punished for declining to purchase the mineral water? In the event I needn’t have worried, it came.

Sibella nabbed the lobster and crab bake. Normally I’d have fought her for the privilege. I ordered the sweetbreads and scallops and, having cadged a taste of hers, was glad I did. The crab shell that served as a casserole was nigh on the only evidence of a crustacean presence. This ‘bake’ should have been re-named ‘shellfish-scented mashed spuds’.

I took the loin of venison after confirmation that it was wild. It arrived medium rare just as I ordered, with full-on flavour. Sibella had the breast and confit of duck, garnished with peaches, which she pronounced delicious. Yet the quality of the meat and the competence of the cooking was all. 12 hours later I couldn’t remember what else was on my plate apart from an incongruous looking, bland beetroot ‘raviolo’. I do mind that both dishes came accompanied by vegetables, carrots and broccoli and a niggardly brace of spuds. That said, our request for more was promptly and pleasantly acceded to.

The wine list was interesting, a world tour with a few of the classics thrown in. Paul’s policy could be copied elsewhere to advantage: a glass (25 cl) of anything on the carte costs a third of a bottle of the same. The inner imp led me to choose something a tad off-piste and upmarket (20) a Ridge Santa Cruz Mountain cabernet/merlot from California. I hope somebody buys the other two-thirds.

We could only manage a dessert between us – a coffee jelly and white chocolate ice cream confection. For those away from the culinary coal face, jelly is reckoned to be totally cutting edge nowadays. They are all at it, revisiting their schooldays; some chefs, mainlining nostalgia, have even reintroduced custard. Makes you weep, dunnit? In the event, this caffeine-light, flavourless wibbly-wobbly stuff only made me wonder “could childhood birthday parties have been that bad?”

Naff of the night was my espresso. Bitter, boiled, crema-less and dribbled down the outside of the cup and an extortionate 4.50 to boot. At least they had the grace to erase it from the bill when I put in a mild protest.

I wanted to say to Paul’s “Look, lads, this won’t do. This dinner cost 161 ex-service. Throw in two coffees, another dessert, a brandy, a liqueur and a tip you’d be up at well over €200. Sorry, but for that sort of money I want real fireworks – inspiration, creativity, flights of fancy, not just competent country hotel cooking with a few twiddles. I also want professional service, not college girls, however pleasant and delightful; a trained sommelier too.” There is much to like at Paul’s but there’s no getting away from the fact that it’s just too damned dear. At those prices there are restaurants out there that would bury it. Would I brave the Mad Cow roundabout again? I think not.

Paul’s Restaurant, Market Square, Kilcullen, Co Kildare
Tel:+353 (0)45 482 966

THE DAMAGE €161 ex-service for 2 starters, 2 mains, 1 dessert, 4 glasses wine (€46)

THE GEN Pleasant room, well tricked out. Great chairs. Warm welcome, friendly service. Fine and gleaming glassware, crisp linen, cutlery lacks style. Toilets pristine. Solid cooking let down by the odd wrong call. Expensive.

RATING ***