When, in response to the habitual social icebreaker “What do you do for a living?”, I tell people I write on wine and food I always get a variation on the same response – “A mucky job but someone has to do it, I suppose?” I can read their mind: here’s a man with his
Forkncork.comErnie Whalley on food, wine & Irish restaurants |
The Blackboard Bistro
Restaurant reviewers, as a breed, tend to fall into two categories. The first, let’s call it Type A, encompasses those who, in a previous life, have worked in the restaurant business. The second, Type B, those who haven’t. The Type B brigade can be further subdivided into (1) hard core righteous foodies lucky or brass-faced
Rasam
Among the plethora of foodie TV that dominates the viewing week there should, in my opinion, be a programme for celebrity meeters-and-greeters. Instead of some spittle-frothing, rabid-eyed chef fettling fiddle-faddle we’d never cook in a million years or an uppity broad teaching us how to make an egg sandwich we’d have the likes of Restaurant
Carluccio's
I know Antonio Carluccio. I’ve dined with him, drunk with him, listened to him talking about food in language others reserve for describing beautiful women and marvelled at his infeasibly large repertoire of off-colour jokes. Antonio , many years ago, set out on a mission to introduce Londoners to proper Italian cucina, food that didn’t
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
Bridge Bar & Grill
WHEN I was in full-time, gainful employment, a certain small restaurant in a railway tunnel was a lunchtime oasis. A place where a close-knit corps of magazine hacks celebrated significant birthdays, engagements, promotions, pregnancies, leavings for a better life, and “Thank Christ it’s Monday/Tuesday…” (fill in the day). After a communal savaging in a morning
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
Roscoff Brasserie
John McKenna, as befits an ex-barrister, is a veritable master of the ear-tugging soundbite, an invaluable asset to have at this time of year when the guide launching season is in full cry and there are a finite number of free column inches on offer. “Here in the North,” he proclaimed, “The Epicurean Age has
Cooke’s Café
Recently I’ve had three memorable meals in Cooke’s Café. The first occasion involved the pleasure of watching former fashion model, now PR doyenne, Sonia Reynolds demolish a seafood casserole that would have fed the crew of the Pequod. Indeed, the portion was so substantial I’m convinced Moby Dick’s kid brother was lurking in the bowl,
Les Gourmandises
So that’s alright then. Dining this out this month has taken on a French flavour what with ending my feud with L’Gueuleton – a coup de grace of diplomacy though I say it myself. I did my bit by sneaking in for a late lunch and downing a plateful of blanquette d’agneau with lip-smacking relish
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