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 enough to land a reviewing gig; (2) hard-pressed journos who get allotted the task as a reprieve from covering dog shows, gas leaks in Inchicore and the sort of openings that Pammie and Caro wouldn’t be arsed getting out of bed to attend; and (3) absolute chancers.

Just to give you a feel for it, segregation of this kind categorises myself and my Italian blood brother Paolo Tullio as Type A; Tom Doorley and the Sunday Biz Post’s Ross Golden-Bannon as Type B (1). I’ll leave you to surmise about the rest.

I’m not sure, were I still a restaurateur, which sort I’d rather have arrive unannounced at my premises on a cold, wet night in March. The B(2)s can be a blessing as much as a liability. They may not know much about food but my God, do they know what they like. There’s every chance they’ll come away raving about a Chicken Kiev that a Type A critic would stigmatise as being ‘overcooked to the point of disintegration’. Re the same bird, the B(1)s would be banging on about ‘provenance’. They wouldn’t know or care that the only way you can survive in your poncey location, with rip-off rents and sky-high insurance is to serve fowl culled from the back of an unmarked van at a cost of 69 cents a kilo.

Anyhow, The Blackboard Bistro could have got unlucky last Tuesday night as Team Heavyweight, consisting of a brace of Type A critics (neither being Paolo) arrived at their Clare Street basement. Décor? “Well, it’s a room innit?”, sez me, mad hungry because they couldn’t grant us a table until 8.15. It was actually two rooms, plainly but pleasantly got up. 32 ‘covers’ (as we Type A’s are wont to say) in total. I know, from my own experience, that it’s bloody hard to make a living from this size of premises. The chef-patron can kiss goodbye to any thoughts of a day off.

My dining companion has shedloads of experience, both front-of-house and behind the scenes (she’s a damned good journalist too). Her eagle eye I was, I’m sure, glomming the linen, the cutlery and the work methods of the young Romanian waitress, though as it was my review she could treat it as a night off. The menu didn’t take long to read. There were 3 starters, 3 mains and 3 desserts.

Herself had the spinach soup ‘cooked to order’. I scammed a spoonful; it was gorgeous. Perfectly seasoned, subtle yet robust, altogether ‘spring-in-a-bowl’. I took the chicken, bacon and penne pasta (you could also order it as a main. No B(1) would grumble about provenance, this chicken had fine springy texture and rich flavour. The pasta was precisely cooked and the cream sauce was, properly, a coating, not a lactic lake at the bottom of the dish.

The wine list was as terse as the menu. 5 whites, 4 reds, a rosé, all French and a Champagne. The usual suspects had been banished, most of these wines you wouldn’t see elsewhere. I’ve always liked the Domaine Talmard Macon-Uchizy but after some deliberation I ordered the Marsanne/Roussane 2006 from smart winemaker Stephane Montez and was not disappointed. I augmented this with a glass of Pinot Noir 2001, styled Chateau de Puligny-Montrachet, how grand, at €39 a bottle the dearest still wine on the list. It failed to impress, despite the name.

We loved our mains. On a murky night there’s nothing better than a tender, juicy, slow-cooked lamb shank on a bed of proper mash. Your one copped for another winner in her sea bass. Normally I’m not fond of this fish and made less so by the current cheffy fad of squaring all the corners and presenting it as a humdrum chocolate bar-shaped rectangle. This one retained the vestige of a tail, was plausibly tapered and all the better for it. Perfectly cooked, it flaked off into delicious chunks at the waving of a fork and the skin beneath was good and crispy-crunchy. Oops, did I eat it all? Sorry.

Desserts maintained the high standard. We pooled a very smart ginger crème brulee and a juicy tart Tatin. Coffee was, for me, a let-down. Two espressos and hers looked much better than mine. A little more consistency, please.

Afterwards the chef-patron came out to talk to us, a lovely lad who’d done stints at Peacock Alley, The Commons, La Mere Zou and a clutch of decent hotels. Dedicated, honest, a worthy exemplar of all that’s good about the restaurant business I hope he retains his enthusiasm and his sanity during the vicissitudes the first three years of running one’s own place will bring. Guys like this deserve our support, especially when the food’s so sincere .

Team Heavyweight eventually struggled up Merrion Street in search of a parting glass over which to compare notes. We gave the The Blackboard Bistro a virtually unqualified thumbs-up.

The Blackboard Bistro, The Basement, 4 Clare Street, Dublin 2. Tel: 01 6766839

The damage: e118 for 2 x 3 courses, coffee, 1 bottle wine, 1 glass

Ambience: ***

Service: ****

Quality: *****

Value: ****

Overall: ****