The Winding Stair

Lazy, lingering lunches are a thing of the past, long vanished into the void with the punt and Holy Hour. Nowadays we are all too time-pressured; a sarnie at the desk is the dish of the day. But last Friday, I regressed and how enjoyable it was.

The reason for this decadence was the temporary return to Ireland of Monaghan Man, dwelling nowadays in Winnipeg, Canada. Monaghan Man is a gnomic cove who used to move incognito around the fringes of the Dublin media scene, only making his presence known if some dastardly developer attempted to demolish an edifice of architectural significance – think Archer’s Garage. Much of Monaghan Man’s time was spent in covert operations undertaken by planting stories on key web forums and waiting for overworked or merely lazy journalists to pick up and publish. Remember spoofs like ‘Mysterious tunnels under Clontarf’; ‘Berlusconi says “Give back the Caraveggio”’; ‘Chelski want Boh’s striker’? Monaghan Man was the evil genius behind all three.

It was incumbent to choose the restaurant with care. I needed a venue which would signify something of Dublin of yesteryear; I wanted a decent view as my pal is now, in essence, a tourist; and, as he’s also a trencherman of some note, the occasion also demanded good, not overly finicky, eating and drinking. After a deal of thought, I rang up The Winding Stair and booked a table for two (o’clock, that is).

We met in The Porterhouse on Parliament Street, making a bed for what was to follow with a brace of their excellent Oyster Stout. As we crossed Capel Street bridge, MM was bemoaning Dublin’s latter day lack of second-hand bookshops so it seemed entirely appropriate that our destination should be The Winding Stair. The entrance, beside the bookshop itself, is tawdry and undistinguished in the extreme. There’s certainly no sense of occasion nor anything that prepares you for the delightful bright room, light flooding in even on what was a dull day. I gave MM the seat with views over the Liffey.

As an example of Irishness without any trace of Paddywhackery the Winding Stair’s bill of fare is as good as it gets. Without ever preaching, the menu manages to tell you things are ‘fresh’ and ‘real’; provenance is proudly acknowledged wherever possible. Monaghan Man’s smoked fish plate was a veritable tour of west Cork and although my garlic-flavoured Kerry prawns on really good toast, served with lemon and mixed leaves, were delightful, I envied him his choice. We accompanied out starters with a half bottle of fino sherry, Jarana from the great Lustau bodegas. I’m always trying to spread the sherry gospel; fino, not overly alcoholic, is a wonderful accompaniment to smoked or salty fish. We discarded the proffered thimbles in favour of two regular wine glasses and climbed in with glee.

It was while we were waiting for our mains, both lamb, that we saw gorgeous cod in crispy batter emerging from the kitchen, causing us to indulge in gluttonous thoughts that we should have taken one between us as a fish course. Too late, the mains arrived but, shock, horror, not quite what we ordered. MM was very taken with the chops which all three people at an adjacent table were tucking into. Me, I’m a muggsy for slow-cooked lamb shank, especially plonked down on an isle of Puy lentils. “I’m so sorry,” the waitress apologised, “I pressed the wrong button”. So much for computerised docketing systems. Unfazed, we came up with a smart negotiating position. “Okay, we’ll take the two shanks provided you include a free portion of those rather fine-looking hand-cut chips”. A deal was done.

The wine list at The Winding Stair is an object lesson in how to do it. Clearly assembled by an enthusiast, it’s comprehensive – certainly over 130 wines; well organised – wines are classified to assist the diner’s choice – ‘Mineral floral stone fruit whites’; ‘Oak-aged, rich and buttery whites’; ‘Voluptuous, rich, decadent reds’ and so forth. Overall, an eclectic selection, it doesn’t smack of the bleeding obvious nor if the big brand. Fairly priced too. Priced seemed about double retail or slightly less, unlike most which tend to be treble. We accompanied our juicy shanks with equally juicy Brokenwood ‘Cricket Pitch’ a savoury red blend of Cab Sauv, Merlot and Cabernet Franc, spiced up with a smidge of Shiraz. It cost €32.

Desserts were mainly of the ‘memories of childhood’ variety and none the worse for that. I love rhubarb anyway and my only moan, again a hark back to childhood, was there was no skin on my deliciously creamy portion of rice pud – unfair! Monaghan Man took the bread and butter pudding, another perennial favourite. The vanilla and whiskey sauce – Jameson (we enquired) – pointed it up nicely. The presence of a gleaming Ferrari red Marzocco, the ace, deuce and trey of espresso machines, boded well. Alas they didn’t get cup to table quick enough, it was a tad too cool.

What else? Background music, none, thankfully, that we were aware of. It might just have been drowned out by the high decibel chat. Clientèle, a cross section: yummy mummies of course; lovers; lads, climbing into continental beers; not much sign of the corporate geezers but I don’t think it’s that sort of gaff. Service, sociable but slightly scatty. “I really miss these long lunches,” said Monaghan Man as we breezed back over the Ha’penny Bridge at 5pm. I’m sure he thinks it’s still the norm here. I didn’t disillusion him.

The damage: €117, ex-service, for 2 starters, 2 mains, 2 desserts, half bottle sherry, bottle of wine, 2 coffees. Anyone less gluttonous could get away with a lot less.

Ambience ****

Quality ****1/2

Service ***1/2

Value ****

Overall ****