AND WHAT SHALL WE EAT MY DEAR?

 

 

Be honest, every time we start packing for a holiday don't we tell ourselves ad nauseam that we will not be lavish with our spending, that we will make sincere efforts to try and curtail over drinking and over eating? Not good for the waist and more important not good for the purse, we tell ourselves. And that the best way would be to book a service apartment so that we can at least cook our own breakfast  and maybe, even a meal, or if not that at least put together a sandwich or some quick and simple stuff for a packed lunch while we take in the sights and sounds. I don't know what happens to all avowed good intentions when you land at the destination; they simply vanish faster than you say, 'lets check out the gas range...' Before leaving for Dublin we had booked a service apartment, swanky kitchen and all, in the apartment right above the reputed/notorious (tick either after you have experienced it)The Temple Bar. After checking in, we very piously checked out the kitchenette - everything in place, everything up to date. Great! And then what did we do? Just used the electric kettle for the bed teas and turned on the gas range once, that too by the spouse to warm up a sandwich that the daughter couldn't finish and left overnight in the fridge. What was that about the harm that good men intentions do (sorry Bertrand Russel)!

If you are in Dublin you have to have Irish breakfast, what with every cafe and eatery listing that on top of the breakfast menu? After the haggis and blood pudding for breakfast in Scotland, the Irish one was rather civilised one save the white pudding: I didn't even taste it and all I know is that it is supposed to contain pig's blood, beef suet and barley and la la la and there is no way I will sully my tongue with such stuff! Give me pork in any other form, any day, any time but blood yuck! To get back on track there would be regular Irish breakfast and many other kinds of breakfast and we would go, 'ugh overate, will skip lunch'. Sure, like the sun doesn't rise from the east! There would be lunch and spirits and dinners and spirits and in between nibbles and more. What is about holidays that makes one throw all cautions to the wind and binge like there is, forget tomorrow, no afternoon itself!

 

  

So, let me count the way love thee, nah blame that on the overdose of Irish writers, literature and biting humour. All one is attempting to do is trying to recall the meals we had and somehow one morphs into another and it seems like one long relay race of meals-running-into-meals! Off hand, the two most memorable that I can recall is first at the Merry Ploughboy with its fantastic live traditional Irish music and literally breathtaking dance and the set course; the other one at Elephant Castle at The Temple Bar Road because of the company we had. 

Incidentally, at Merry Ploughboy the lady serving us was named Mary and as she said whether we called her Mary or Merry depended on how much spirits we had imbibed! The set dinner menu had options - loved my creamed seafood chowder and homemade Guinness brown bread, as did the daughter.The husband's hazelnut crusted honey and thyme goats cheese salad with pickled beetroot, roasted red peppers and so on with honey mustard dressing was just fine; I always like my salad dressing spiked with a pinch of red chili powder, Desi istyle. The mains had all kinds of protein which were good or okay depending on who ate what though I found Irish trout a tad bland and sigh, no chili sauce around to turn it around. When it comes to eating non Indian or non Asian food, one always looks forward to the deserts and the Irish Bramley apple pie with cinnamon Anglaise was too huge and quite ordinary but then again  others in the family say I am too picky and finicky. Hah! But the ambiance, the fantastic musical performance, the service and the company more than made up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then there was the other one at Elephant Castle (Temple Bar Road, call it pull of gravity or whatever!), this was one time where the company and the food excelled. There was Father Patrick and Father Marcos, the first from Dublin and the latter from Seville, Spain but of Cuban origin and on a short visit to Ireland. Ahem! if you have studied in a convent school and went on to a missionary run college with Saint preceding the name of both the convent and the college, you can accept that while it is totally possible to love, even adore and respect the sisters, you can't exactly think of sitting down with them and raising your glass to say cheers and discussing every topic under the sun including Christianity and why there are lesser people becoming priests and nuns! I still remember the time when the daughter was in (very) junior school and in convent (thankfully out of it soon) I had gone to meet the principal to ask two days extra leave beyond the given holidays and, for all those going what rubbish, why seek permission for two bloody days its because if a child was absent before and after the stipulated leave a fine (money dear, money) had to be paid for each day missed and worse the parent had to go to the school. So there was I and lets only say that the meeting didn't last long and the child didn't miss class on those two days and my tail was tucked firmly between my legs! Therefore to sit down for an evening of wining and dining session with two priests was totally delightful and one couldn't stop grinning meaninglessly. Father Patrick thought the best place would be what he called the iconic Oliver St John Gogarty Bar &Restaurant but naturally it was packed to the gills so all we could do was somehow manage to wrangle a table outside, right next to Gogarty's statue, only for drinks. For dinner it was Elephant Castle. As some wit said, 'everything good in life is either immoral, illegal and fattening' or something to that effect, but the undisputed truth remains that everything deep fried is so damn finger licking tasty and so addictive, you just want more and more. Among other things we had mussels, chicken wings and spareribs.The chicken wings came first, deep fried and crunchy and then came the ribs, charred black like sin, deep fried and then sheer ecstasy!

 

 

 

 

Father Patrick (Above) and Father Marcos (Below) 

What was that about taking the girl out from the hills but being unable to take hills out of her and all that jazz? This much it has to be put on record-- after a couple of days of being out of the country this Indian family, that is some members of this Indian family will die if they do not get Indian food! It's an experience we have re-lived many times.The daughter's age was still single digit when we had travelled through Singapore and Malaysia (where there is no dearth of good Indian food) but at the Changi airport just before catching the flight back home, she announced in all seriousness that if she couldn't have Indian lunch at the airport - 'even idli/dosa will do' - she would simply die. Then there was the time in Edinburgh that the spouse abruptly announced that he wouldn't survive another day without roti/shoti and shot off looking for an Indian joint. The daughter naturally supported him wholeheartedly and they dived into the first joint they saw that said Indian food. Turned out it was owned by a Pakistani but again naturally that was like splitting hair. And I am not even going into the story of riding a packed train for over 40 minutes in Rome because during the day we had come across this small Nepalese/Indian restaurant and the Nepali lady there had promised to cook mutton and crisp roti for dinner for the husband. It didn't matter that the hotel we stayed in was far, far away and we had to get  back for some reason or the other. By evening I thought he would have forgotten about it but hah, no way can you keep a man and his mutton apart (at the risk of committing a  Freudian slip) and what's a 40-minute train ride and some more walking.

So there we were two times - once at The Kathmandu Kitchen (Indian&Nepalese restaurant) and the other at Montys' of Kathmandu. The welcome was more than effusive in both the places, so much so that at Montys they gave us desert on the house! That too gajar ka halwa with ice cream.  The aloo chaat in a papad tokri at Monty's was another yummy zing-y eat. And I must admit it felt good and reassuring to see the table laden with dal-chawal, crisp tandoori rotis, the chickens and meats cooked with traditional masalas; didn't feel like restaurant meals, felt as if we had been invited over for dinner.

 

       

 

Monty's Gurung Bhai- MBA student and part time waiter

Above all, there is nothing like walking into the old sweet shops, the ones that announce that they sell traditional boiled sweets and making your choice. It's like compensation up for the times when there was only 'Morton' sweets around back home. It's like being in Aladdin's treasure trove, childish delight allright but delight indeed. Then there is also nothing like walking into a patisserie or a confectionery and picking up the outrageously decadent, biggest, fattest piece of sinful sweet something and digging your teeth into it, and never mind the frequency of doing so........... 

   JUST TO SAY THANK YOU......

Everyone has by now heard of the Blarney Stone and the Irish gift of the gab, what not many talk about about is what we call here 'dildaar', the large hearted-ness of the Irish. We were lucky to be at the receiving end of enormous Irish dildaar many times over. And the couple who extended it most was Maeve and Kenneth Gavin of Dublin - they not only paid for our lunch without our knowledge of course, but rued the fact that they could not invite us home because Ken was travelling to Italy the next day for work. We still feel the all embracing warmth of that dildaar act! And I am not saying this because they took care of the tab! It was the attitude and natural friendliness.

We met Maeve and Ken at Howth, the fishing/port village, part of the Howth Head peninsula in the north of Dublin Bay. When we set out from Dublin in the morning, it was an overcast grey sky threatening to spill over in heavy rains any moment and it continued all the way to Howth where it eventually let it all out, soon after we arrived there. Much before Howth, the Bay made its presence felt with the waters disappearing into grey skies in the distant horizon. The train station at Howth is an old  quaint building with a yellow coloured frontage, something out of a storybook. The first thing we did was go into a provision store close to the station and guess what, the proprietor is  Chinese and the young Chinese lady manning the store was more than eager to talk. She was certainly far away from home which, she said was close to the Russian border! While we were bundled up in jackets, she chirped away nineteen to the dozen.... the cold in Ireland was nothing compared to the one they had back home, she loved the place, she liked her job, only that she didn't get enough time to make lots of friends!

As you walk down from the station, the harbour appears on the left, packed with fishing trawlers and everything that  operate on water. While it is still a good walk away, the cold gusty wind swooshes in making one tighten the jacket and hold up a hand over your eyes to stop the stray flying hair as well the piercing wind get into your eyes. The downpour is sudden, even though expected, necessitating a dive into the first cafe we hit. The grey outside darkens further while piping hot fried bacon, chips and the works buoy up our spirits. However, there is no bar here and heavy drizzle or no drizzle we decide to find out one. It's The Abbey Tavern, another old world pub. all busy and bustling with quite a few large parties of families and friends. One wall is rugged natural stones and polished old wooden furniture gleam in the golden lights. The barman is on his toes and waiters rush about with tall glasses and platefuls of food.  But we have to get to the harbour and we do, lashing wind, heavy drizzle and the ever growing ghoulish grey all around notwithstanding. There's a lighthouse in the distance but there is no question getting there in the weather we are experiencing. In fact, the all grey water and sky, the rains and the full speed wind enough to knock a child off would have been, in another day and place, the perfect day to cuddle up in bed with a good read and a steaming cup of ginger tea. There is a semi circular ancient stone wall, with broad steps on the inner side, snaking around beyond which lies the sand and the waters. It becomes a matter of this far and no further, but we do climb the steps and laugh out loud at the sheer enjoyment of it all. For some strange reason we seem to be bubbling with laughter and going out ' wooo...' at the top of our voice.
 

 

 

When you walk into Howth from the train station, the Howth Market on the right, a little way down is eye catching despite the inclement weather. Markets to me translate into magnets and naturally one had to check it out. Small stalls with bright facades and varieties of goodies from fruits, veggies, kitchen ingredients (all mostly organic) to cafes, trinkets and such. There was one with  tempting array of breads, rolls, buns etc and and the wafting aroma called for closer inspection.The apricot bread won hands down, simply scrumptious bursting with fresh apricots which, initially had the family amused at my bread hang up but later they couldn't get enough of it! I also couldn't stop myself from picking up a small bottle of the luscious and tingling balsamic vinegar (condimento balsamico made in Modena, Italy) because that it was so good and not because the person manning the stall was drop dead gorgeous and so Italian!

 

 

   

Lunch time finally and the spouse is keen to go to a restaurant called Aqua, which seemed to be well known. But it was not our day as it was closed for lunch and off we went again to Beshoffs- oyster bar, fishmonger and market - all under one roof, where earlier on our way to the harbour we had admired the sea fare on display for sale. And there is where me met Maeve and Ken who had come to Howth for the day to lunch and pick up seafood. Besides Irish apple cider, wines and delicious piping hot mussels and chili hot (as requested) crab claws among other we are on a binging trail. Seeing the camera, the gracious lady at the next table asks she could take a family picture for us. We are only too happy and that's how we got talking. She is Maeve, mother of two daughters and a son and a grandmother. Her husband, Ken who was briefly away joins in and we crowd around a table.  He is an IT consultant, travels a bit, she is a homemaker and together they are also part of the Airbnb (www.airbnb.com) and have two guests at home. They have not only visited India but attended an Indian wedding at Bengaluru and done the Agra-Rajasthan circuit and walked through Chandni Chowk markets in Old Delhi. Its much fun to talk of India and Ireland, of families and food. Ken says that if he wasn't travelling on work the next day, they would have invited us home. It made us feel as if we had known them forever. Unfortunately, friends, old and new, have to move on and it is then their hospitality almost reduced me to tears. In between Ken had excused himself to go to the toilet and we never suspected a thing. He had cleverly settled the bill. It felt like being back home eating out with family and friends and all clamouring to pay the bill.  

 

As someone blessed to have travelled a bit,  this was our first such heart melting experience. This is not to say that taking care of the tab alone was the clincher or that those elsewhere are less friendly - in Delft (Netherlands) someone escorted me a long way to the church I wanted to see on a cold rainy April Sunday saying he would be happy to take me there or the two gentlemen working in a cafe-bar n Sofia (Bulgaria) who not only went out of their way but even drove me to yet another church that I was looking for - but just that the Irish gave us that unexplainable feeling of being among old friends. Like the old gentleman on a walk in Dun Laoghaire (it is not pronounced as it is written and trying to say the name like the Irish do turned out to be my bane! But I was told that the English way of saying it was Dun Leary) who not only patiently explained to us the way to the seafront and harbour, walking alongside, but that we had to go into a particular ice cream joint to try certain flavours. Then there was Father Patrick, handsome white haired and so endearing who also got along his friend and visiting priest Father Marcos from Seville to meet us. Then there was the gentleman at a fruit stall in Howth Market whose son, believe it or not, was right then in Arunachal Pradesh in extreme North East India (bordering China) teaching football! 

After Howth, it was time for Don Laoghaire and am I glad that we took the train to the east coast where it is located. In a departure from the norm at one of the stations a woman boarded the train and it was crystal clear that she was high on something else other than alcohol. With tattered jeans halfway down her bottom, reed skinny, tangled hair and emitting enough body odour to awaken the dead, she sprawled on the seat trying to drink milk from the little jerrycan she carried, with more dripping her vest like T-shirt than going down her throat and spilling all over the seats and floor. What I liked, as a woman, was that far from invoking sneering comments or ugly stares she was politely told what the time was when she loudly asked for it and, when a few stations away she rushed to the exit door and tottered in the process, many hands went up to help her.No judgements at all!

Don Laoghaire boasts of a lengthy harbour with rolling hills behind, an equally long pier and beautiful stately houses on the grounds rising up from the sea front. This is the place where you find the renowned James Joyce Tower and as all readers of Ulysses will recall, the tower is the setting of the first chapter. The tower is now a museum dedicated to Joyce.The Joyce legacy announces its presence firmly in other ways too like the lines from his semi-autobiographical, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, 'The first faint noise of gently moving water......broke the silence, low and faint and whispering,' painted on the blue wall beyond which the waters moved faster and with enormous noise thanks to the wet weather.  We of course, had to go to Teddy's the suggested ice cream parlour; the marshmallow one looked cute, all pink and white but the sweetness was a tad overpowering.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soon it was time to head back to Dublin and as the train rolled by with stations with poetic names it seemed perfectly in sync that Ireland is where several towering literary giants lived, worked and wrote and still do...........................