Image Magazine : Down the Local
Nothing beats your favourite neighbourhood haunt. EMILY HOURICAN gatecrashes two village hotspots to see what all the fuss is about.
Valparaiso is discreetly located above Goggins pub in Monkstown, with the entrance tucked away around the side. Whatever it is they’re been doing up there for the last 19 years, it’s clearly working. This place was buzzing on a recent Sunday evening visit. Granted, it was one of these days annexed by Hallmark as a celebration of something that should really be celebrated every day, but still, five sittings – so the waitress told me – is impressive by any standards.
I had half expected a garish, “I-am-from-Espain” type vibe from Valparaiso, but in fact, this is a sleek, stylish and warmly understated spot, with plenty of cream and brown tones, lovely blond wood floors, and ultra-simple lines. Service is cheery and attentive and the menu €25.95 for three courses – a kind of next generation version of classica European fare.
In fact, I’m guesing the enduring popularity of this neighbourhood favourite is largely thanks to the menu – a clever down-the-middle exercise in giving the people what they want but without partonising them by making it bland and samey.
Husband and settled in with a huge stack of newspapers – it had been a busy type of day with little time for leisurely reading about Glenda/Johnny/Rosanna – and picked at some nice warmed bread, plain and tomato and fennel, while waiting for our starters. Our state of cosy relaxating was momentarily interrupted by a burst of flames as busband’s copy of the Observer dipped too close to the candle and caught fire. A pleasant smell of smoke coming, I thought at first, from the open fire in a corner of the room filled the air, I guess a split second later and we would have had some serious drama on our hands. As it was, husband managed to hold it all up tight and kill the fire before anyone really noticed, except a man sitting opposite, who gace us a conspiratorial wink.
Starters then arrived. I had goujons of lemon sole, which turned out to be two entire fillets, rolled and very lightly battered and fried until crisp and brown, and served with a subtle, soothing homemade tartar sauce. Husband’s duck liver and foie gras parfait with fig and pear chutney was rather delicious, but too rich moussey for me. Bit then, what would you expect from duck liver and foie gras parfait?
Next up, an excellent wild mushroom and spinach tart with cepe sauce for me. Light-as-air puff pastry, with a good shortness to it, topped with a rich, earthy combination of mushrooms and leaf spinach. Now, I don’t know my wild mushrooms, I really couldn’t tell a horn of plenty from a chanterelle, but there tasted impeccable. Fleshy but fascinating. With it was a salad of rocket and Parmesan, a nice, simple accompaniment. Husband, meanwhile, was making his way through a truly delicious grilled sirloin of beef, with chive mash and shallot and tarragon butter, in which the tarragon was wonderfully evident. A generous bowl of crisps on the side (€2 extra) were thin and crisp.
It had been a weekend of indulgence, so we rather modestly chose one dessert between the two of us – milk chocolate and praline mousse with orange cream and orange caramel, which arrived in a sort of cylinder shape, topped-and-tailed with a darker chocolate crust containing bits of something crunchy – puffed rice possibly. This was a jolly good, although I would love to try a version made with dark chocolate, but maybe that’s just me. The orange cream was delicate and pretty, and the orange caramel was a bit much. Luckily it was restricted to a drizzle around the outside of the plate, and easily avoided.
Two glasses of pleasant Argentinian Malbex from what is a short but efficient wine list, plenty of water and a coffee, and we were done. Meanwhile, the fifth sitting was busily getting underway and all was bright and bustling.
Dashing into town for Friday lunch on a whim, with a disolute friend over from hippy-dippy Brighton, seemed like a jolly plan, until we arrived at the Lennox Cafe Bistro and found that, despite it being well past lunchtime, there was not a seat to be had in the cosy room. “I will show you upstairs,” said our waitress, and my heart sank. The Lennox Cafe is adorable, a busy little room filled with paintings, flowers and cupcakes, and my experience of upstairs rooms in most restaurants is seriously grim. Happily, upstairs at the Lennox is just as cheering as down. Plenty of sparkling mirrors, picture wallpaper, black and white prints of Ye Olde Portobello and a roaring fire. This was super-welcome, despite the seasons being technically well advanced into spring, and we huddled up next to it. The Lennox is an excellent example of what can be done with sufficent imagination and dedication. These rooms are neither architecturally impressive nor particaularly spacious, and yet the general feel is wonderfully clean, bright and pretty.
We were joined by other friends keen to bunk off work early and see the Dissolute One, and we ordered, between us, a selection of dishes from what is an instantly appealing lunch menu with a slightly higgledy-piggledy feel to it – chicken and broccoli bake sits alongside quesadilla with smoked chicken, roasted peppers, gruyere and guacamole; and bruschetta with roasted Mediterranean veg, black olives and cherry tomatoes. Seemingly, chef Albert Broderick (ex Commons and Berkeley Court) has created a menu based on the food he loved growing up. Luckily, it’s the kind of food I loved growing up too.
Food appeared promptly, and was almost universally impressive. The Lennox club sandwich with grilled chicken breast, smoked bacon and slow-roasted plum tomato (€11.95) was a real winner. In a crusty bap rather than the usual neat faintly dpressing triangles of toasted pan, it was tender and juicy. Lennox fish and chips (€14.95) was a hunk of delicately cooked code in a light batter, with chips and tasty; while the tarter sause and pea puree that accommpanied the fish both acquitted themselves honourably. My fres crab salad with pink grapefruit, avocado and basil dressing (€13.95) came with a medium-boiled quail’s egg, a couple of giant caper berries and a heap of baby leave, lightly dressed and tossed with toasted pine nuts, which reminded me that I havent seen nearly half enough of these in recent times; the searchlight of fashion seems to have somewhat swept past them.
Also accompanying it was some very nice, malty, homemade brown bread. The crab was lightly dressed, plentiful and delicious, but the grapefruit just didnt do it for me. I can see the principle of tast-contrast, but it was slightly too bitter. And so I sidelined it, and the rest of the dish was a joy, working perfectly together.
Staff wear nealty-ironed pale blue shirts, which created a very good impression, and were jolly friendly and attentive (sometimes, in these upstairs rooms, one can feel quite forgotten). They pressed politely, caringly even for us to have desser, and when I found bread and butter pudding on offer, that was me sold. This came with creme Anglais and vanilla ice-cream (€5.50). The ice-cream I could have done without – overkill if you ask me- but the pudding itself was really good, slightly sticky and resistant to the spoon not a big mushy mess. Cupcakes on pretty plates arrived for the others, along a very respectable bill. Sadly, Portobello is not my neighbourhood, but after this, I may find myself wandering by way more often.
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