36 hours in Dublin, June 2024
My heart is as soft as buttermilk.
I studied abroad at Trinity twenty whole years ago, and then I spent the summers of my thirties leading creative writing programs for high school students, mainly in Dublin with a one-time detour to Prague. When I was a student, I literally ran out of pocket money despite getting most of my daily intake from the five-euro slice-and-soda special at the now-defunct Lucky Coady on Dame Street. As a trip leader, I got intimately familiar with big group bookings, allergen menus, pre-ordering bibimbap for thirty (Kimchi Hophouse), sussing the nicest pre-theatre dinners (Mr. Fox) and most secluded private rooms (second floor of The Legal Eagle). I’ve mourned the disappearance or even evolution of places I loved, like the original Fish Shop with two employees and a kicking set menu (the fried plaice!) or more recently Dice Bar and P Mac’s, whose trademark red tapers I’ll miss.
If Cassie Stokes asked me (imagine) about the best restaurant in Dublin, I’d be tempted to call out the peppery ravioli del plin in subterranean Terra Madre, which I learned about from a random blog entry back when blogs could still be found via Google. My first time in, I ate alone alone: no book, no phone. Burrata before the burrata boom, served intact with anchovies on the side. Panna cotta for dessert, but dessert isn’t the point (and more recently they’ve had a jiggly salted caramel budino, way more memorable). The point is the intimacy, the patient pace of service. The server managed to write my entire first name in my coffee foam and didn’t even tease me for ordering cappuccino at 11:00 PM.
Although I don’t lead trips anymore, I still like to feel for a pulse of what’s “new” in Dublin’s food scene, to complement reruns of the greatest hits with experimental trials. This is a city I often hear people disparage, but I think it’s because they did the Guinness Factory and Temple Bar (the bar not the neighborhood) and got deterred by the considerable weekend detritus and umbrella-led group tours. Obviously, I love Dublin—it’s dirty, expensive, often overrun with tourists, commercial, detached from the tropes of “authentic” Irish culture, but it’s better known to me than cities I’ve spent whole adult years in. My great-great-great grandparents on my father’s side were born in the east of Ireland—Fitzpatricks, Keoughs, McKeons—but I don’t think my attachment is about historical longing the way a lot of US-Ireland exchange often is (which isn’t to say I don’t thrill to the occasional customs officer waving me through, welcome home). I think the pull is a specific impression I had as a student, less grounded in a notion of belonging than in feeling blissfully adrift. At nineteen I felt free, an autonomous, anonymous person in the wider world, and that is the texture every return conjures: the fantasy of adulthood as mobility, urbanity, rather than the too-situated monotony of actually being grown.
That it’s easy to miss Dublin’s magic doesn’t detract from its potency once discovered, and there’s always more to try and assess than my calendar/wallet/incipient gout can accommodate. When I gram food and drink, people ask how I decide where to go and how I can eat this much (without gaining weight? Which I do). My to-eat/drink lists, which I keep in a doc versus using an app, are an aggregate of food blogs, food critics, Google reviews, Yelp reviews, usually not Trip Advisor reviews, and unsponsored tagged photos (often the most telling). Clearly the joke that I’ve applied all my academic training toward restaurant research is missing its punchline. My health caveat is that a typical trip sees us walking ~10 miles/day; concerned parties may assume I’m pounding the cobblestones and drinking some modicum of water between rounds, but I intend to drive this thing until the wheels fall off.
Kevin and I actually stopped through Dublin together last November—his first time, just overnight flying home from Berlin, and at that time we did some tried-and-trues: fish and chips and oysters at the Fish Shop counter, Belfast coffees at Bar 1661, and a small veggie full Irish at Lovinspoon before the airport. This time we intentionally prioritized new spots, so here’s that, the most recent 36 hours in Dublin:
We got off the bus around 5:00 PM and checked into the Wren, which has been a godsend: a new hotel that’s central yet quiet, “cozy” (small footprint) yet intelligently designed (high ceilings, smart lighting, separate toilet/shower, huge common spaces). Tried to stop into fancy car park bar Amy Austin for a pre-dinner drink but were told they were entirely booked for dinner—this is early on a Monday evening. I wish hosts were nicer about relaying this information instead of doing cartoonish disbelief that one might want to come in for a drink when the entire place is lined with bar seating. We pivoted to La Cave instead, which is underground right off Grafton and very red inside: dinner with your mistress vibes. You can get a pretty great glass of bubbles in relative peace for 11 euros. The main event was dinner at Kicky’s: I’d been moved by some suave prep videos and recent accolades but harbored suspicions it might be overhyped, and after dining would say it’s more Best Socials than Best Service. The service was net weak: we sat for fifteen minutes before placing a drink order, and their bar (typically the chummiest seat?) is cordoned off with glass à la COVID, so the tender doesn’t serve or interact. Reviewers have balked at their minimum food order policy, which dictates diners order the equivalent of three dishes each, and I get it: you don’t want to order more than you can at least attempt to finish. Did we want to start with a grammably massive wedge of focaccia? No. We had a small portion of the seasonal gnocchi with peas (the first of several memorable pea-pearances this season) and the steak for two with creamy pepper sauce and compulsory sides of salad and spuds. I’m an au poivre freak and wished the sauce was spicier, less salty; the steak was cooked beautifully but the sides weren’t memorable, and the service was so indifferent, we didn’t even order dessert. Or we drank our dessert at Vintage Cocktail Club. I like when bars control their capacity with a doorbell but aren’t actual speakeasies with full-on passwords, and even though the candlelight and flocked wallpaper attracts more noisy Americans every year, the cocktails are so consistently elegant (contra to me explaining what’s in a Manhattan at Peruke & Periwig). Last stop: Caribou in the former P Mac’s space, from the portfolio that includes Bonobo in Stoneybatter. This was bittersweet: the mid-century woods vinyl-listening-bar style is so refined compared to P Mac’s dark snugs, but the vibe felt harmonious with the prior crowd (if a little younger). Service was friendly, cocktails were innovative but not annoying, I don’t drink weird beers but it’s still nice to have a bar with loads of seating at one of the most vibrant corners in city centre. Would return.
In the morning: trekked 40 minutes up to Elliot’s after much hand wringing over which bakery to try. Runners-up: No Messin’ (inside the new Proper Order location) and Russell Street. I associate Phibsborough on the northside with walking students up to Glasnevin; Kevin kept calling it Bushwick. It’s a neighborhood Tony Bourdain would’ve liked. In this case, it was a lot of walk for comparatively little reward: they didn’t have their seasonal choux out, the ham and butter sandwiches were being prepped (looked generous, delicious) but not available until noon, their outdoor seating was full, and I was so overwhelmed by the perverse abundance of the maritozzi I just defaulted to a cardamom knot. What is this, La Cabra? Kevin got the kimchi brioche (under a mountain of grated parm??) and we went across the street to Two Boys Brew for legit coffees but were too shy to eat our bootleg buns inside.
Bit of unsuccessful shopping in the jewelry annex of Powerscourt and unsuccessful makeup shopping at Space NK (went for the Lisa Eldridge stock but they carry very little in this location) before a late lunch at Daruma, a newish izakaya in Temple Bar: charming wooden interior, warm service, creamy wasabi, considerable sake list with clarifying tasting notes. Would definitely return here over Yamamori (mid) and even Ukiyo, which has been in the lunch rotation for years. A steamy little bowl of miso really hits after weeks of (happily) eating chips and mayonnaise out west. If you’re in Temple Bar you may as well stop into Photo Museum Ireland, tucked behind the also wonderful three-screener Irish Film Institute. The contemporary photography museum is free; we caught an exhibit of Japanese photographer Akihiko Okamura, who moved to Ireland in 1969 and photographed the Troubles—they even have his original Nikon on display.
If you’re into ice cream you have to sample Murphy’s. Literally, the staff will approach you in line to offer limitless samples of their Irish-inspired/sourced flavors (whiskey chocolate, brown bread, Dingle sea salt, etc.). I don’t know how they incentivize but Murphy’s has the chillest, nicest staff anywhere. I did a small cone of Dingle gin (boozy and floral as usual) and strawberry, which is only made seasonally a few months of the year but was sadly weak on berry flavor. Maybe too early!
We lucked into the pair of indoor window seats at Loose Canon for a glass of chilled sparkling red and Drury’s best people-watching. This is where you drink really curated wines by the glass then get drunk on the aroma of Irish cheese toasties being pressed behind the counter (the original with spring onion). But the thing about most Cool Dublin Places is there’s only so long I can balance on a backless wooden stool. We had more time to kill and wanted to stop into Fish Shop’s Spanish sister Bar Pez, or Row Wines (which I didn’t realize replaced Coppinger Row, where I had a wonderful dinner bellied up to the bar in 2018) but both were closed until later in the week, so we carried on to Note: austere Scandi interior, chillier service; all cocktails are batched and ungarnished which makes the price feel a bit emperor’s new clothes...but we liked watching women arrive to an evening yoga class at the Kubrickian-looking Space Between studio across the way. Afternoon drinking evolved into pre-dinner drinking: we moved to Portobello to check out the aptly named Sitting Room above Delahunt. It’s easy to imagine a version of the Sitting Room that’s corny and ineffective but I was totally sold on the drinks and the aura, the intricate Victorian plasters and chandeliers, the light through the big bay window onto Camden Street, the Joyce epigraph in the menu. We had an Irish whiskey Manhattan here before trundling next door to Pickle, lauded for exciting and exceedingly flavorful, Irish-inflected North Indian cuisine. Started with a game duo including a venison samosa with fiery raspberry chili chutney, then the requisite butter chicken and a pork chop, but the star was the 36-hour dal bukhara: black lentils “with buttered mint” that would’ve satisfied on its own with a tandoori bread basket (we ordered two with only a side portion of the dal, and wished we’d gotten all garlics instead of the medley). So rich, savory, totally greater than the sum of its ingredients. Some food is thrilling because of its provenance or rarity, but this dish lets you taste technique inseparable from time itself. I cannot wait to eat this again.
A parting glass at Bar 1661, which even between menus offers the smartest drinks in the city. The complimentary welcome punch in a votive holder-sized glass is a sweet touch; I love seeing parties light up as they hit the tables. The people next to us asked for gin and tonic but you’d be remiss not to get something with poitín—at least one round. The great thing about a 4:45 PM flight is knowing you have ample time for breakfast in the morning. We headed to Fumbally Cafe in the Liberties, which had an incredible buzz on for earlyish on a Wednesday morning. Photos of this hybrid café-restaurant-grocery don’t do the space justice: soaring ceilings and crooked paintings were a salve for the studied cool you see everywhere. Shiny focaccia slices on display, a plump sugared donut with blueberry pastry cream that I regret not sampling, all manner of Irish produce and specialty goods—blackcurrant jam, powdered kombu, a small bookcase of artisanal hot sauces. We sat in and I had the housemade ricotta on sourdough with minty peas plus an oil-fried egg (lacy edges) and fermented hot sauce on the side: divine. The peas were grassy and firm, the ricotta cool and velvety. Kevin had borlotti beans on toast in a caramelized onion and tomato sauce, also moreish. I didn’t get that blueberry donut because I was saving myself for one final sweet at The Morning bakery, and while it wasn’t last summer’s blackberry choux, the glazed peach donut was beautiful. The Morning does the softest, freshest donuts I’ve had anywhere but Greenpoint’s Peter Pan—you can be truly FULL and still put one down, and I would have done, had my donut reverie not been unceremoniously terminated by a pigeon shit to the head (a palpable hit). I did my best to rinse my bangs with hand soap, mourned the theft of my appetite, and ate a full bag of cheese and onion Taytos in the airport.
Other places I dig and didn’t visit this time: Bastible, Bread 41, Brother Hubbard, 147 Deli, Etto, Govinda’s, Grano, Grogan’s, Monty’s, L. Mulligan Grocer, The Ramen Bar, Shouk, The Winding Stair.
Other places that’ll have to wait for the next time: A Fianco, Allta, Assassination Custard, Forest Avenue, El Grito, Library Street, Mae, Nomo Ramen, Scéal Bakery.
Until next.
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