There's a new man in my life. His name is Ralph and he doesn't know I exist. Most evenings we play music together. I'm in my house. He's in Portland Oregan playing snare drum and guitar on dozens of backing tracks. Together in our own virtual New York basement club we play jazz standards, some at a heck of a lick. Georgia , It had to be You and Bye Bye Blackbird are the soundtracks to our beautiful musical friendship.
Fine dining is a bit like jazz. A chef learns to cook like a musician learns a tune. Then they get the confidence to meander off the melody and worry away at a phrase or a flavour to turn it into a familiar surprise. In the magpie world of restaurant reviewing, where new and shiny is always glinting up ahead, it’s good to return to the standard, check in with a master.
I last ate in Dublin’s Michelin- starred L’Ecrivain restaurant just over a decade ago, to mark great news. It was a mix of suits and celebrations, birthdays and business lunches, a relaxed unselfconscious place.
Arriving early to meet a friend on a Thursday evening it has the same feel. It’s been so long since she’s been here that she’s hazy on its exact location. L’Ecrivain is tucked away down the quiet end of Baggot Street through an archway. There’s a planning application notice outside to turn the ground floor into a cookery school and “food boutique”. The upstairs restaurant is a modern room with a vaulted ceiling and backlit windows that glow with a barley sugar amber light. We’re on the mezzanine level eye-to-eye with a flock of Graham Knuttel sheep staring intently from a tapestry on the far wall.
The waitress arrives with an amuse-bouche of magic mushrooms, which sounds pretty damn amusing. But no. I misheard her. They're shimeji mushrooms – small, nubbly, pale, delicious things with no mind-altering properties. They're on top of a Parmesan custard with a burnt-onion cracker with a bitter, charred taste that dials up the smooth creaminess below.
The menu has lots of pin-stripe suit fine dining staples such as fois gras and beef. But there are also new-old innovations such as seaweed and sea buckthorn and crubeens.
We go with wine by the glass and each start with a crisp Domaine Schlumberger pinot blanc (€10.50 apiece). Anne gets the scallops, which are fried in butter (with maybe some bacon fat) on one side, left white and soft on the other. They’re a touch over-done but good nonetheless. Dotted around the creamy scallops are fresh lovely things, an apple meringue, with smoked roe creme fraiche and sea buckthorn puree.
I’ve gone with hay-poached pigeon – two livid pink, beautifully cooked pieces of breast meat with background warmth from the hay element. There’s a tiny pile of quinoa and some toasted hazelnuts. It’s a perfect dish.
An “innocent G&T” palate cleanser of juniper and camomile sorbet with tonic and diced cucumber on top zings us out of any midway slump. Main courses are the classic variations on a theme. Mine is lamb, Anne’s is pork. She has a parcel of pink crubeen meat, a cube of belly and a croquette of minced pork, a reminder of the variety of meat on a pig.
The only complaint is that the croquette is a “bit school-dinnery” but the other elements on the plate – grapefruit and apple puree and liquorice – all dance around the meat. Bacon popcorn comes with a dehydrated white crumb that is, in essence, powdered pig. There’s also a terrific sauerkraut side, a dish you simply don’t see on enough menus.
My lamb is two generous pink rounds of saddle, a small portion of sweetbreads, some tangy seaweed tapenade on top of a crisp polenta chip and fresh leaves of pak choi.
We get two glasses of red, a Finca Resalso ribera (€10.50) and a crianza rioja Ramon Bilbao (€11).
Desserts pull out all the stops. An oak-smoked chocolate ganache is the best kind of culinary magic trick. It’s the combination of smoke and chocolate, which reminds you of how close to cigar smoke the darkest chocolate can be. The smoked chocolate flavour is so intense, eye-rolling just isn’t enough. Anne’s coconut pavlova is a merry go-round of beautiful things, a Bounty-bar meringue, teeny fruit pieces with micro coriander leaves on top and then a spoon-sticking mascarpone cream that brings the ride to a dead stop with its deep, dairy thickness. Then it’s back on the painted horse for more of the sweet zingy things.
The food in L’Ecrivain is in the special occasion bracket. There’s a “discretionary gratuity” of 12.5 per cent added to the bill. But like a brilliant jazz performance it’s well worth it. L’Ecrivain is a delight to rediscover.
Dinner for two with wine came to €215.33.
THE VERDICT: 8/10
Unpretentious, innovative and excellent food.
L'Ecrivain, 109A Lower Baggot St, Dublin 2, tel: 01-6611919
Facilities: Small but fine
Music: Low-level background
Food provenance: No producers named on the menu
Wheelchair access: No
