The New York Times called it the Fried Calamari Index. Here's how it works: put any word into the fiendishly clever algorithm that is the paper's graphing tool, Chronicle, and it will draw a coloured line on a graph showing how often the word has been mentioned in the paper since 1860. So "prohibition" shows a big peak between 1920 and 1940. The word "elephant" rumbles along in the foothills with occasional mentions. Elephants never become hot news.

First let's doff our caps first to the unapologetic arrogance that if it's not in the New York Times it's not happening. Hummus didn't happen until the late 1970s, which must be news to the millions of people in the Middle East who've been eating it for centuries. Still, it's a fun way for word nerds to waste time online.

Journalist Neil Irwin used it to track restaurant trends, or how a dish ripples out from one kitchen into the world. By the Chronicle’s measure, it took fried calamari 16 years to peak from first mention in 1980 to its hottest year in 1996. Hence one fried calamari unit (or 16 years) is the trend against which other foods such as sun dried tomatoes, pesto and hummus, can be measured.

Using the algorithm in my head (not so fiendishly clever or data-rich) I have identified a younger trend. It’s called the Abap and it took off in Irish restaurants circa 2008. It’s the school of putting food on “Anything but a plate” and it is alive and thriving in Brookwood, a restaurant on Lower Baggot Street in Dublin.

Brookwood is at the business end of the street, where hordes of hungry people released from their desks at lunchtime go roaming in search of food. Its website makes it look roomy, but it’s teeny, in the footprint of a small shop on the ground floor with floors above and below to sweat this prime piece of real estate.

They've taken out the plate glass shop window and ye-olded the outside with black tiles and a square-paned window. In the lobby there is a cluster of bulbs in the ceiling. Then you walk into a room with a small open kitchen and tables on the ground floor. The tables hug the wall tightly, so that sliding into a booth feels a little like sitting into a train seat. It's an impression heightened by curtains on the mirrors and a small fussy lamp on the table. It just feels cramped and soulless. They've gone for the Orient Express and gotten Tesco Express.

I'm here to swap jars with a fermenting friend. I'm giving her a skoby (not just a Dublin term of abuse also a blob of floating yeast) in exchange for some keffir grains. Sad, I know. And they have jars on the menu. Your food comes in a jar. Christine thinks it might be a take on the lunch in a jar trend on Pinterest. People pack a tasty salad, layering the ingredients in a jar to take to the office and Instagram them in a "look at my lovely lunch" sort of way.

But no. Her jar is an old fashioned tin-lidded parfait number which comes on a wooden board. It’s supposed to be egg and crab which sounds chunky and rustic. But the only egg element seems to be an uninspiring mayonnaise mixed with the crab. It’s a flavourless portion of slightly bitter crab which barely reaches an inch’s depth on the jar. For €7.50.

My starter of wild mushrooms on toast is fine, although the mushrooms, which are smothered in tarragon cream, look tame to me. And while the crab is laughably small, mine is huge. "I think as Carrie would say in Homeland, 'They've made you', " is the theory.

We both get a glass of their super juice which comes in cut-glass tumblers that are a fun contrast from what you would expect. They would seem more appropriate for swirling heavy liquor. The juice is the best thing of the lunch, fresh kale and celery flavours with lemon and ginger.

Two salads arrive. In true Abap style they’re served in cast iron casserole dishes. One is fairly bad. The other is tragic. I get the okay one. It’s a layer of leaves dressed with a sickly sweet dressing which tastes like it came in a jar. There are chunks of warm lobster tail meat dusted in paprika, which are the nicest thing in it. The chorizo is rubbery and overspiced.

Christine’s “mixed leaf” salad has that unmistakable soapy, musty smell of bagged salad. Yes, I know some salad leaves come in bags. They aren’t being hand-delivered to restaurants by basket carrying wood nymphs. But in better places, you can’t taste the bag. It’s dressed with the same sweet dressing and has chickpeas and small chunks of feta sprinkled over it. She attempts a few mouthfuls, but it’s dismal. And the almost-full casserole dish is hefted back to the kitchen without question.

There’s good coffee and green tea, then it’s back out to the post-lunch rush. I spend the journey home wondering about the lifespan of the restaurant trend for props and gimmicks with the food as an afterthought.

Lunch for two came to €50.

Brookwood Dublin, 141 Baggot Street Lr, Dublin 2, tel: 01-661 9366

THE VERDICT: Not much style and no substance 4/10 Facilities: Fine Music: Background pop Food provenance: None on the menu Wheelchair access: Yes Vegetarian options: Limited