We’re only interested in taking cash from child-free hipsters. It’s not what the sign on the gastropub says when I rock up with two hungry children at 5.48pm. But it’s what I take from the “No under 18s after 5.30pm” notice that greets us on the door. Well they can stick their craft beers and their pulled pork. Even knackered parents don’t want to eat dinner at half four.
It’s been a bear of a day and as we trudge past the halal supermarkets and fast food joints on Dublin’s Clanbrassil Street, I remember I forgot to eat lunch. My husband has spotted the low blood sugar warning signs and is arriving separately with the youngest on the crossbar.
Plan B is a new “gastro-cafe” that we’ve spotted. It looks a little odd so we’ve chosen it more in hunger than in hope. The red metal grill-covers for the windows are stacked up outside as if they’re about to shut up shop. We peer in and ask if they are open. “Yes,” is the answer. And in the happiest of accidents we step out of the rush hour and into a little gem.
It’s so good, I’d like to keep it secret. Then there’d be more likelihood of dropping in to eat Nora Mori’s cooking whenever I’m feeling in need of a food hug. But it’s only a matter of time before word spreads and it’s jammed. The Italian community has already discovered it. Tonight, we’re the only non-Italians. There are just 23 chairs and we seem to fill up half the space.
The large-windowed shop used to be a hairdressers and where the sinks once stood there are stark white tables, black chairs and black and white striped plastic placemats. A red cartoon cat with green eyes scrapes red claws down the window.
The cafe is called Rottinculo. It’s an Italian swear-word that means “pain in the ass” Nora tells us, with an apologetic eye roll towards the kids. The seven- year-old couldn’t grin any wider as he announces to the table, “We’re having a pain in the ass dinner.”
The food smiling starts with an aperitivo of bright orange Aperol (a kind of Campari for wimps) and Prosecco. There are oven-warm yellow focaccia slices that crumble like cake, house-made pesto and Sicilian olives. "All organic," Nora says. Then I spot the photographs on the wall behind us of "our" farm on the slopes of Mount Etna in Sicily. It's where the olives for the olive oil, cherries and wine grapes are grown. Giuseppe Vasta (Nora's boyfriend) arrives midway through the meal to serve the food. He's in the pictures with his mother and grandmother harvesting grapes. He's heading there in November to help with the olive harvest.
Over the course of the evening and with at least one blood-curdling yell, at which Giuseppe pales, Nora produces the kind of Italian cooking that so rarely makes its way out of Italy to our shores.
There’s a wedge of silky layered lasagne with some meat, but also tiny pieces of butternut squash and a touch of cinnamon. It comes with a light bechamel sauce poured over it and the eldest child wolfs it down. There are perfect meatballs in a tomato sauce that says it’s been cooked the hard way.
The youngest has a pancake with raw tomatoes and a milky wobble of buffalo mozzarella. It comes from a small producer in Puglia, Giuseppe tells us. It is a world away from the rubbery balls of white mozzarella we know. This cheese tastes of milk and farm rather than plastic and blandness.
There’s the roast of the day for me. It’s two slices of beef with a light gravy sitting on a bulge of polenta. The only slight hitch are the vegetables, which include some tooth-testing dried peas and beans. Liam has the risotto, because Nora tells him he should. He’s not a risotto man, but declares the next day: “I’m still thinking about that risotto.” It’s a plate of sunny, yellow rice. I can’t see any chef sending it out without throwing a garnish on it to jazz it up with some contrasting colour. But it doesn’t need anything other than what’s already in it – an eye-closing creamy ooze of sweet butternut squash, olive oil, Parmesan, truffle oil and butter.
It all comes to a sweet end with small “bombs”, or buns with middles of cherry jam, almond or hazelnut. When two small chocolate fondant Mount Etnas arrive there’s is a reverential silence as they’re demolished with lava flows of rich, dark chocolate.
I have to go back a few days later to pay them as Giuseppe managed to press the wrong button on the machine and cancel my payment. And no, I don’t think it was a “let’s comp the critic” wheeze.
In this price bracket (the priciest plate is €14), it’s almost impossible to find food cooked from scratch with great ingredients. This quirky little gem is bliss. Dinner for five with an aperitif, soft drinks and a half bottle of house wine came to €89.
Rottinculo, 19 Clanbrassil St Lower, Dublin 8, tel: 01-5377074
The verdict: 8/10. Rustic Italian food that would make you weep for your Mamma
Facilities: Small, but fine
Music: Pop, on a standalone player in the corner
Food provenance: The Vasta farm in Sicily and small Italian producers
Wheelchair access: Yes, but no bathroom
Vegetarian options: Excellent
