Patiotans,and chickenàlaBray
The Martello-Hotel, Strand Road, Bray, Co. Wicklow themartello.ie (01)2868000
A H, Ireland on a bank holiday Sunday evening. Well, Bray, Co. Wicklow, more specifically, where everyone is pretending they’re really in Benidorm. The effect is achieved largely with the help of a forest of patio heaters outside the Martello Hotel, one of three neighbouring premises on the esplanade – the others are Jim Doyle’s and the Porterhouse – that act as a magnet for crowds all year round.
Patio heaters used to make sense to me but ever since I started thinning on top, they leave me feeling a little like a curly lasagne under lights in a work canteen, gently crisping at the edges.
I haven’t been to Bray for ages. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with it. I loved it as a child, when it was a huge treat to go to Dawson’s amusements to ride the bumper cars.
As boys growing up in Ballybrack, a short hop away on the 45A, we often used to go out to Bray by ourselves, usually carrying Coke and sandwiches, and climb to the top of Bray Head. I say ‘climb’ but it actually is quite a gentle walk.
In my early teens, I got a summer and Saturday job in Nicholl’s on the main street, where I sold duvets and sheets, an endeavour for which I was paid three quid a day. My bus fare and lunch cost £1.20, so I wasn’t exactly banking a lot for my labours, but at least I ensured a generation of kids in the town got to embrace Scandinavian living. Even today, you could buy me two pints and I could talk to you about tog ratings all night.
I had cousins in the town, and my ex-wife is from there, so Bray has played quite a significant role in my life. While it’s hardly the resort it was in its relatively recent heyday, there’s a Victorian charm that lingers and I retain a huge affection for it.
So when a friend was over from England for the weekend and we decided that schlepping into Dublin was probably irresponsible given that he had to be at the airport on Monday morning at 6.30am, we settled on Bray. First, we had a couple of pints at the Harbour Bar, which serves one of the best pints of Guinness in the country. Tim, being English, lit upon the Punk IPA at €6.40 a pint. The pub was serving what looked like excellent toasted sandwiches, and I would have killed for one, but as a recently diagnosed diabetic, my dietary needs now are a little more specific.
So we trooped along the beach under moody skies and arrived at the Martello, which was hopping. It has a large courtyard, and a lovely glass portico where seats always are at a premium. Tim would happily have sat outdoors under the patio heaters but since I value the hair I have left, I insisted we go inside. He protested only until he saw a woman in her early twenties wearing a bandage dress that looked like it had been painted on. There wasn’t a peep out of him after that; in fact, I ended up having to drag him home because he was so taken with ‘the talent’.
He started with a bowl of spicy chicken wings (€7.95) that came with the ubiquitous celery and blue cheese dressing. He would, he said, have liked a bit of actual crumbed cheese in there but otherwise polished them off. For the main course, he had more chicken – a Cajun sandwich this time (€13.50) – which he declared excellent, though he found the dressing on the side salad a little oily. As for me, well, the chickpea korma burger was sensational, huge, with an almost meaty firmness and bursting with flavour.
I can’t eat ordinary potatoes any more, so it was a joy to find sweet potato fries on the menu. Though advertised at €3.50, I was charged just €1.20 for them, perhaps because they really were a substitute for regular fries. They were delicious.
With a Diet Coke for me (I had to drive to the airport next morning), a pint of cider for him, and two coffees, the bill came to €46.65. Half of it probably went on gas for the patio heaters outside, where other customers looked like it was time for the Factor 50.
There’s something very honest about the Martello. The food is great, and great value too, it effortlessly manages to create a holiday atmosphere and, by the end of the night, those moody skies seemed a great deal less ominous.
I think I might have to rekindle my relationship with Bray.