No poncey drama...but still a fine presentation
Trust me, I’ll get to the point eventually. First, though, we need to talk about the dramatic arts and why – unusually for me – I have been thinking about them a lot recently. It might be because a friend of mine is just back from New York, where he saw a Broadway production that he’s been speaking about in the most glowing terms. I have absolutely no idea what he thought of the show itself, mind you, but he was certainly impressed by the fact that it lasted just over an hour. That in itself reminded me of the time I was dragged along to something that was on in the Dublin Fringe Festival. Not only was it pretentious beyond belief, it went on for what felt like 628 days. Even so, I was still surprised that there was only a mild ripple of applause from the audience when it finally came to an end. We headed straight for the bar, of course, to try and salvage something of the evening. It was only when I asked Mrs O if she was ready for another drink that the dreadful truth emerged. Her reply remains with me all these years later. ‘We haven’t got time,’ she said. ‘The second half is about to start.’
I suppose the main reason I’ve been thinking about the theatre, though, is that I’m currently re-reading the great Keith Waterhouse’s second volume of autobiography, Streets Ahead, which is quite possibly the funniest book ever written. The very first paragraph fondly describes the Salisbury Tavern – a lovely pub in London’s theatreland where I have occasionally raised an elbow myself – and its actorly clientele, both working and ‘resting’. Still, none of the anecdotes even come close to the famous scene that unfolded in one of Dublin’s best-loved theatrical haunts, Neary’s, back in 1987. That was the occasion when the late Alan Devlin marched offstage midway through a performance of HMS Pinafore in the nearby Gaiety Theatre, loudly declaring: ‘F*** this for a game of soldiers, I’m going home.’ Still wearing his admiral’s costume and ceremonial sword, he proceeded to walk through the back entrance to Neary’s and order a pint of stout. As you would. We know all this because he was still rigged up with a radio microphone and his conversation with the barman was relayed back to the audience.
Sadly, I missed that particular evening. But I did see a mildly amusing incident some years later in McCloskey’s pub in deepest Dublin 4. It involved the celebrated stage actor Donall Farmer, better known to television viewers for his role as Tim Devereaux, the bicycle-riding priest in Glenroe. He was having a quiet pint one evening when some fool walked past and, presumably thinking no one had ever made this particular gag before, quipped: ‘How’s it goin’, Father.’ Being a civilised sort, Mr Farmer didn’t dignify this with a verbal reply. He just smiled in the way that Love/Hate’s Nidge does when he is about to decapitate some poor unfortunate with a golf club.
Anyway, the very tenuous excuse for mentioning it is that the pub in question is right next door to this week’s restaurant. It is called The Morehampton Brasserie and occupies the same space that used to be the restaurant above Donnybrook Fair. I’d better put that in context, though. For many years, Donnybrook Fair was a very ordinary convenience store. About a decade ago, the shop was reinvented as an upscale destination for the sort of people who like buying obscurely shaped pasta and don’t mind paying top dollar for a bar of organic chocolate.
The upstairs restaurant, which opened a couple of years after the revamped shop, has re-emerged with a new name and new management. The simple but attractive room is pretty much unchanged. Meanwhile, though there is nothing particularly poncey or elaborate on offer, the menu has moved into more sophisticated territory.
Both our starters – calamari for me, chicken liver parfait for my companion – came in generous portions and were very good. My ribeye was nicely marbled and had plenty of flavour. Meanwhile, my pal said his crab salad benefited from the pickled cucumber element, although he didn’t taste much avocado in there. He also polished off an apple crumble for dessert, the glutton.
Service, by a very pleasant young lady called Kamila, was excellent. It is also worth noting that the presentation in The Morehampton Brasserie is impressive. So much so, in fact, that I’m almost tempted to describe the sauces accompanying my starter as looking like a riot of colour on the plate. But only a complete tosser would say something like that. So I won’t.