Big portions if you can Bear the hairdos
RONAN O’REILLY RONAN’S TABLE
Ithink I may have mentioned here before that I know nothing about rugby and care even less. This also came up in conversation a while back when a friend happened to say that Jamie Heaslip is apparently a regular at a café close to my home. I replied that I wouldn’t know what he looked like even if he walked up and gave me a massive kick up the backside. Except I used a different word, of course, one that rhymes with farce. It was at this stage that my friend pointed out that were such a thing to happen, I’d recognise him quick enough all right. With that in mind, I decided to visit Bear – which Jamie has a business interest in – when he was otherwise occupied captaining Leinster in the Champions Cup quarter-final against Bath at Lansdowne Road last Saturday afternoon (on a point of principle, I refuse to refer to it as the A**** S******). Better safe than sorry, after all.
Bear is a joint enterprise – or a ‘colab’ as it is described on the menu – between Heaslip and the people behind Jo’Burger. The official website has an information section which seems to have been written with a defiantly take-it-orleave-it attitude, though I can’t put my finger on why exactly it comes across this way.
It certainly isn’t anything to do with the stipulation that children under the age of 12 are welcome before 7pm if they ‘happily sit in their seat’, which is only right and proper. Whatever the reason, I just get the strong impression that whoever compiled it agonised long and hard in an effort to strike the right note of cool.
For what it’s worth, the main points are that they do takeaway at lunchtime, there’s a full bar (but no Coca-Cola) and they have DJs working the decks (I think that’s the correct expression) between Thursdays and Sundays. Oh, and there is also the crucial detail that Jamie H usually has a baked potato for lunch or, as an alternative, a pork chop and a salad. Which is, I presume, of interest to some folk.
It is a big enough place, which can seat just over 100 people. There are four alfresco tables out front and another three in the window, but the main dining space is behind the bar area. I correctly predicted that the sort of people who go a restaurant linked to a celebrated rugby player probably watch the game as well, so I almost had the place to myself.
Yet I quickly began to feel that the supercilious tone I detected on the website seemed to have filtered down to the frontline personnel.
A very pleasant woman showed me to a table at the front, but the young hipster with the stupid haircut who took my order gave off the impression that he was either bored, doing me some sort of favour or both. When another hipster with an equally ludicrous ‘do delivered my main course I had to call him back to request a fork, even though it should have been clear to him that I hadn’t got one.
Meanwhile, all I’ll say about the music being played is that it must be more for the staff ’s enjoyment than for that of the paying punters.
Anyway, the food. I made a mistake with my starter and, frankly, I only have myself to blame. When I saw the words ‘hen’ and ‘egg’ beside each other on the menu, I immediately thought of the vivid yellow yolk oozing out from a crispy, breadcrumb-encrusted globe.
If I had actually read as far as the bit where it said ‘truffled mayonnaise’, I’d have realised different. So what I ended up getting was a jar of a gloopy-looking substance to be spread over toast.
Though I half-heartedly tried to eat it, it just wasn’t for me. I’m sure it was absolutely fine if you like that sort of thing, but unfortunately I don’t. My fault, though, not theirs. Thankfully I got on better with my main course of chicken, which had been spiced and then grilled.
It came in a generous portion and basically struck me as a posh version of KFC, which isn’t a bad thing at all. The side order of chips was fine.
Throughout it all, though, not once did anyone ask whether everything was okay.
I’m guessing here, but I imagine they’d probably consider that an uncool thing to do. As I was leaving I thanked Hipster Number Two, who was hanging around at the end of the bar. ‘No worries,’ he replied. No worries? And this after me leaving an undeserved tip of a fiver. Speaking of kicks up the backside...
‘The young hipster who took my order gave the impression he was doing me some sort of favour’