Modish, with melt-in-the-mouth food
So it seems that running a modish restaurant – a properly trendy place where both the food and staff were excellent – doesn’t necessarily involve hiring a bunch of waiters who seem unconcerned about the people who’ve walked through the door to shell out good money. Who’d have guessed? Not a certain well-known rugby player with an entrepreneurial streak, by the looks of thing in another very recent review you’ll have read on this page.
Anyway, enough of that. Come with me now to Temple Bar. Let’s just say I don’t generally make a habit of lingering on this particular 28-acre site for any longer than is strictly necessary, not even during daylight hours. I occasionally do an elegant shimmy through its side streets on a Saturday afternoon as I cross the city from north to south or vice versa, but that is about the extent of it nowadays. It must be the best part of two decades since I have willingly raised a glass in one of its pubs.
I did return a few years back to see what it was actually like on a Friday evening, but that was more of a social experiment than anything else. On that occasion, I walked into one of its best-known establishments, The Oliver St John Gogarty, to find the entire clientele dancing merrily to the old Jeff Beck hit Hi Ho Silver Lining.
Nor, for the avoidance of doubt, did this scene unfold in the early hours of the morning; we’re talking 8pm, tops.
It all became a bit clearer when I returned again in the summer of 2011, this time in a professional capacity. I was there to research a feature on how plans to transform Temple Bar into a bustling hub of culture and creativity had floated away on a sea of alcohol. Even though I knew the score at the time, it was still a bit of an eye-opener. Pubs were packed by mid-afternoon and live ballad sessions routinely went on from lunchtime until 2.30am. The statistics were a surprise, too. While there were 10 pubs in the area when the State-sponsored Temple Bar Properties was set up to oversee a general facelift in 1991, the number eventually trebled. Almost an extra acre of drinking space was added to the district during the first five years of TBP’s existence. To pick an example, take Flannery’s. In 1991, it consisted of one small room frequented mainly by locals; nowadays, long since renamed as The Temple Bar, it covers a monstrous 10,000 square feet of floor space.
Nor is that the end of it, either. Even if you give the pubs a wide berth, the streets are thronged with cackling slappers wearing leprechaun hats. The blokes aren’t much better. Meanwhile, it’s a full-time occupation trying to body-swerve those unfortu- nates whose job is to usher gullible passers-by into restaurants where the laminated menus have pictures of the food on them. Still, it’s not all horrendous; the National Photographic Archive and Gallery of Photography are pretty good.
It was while walking from one to the other recently that I passed through the fairly impressive Temple Bar food market, held in Meeting House Square every Saturday. Before we left two things had happened. First, Mrs O had bought a traditional Breton crepe (although I suspect the filling of banana and Nutella was slightly less traditional). Second, I’d spotted a new restaurant. The Meeting House is on the site of what used to be Eden, which managed to be a reasonably elegant venue even though the tables and chairs always reminded me of furniture you’d see on someone’s lawn at the more genteel end of suburbia.
By contrast, nothing about The Meeting House looks like it came from a garden centre. It has a dramatic, almost Gothic feel about it. Striking artworks adorn the walls and the tables are painted in a very upfront manner. You’d almost expect the late Isaac Hayes or, alternatively, Huggy Bear out of
to stride by in a wide-brimmed hat.
Let me get a couple of minor quibbles out of the way first. The wine list needs expanding and the music was a bit loud. That said, our wine and the sounds when we were there – mainly classic Northern Soul – were very good indeed. Foodwise, the dishes on the menu cost €9.99. They’re basically larger versions of tapas portions and designed for sharing. Plus, a discount applies when three or more are ordered. We had four and the damage came in at €35.
The sashimi tacos – yellow fin tuna served in Mexican-style shells with a chilli soya sauce – were excellent, as were the Burmese pork ribs. But the real winners were the mini Asian burgers and the melt-in-the-mouth slices of pepper-crusted steak. You could practically taste the attention to detail and sheer TLC in every bite. The Meeting House is certainly the best new restaurant I’ve been in so far this year and maybe the best, full stop.