Ronan O’Reilly samples the Green Fairy at Il Posto
INTERESTING tipple, absinthe. My extensive research on Wikipedia indicates that it originated in the western part of Switzerland towards the end of the 18th century, although it took another hundred years or so for it to reach the peak of its popularity. When that came about, it happened in the literary and arty circles of Gay Paree where it reportedly featured on the drinks orders of figures such as Picasso, Rimbaud and Toulouse-Lautrec as well as our own Joyce and Wilde.
As to whether Vincent van Gogh was actually inspired to sever his own ear after knocking back more than a sensible amount of the stuff, your guess is as good as mine. What is beyond dispute is that absinthe – variously known as ‘the green fairy’ or, more ominously, ‘the devil in a bottle’ – was banned in the United States and across much of Europe by 1915. It is only over the past few years that it has become legally available again on this side of the world.
I have no idea whether the stuff you can get in this country is the real McCoy or some sort of tamer version, but I do know that the genuine article is what might be called a big boys’ drink. Of the two occasions I’ve tried it, the circumstances couldn’t have been more different. The first time was in the South of France shortly after the ban was lifted there in 2011. We’d been out for dinner in the old town in Antibes and, full of good cheer and industrial quantities of vino, I suggested a nightcap in a basement music club next to the market.
The joint was jumping when we arrived. I vividly recall a bloke in a porkpie hat pumping out Sixties hits like Proud Mary and
Lady Madonna at the piano. As for the drink itself, the main thing I remember is it being served with water, sugar cubes and complicated-looking paraphernalia that had presumably been borrowed from a chemistry lab.
My only other encounter with absinthe came 18 months or so later in the venerable surroundings of the Stephen’s Green Hibernian Club. It is fair to say that this august institution, which has been a haunt of the well-heeled and influential since 1840, would not be known for its bohemian leanings. Yet I somehow managed to find myself there at a Christmas lunch with some like-minded souls. After we had eaten, one mischievous member of the company slipped out to the cloakroom and returned with a bottle of the green stuff that he’d smuggled in earlier. After we all poured ourselves discreet nips, it occurred to me that the management might take exception to this. I mentioned my concerns to our host, a long-standing member, who wasn’t in the slightest bit worried. ‘It’s the Club,’ he told me, as if explaining something to a particularly stupid child. ‘You can do whatever the f *** you like!’ Given that the average age of the people at the surrounding tables seemed to be about 137, however, that last point struck me as being slightly academic.
Anyway, the only reason I’m reminded of any of that is that this week’s restaurant happens to be right next door to the club in question. I think I’m right in saying that was a restaurant of the same name here back in the Nineties, but Il Posto has been under its current ownership – sisters Susannah and Amanda Jackson – since early 2003.
There is a handful of outdoor tables at ground level, but the main dining area is in the basement. It is an attractive room with white walls, dark floors, black- and-white photos of Italian scenes and around 15 well-spaced tables.
There is a set lunch menu (€18 for two courses, €23 for three), but we went off-piste and only paid fractionally over €20 a skull for a couple of courses each. When my guest ordered the mushroom and tomato bruschetta, I was sorely tempted to punch him in the face because that’s what I wanted. Especially when I saw the delicious portion he was served. But I had the mussels in white wine sauce instead and they were absolutely fine.
For a main course, my friend went for what was essentially a fancy take on liver and onions. He rightly pointed out beforehand that it is a simple dish easily messed up, but this version was spot-on: perfectly cooked and beautifully presented. Meanwhile, our charming waitress was almost apologetic as she explained that my meatballs order didn’t come with pasta; in fact, she even offered to have some made up for me.
Given that pasta in all its forms invariably has something of a rubbery texture, and was, I strongly suspect, invented by Satan’s personal chef, I was happy to do without and I’m glad I did.
Not only were the meatballs excellent, they came with that rarest of things: a salad that actually looked good enough to eat. We had a lovely, very reasonably priced bottle of Tuscan white and, given that we’d both forgotten to sneak in some absinthe, rounded off a very pleasant Monday afternoon with a limoncello apiece. Top place, this.