Seagrass

It’s a night of ups and downs for Helen Lucy Burke and her Young Yuppie companion at Seagrass

“The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she
Who thicks men’s blood with cold.”

I am an ordinary-looking woman, a little shorter and narrower than average. My face would not launch a thousand ships, nor even ten – nor two – but it wouldn’t stop a clock either. I have the usual number of heads – one – and my arms and legs come in the regulation twos.

But the stir I caused in Seagrass Restaurant for the duration of my visit would have been excessive if Naomi Campbell – or the Elephant Man – had dropped in for a spot of dinner. (Osama bin Laden might be a closer comparison; the frightened faces suggested the reek from explosives strapped around my tummy.)

The staff sneaked up behind a pillar for a look, or walked by, over and over again, heads swivelling, until my harmless features would be imprinted on each staff member; some I recognised well from other eateries. Naomi Campbell could carry it off. Not me. Only a nice Hungarian waitress seemed unmoved.   

Seagrass’s recruitment ad had specified “an excellent command of the English language” and Miss Hungary certainly had that. I watched out for the “fantastic and bubbly personality” that had also been specified for waiting staff; thank God it didn’t show. Being bubbled at over dinner is not my thing.

To set the scene: you may have difficulty finding Seagrass – my taxi driver got lost. The latest Dublin map is no help, but for what it’s worth you go into the Bleeding Horse deviation and then (I think) turn left. Number 30 is down a bit on the left-hand side. Don’t look for a full-blown restaurant, for it more nearly resembles a caff. I’d guess they are in-waiting for somewhere a little classier to come up.

The little, small square tables seemed to come from some economy store sale. The décor is easily described, for it didn’t exist. But even on that horrible evening of rainstorms and soft hail it was cosily warm, and the menu looked pretty good. If abandoning the frills of décor means putting the money into ingredients, I am all for it.

The menu gave a wide choice: nine dishes in the starters, eight in the tapas section, nine mains and a choice from seven puddings. (“All our desserts, ice creams and sorbets are made on the premises,” read a footnote.) If only, I bleated to my companion, YY, it lives up to what it says.

The Hungarian waitress pressed the claims of Vegetable Antipasti (€7.50) with a selection of sauces, so I ordered them. The vegetables came in little mounds on a long dish, their varying colours and shapes really whetting the appetite.  A teeny over-plus of vinegar is forgivable, as it is a purely personal taste, but I thought it conveyed a sameness of flavour to the little mounds. Less would be more! The cost was fair for quite a bit of eating.

YY had a Mushroom, spinach and Gorgonzola tart at €8, which won by several necks, we thought. It had a sort of robust delicacy, like those willowy Chinese girls you see lifting huge weights: and there was an intensity of flavour that really captivated both of us. Spinach and cheese go so well together that it is a shame the combination is not more used. I think the very word “spinach” frightens the Irish.

We had settled on a red wine recommended by Miss Hungary (thanks, honey) and main courses of red meat. The wine was TerraMater Cabernet Sauvignon Reserva 2005 for €33.50 and it was enchanting. The usual CabSauv muscley bruiser had been transformed into a creature of elegance and delicate perfumed softness. It is one of the new range of Chilean reds that are gripping the wine world by the throat and giving it a good shake.

I was fairly glowing inside with wine and good cheer, until at this point I tasted YY’s striploin and my spirits drooped. Yes, he loved it, for it was very rare and very tender; but unless one was a toothless baby gumming its way through its din dins, what would make one want to eat a modern piece of beef that had succeeded in transmitting no taste whatsoever?

Fillet, striploin, rib, or any other bloody piece of bovine anatomy – the only difference between them is whether they are tough or tender.   Urged on by doctors hot for experiments, the marbled fat has been bred out of most bovines, and it is the fat that gives flavour. A piece of Kobe beef I ate some months ago brought a remembrance of things past, when the grass and herbs on which the beast fed wafted from its flesh and dissolved on the tongue. If you want to cook at home from raw, Superquinn’s Aged Beef has an approximation of the old-time flavour, while for the very plump of pocket, Shanahan’s on the Green will also deliver the goods.

YY’s beef was served with “horseradish and caper croquette, tomato ketchup and cracked pepper jus”, all of which might fool the palate into a feeling of eating tasty beef. Not Seagrass’ fault, of course. The striploin cost €22, and was not a quarter as good as my own Roast Chump of lamb at €19.50. (Chump of lamb is the thick end of a loin of lamb or mutton.)

Our waitress warned me nicely that it was fatty, but as I found out it was also tender, deliciously flavoured by itself, and flavoured also with the bonus of “raisin and nutmeg, sweet red onion, braised green olives, rosemary and honey, and black olive potato cornels.” (I searched dictionaries for the meaning of “cornel”: nowt.)

Deary me, was that meat good! Half was served in a single lump, the other half minced into an upmarket meatball, and flavoured – perhaps a little too heavily – with rosemary. Both portions were anointed with that divine raisiny nutmeggy mixture. Oh glory. I must hurry out and buy lots of chumps before others catch on.

At this point a couple of YY’s friends came in, and had some of the glorious CabSauv, followed (ugh!) by bread, butter and raisin pudding (€7) that YY had also ordered.  (What is this thing that men have for bread and butter pudding? My theory is that it represents the womb, and its quality of a safety net.)

My choice of pudding was the Trio of Dark Chocolate: chocolate mousse, chocolate pot, and chocolate berries for €7. Unfortunately the berries were last in the line and showed up puckeringly sour after the other very sweet pair.   It was a perfectly adequate pud, but didn’t set my heart a-racing.
Omitting the wine, drunk by all, the bill for YY and me came to €86.30, very moderate by Dublin standards.

Seagrass 30 South Richmond Street, Dublin 2. 478 9595