Cheap, delicious lobster! What are you up to, Mr Corrigan? helen lucy burke has a fine old time at Bentley’s Oyster Bar and Grill. But what’s up with the wine?
The fair sweet body lay before him, robed in vivid scarlet. Instruments were waiting: a knife, cruel pincers, a white napkin to protect his clothing. In one dexterous movement he wrenched off her robe, laying bare the gleaming, nacreous flesh. Eyes glowing in their engorged sockets he hung over her, slavering...
In case you haven’t guessed, I am describing the initial process of male diners coming to grips with a lobster. Men in particular go for them: Ho ho yes! You don’t have to be Freud to recognise the significance of those male hands ripping through the corset bones. Lobster legend suggests that if the diner is one of a couple, there is an active night in store for her.
Exit Brownes Brasserie: de dah de dah de dah...
Enter Bentley’s: TARANTARA TARANTARA TARANTARA!
Oh there’s still some of the old Brownes there: steep little stairs still divide in two the eating space. The very strange, high-built pulpit-cum- cockpit remains, with apartheid diners fenced in up to the shoulders.
BUT! at the back a new Oyster Bar gleams, and better still, tables are noticeably farther apart, thank God. In Brownes one evening a man at the next table rested his elbow on my table, soon followed by his wine glass. (Pillow and duvet next, I thought.)
The biggest change lies in the food. “Half or
whole native lobster, mayonnaise, at €18/€34 respectively” is the kind
of bargain that should bring a rush of the Gadarene swine into
Bentley’s. My decision took three seconds.
I mentioned the half lobster in a very well-known establishment shortly
after, and invited their Top Man to guess the price. “Seventy euro?” he
ventured. Hmmm. I began to think that we had what we in Ryanair call a
‘loss leader.’ Or stay! Could Richard Corrigan have a specially-trained
hen out the back sitting on harvested lobster eggs, churning ‘em out as
a cottage industry?
Before serving my lobster in the half-shell, our waitress pinnied and
napkined me against dribbles and set out a finger bowl. My half wasn’t
one of those mean lobsters, all shell and water. No, it was full of
juicy, tasty flesh, and although an implement was provided to crack the
claws, it transpired that the hard work had been done; the lovely flat,
succulent piece slid from its claw looking like one of Bonnard’s plump,
rosy nudes.
But alas, I already had two criticisms: first, and excusable as we were
early, my very chilly lobster must have been served straight from the
refrigerator – a neighbouring diner, arriving later, got his at room
temperature.
The second fault was worse, and also was a constant in our meal: there was a shocking overplus of salt.
It started in the otherwise delicious bread rolls. The lobster did not
escape, for the claw meat seemed to have been frosted with salt. I
poked into the claw cavity and got actual crystals on my finger. And it
continued during the meal, vegetables, sauces and gravy (though only
slightly).
I spoke to High Authority about it and I have no doubt that the salt
situation has since been rectified. I might have been more vociferous,
a lot more, but for the wonderful bargain price of the lobster and the
generally high quality of the food.
My companion, a Noted Sculptor (henceforth NS), has the kind of queasy
stomach that won’t tolerate crustaceans with feelers or claws (or birds
that look like birds or fish that look like fish). She chose the Salad
of watercress, red pepper, orange and walnut (€9.50), that she said was
extremely delicate, flavoury and healthy. ‘Twas too. I tasted it.
For her second course she had Natural smoked haddock and poached egg,
€18.50. A lovely dish. It was served with Mornay sauce, I think (and
quite a bit of salt), but stood up successfully. The ‘Natural’ refers
disapprovingly to the dreadful, garish fish that have a colouring
painted on. The genuine smoked article, as Bentley’s serves it, is a
quieter, more reserved creature, exquisitely flavoured.
My main course, chicken, seemed perhaps a little pedestrian. I could
have had wild sea trout (yes!) with peas and coastal greens (I’m
thinking here, sea spinach and samphire). Or Bentley’s Fish Pie. Or the
lamb mixed grill of cutlet, slow-cooked shoulder, kidney and liver. Or,
or, or – in fact, a menu to die for.
None of the usual old tired suspects figured.
And my chicken was
anything but pedestrian, and was perhaps the best I have ever tasted.
Irish organic chicken and foie gras ravioli with lovage and bacon, €24.
I grow lovage in my garden: it has a big leaf with serrated edge, and a
strong taste of celery. Never, never had I thought of combining it with
chicken – but I will.
This was a lesson in cooking. The fine, thin
gravy contributed enormously with its melded herbal flavours, and the
chicken, in a revolutionary way, still tasted of itself. (My God,
Corrigan, you can cook!) But – a small point – there seemed to be only
one disintegrating raviolo; the delicious contents had spilled out of
the delicate purse, but it was tender and good however.
Five puds were listed, as well as Artisan Irish cheese with oatmeal
biscuits and chutney, and (interesting this) Crozier Blue – a sheep’s
milk cheese from Cashel – soaked in Banyuls: a sweet red wine from the
South of France. I imagine it would be glorious.
NS, the conservative eater, had macerated strawberries with meringue,
on which she reported thus: “Simply delicious!” repeated several times
in a musing voice. Strips of a green herb proved to be basil, an
interesting conceit.
My own pud, lemon tart with lime mascarpone sorbet, streaked ahead in
the race for Best of Two. I am almost afraid to write about it.
Raptures come over as naked greed, and provoke comments on starving
people in Africa, overweight foodies, the recession, mortal sin.
Whatever is the opposite of mortal sin arrived on my plate in a
glorious state of grace.
The similarities and contrasts were finely
judged in this little symphony of citrus flavours, tart but not
puckeringly so: sweet but refreshing. The mascarpone sorbet with lime
achieved greatness. In my memory I have eaten over again, that lobster,
that chicken, that pudding. And they threw in Valrhona chocolates as
well.
Wine lovers – or perhaps economy wine lovers – may have a bad time, as
NS and I did. The pleasant waitresses seemed to know little about wine
(or indeed about the food). For our first course, I ordered two glasses
of white wine from what I supposed would be the house section. (I was
testing, not economising.)
These proved to be grim, featureless wines.
NS rebelled and went on to her main course with a decent but pricey
(€12.50) Pinot noir. I persevered with another white cheapie, as nasty
a white as I have tasted for a long time, with a most disagreeable back
taste. I slept little that night, for inferior wine gives me violent
pains in my joints. NS suffered too.
Apart from the Oyster Bar, the restaurant area remains much as it was,
with walls mirrored at shoulder height. Colours are discreetly
Georgian. Cheerful noise levels are high.
Actually, we loved the place and the food. Including coffee, wine and
sparkling water, our bill came to €127.35, to which I added €16, making
€143.35.
Bentley’s oyster bar & grill 22 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2. 638 3939
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