Glastonbury 2011

A ringing, in annoyance more than in alarm, like a child untended, emanates from the dashboard above the vacant driver's seat. But I don't tut or roll my eyes or look over my shoulder or even flinch. I sit still, slumped against the window. I reach into my mud encrusted shoulder bag and root out my tattered notebook and a pen I picked up in a Dublin hotel, it's gold livery diminished by time, Gresham Hotels. As dusk falls, I see a right-handed version of myself reflected, scribbling something unintelligible, a great truth, no doubt.


As we chug over dimpled farm land, I am lulled gently, and like the fading day and burgeoning night I am in a gloaming of my own, between waking and sleep. The old bus struggles up an innocuous incline; gears crunching, cogs grinding, progress stalling.


There are voices of muted protest, an unwillingness to leave is expressed by some. Every corner is accompanied by a glacial creaking as if the rear of the bus is itself a reluctant passenger. A particularly acute right-hand turn presses me further against the window, the impression of my cheek upon the glass more definite.


With blackened fingernails, irradiate skin, soiled clothes and sunken eyes we pull up to the terminus, where five days previously we began our journey. From here, on to a home cooked meal, to a shower, to a bed.


Later that night as I lie, in near silence, just the sound of three days and nights of music ringing in my ears, it feels as though I have yet to fully emerge from a land of mud and rain and sun and cider that I was, initially, so reluctant to visit.


The next morning, breakfast, and then lunch, feel like an hallucination. Now of course, two days on, my memory is like that of a dream but with one discernible difference; I still can't get all the muck out of my fingernails.

Le Mal Crubeen

Oh dear. How different this post could've been. How different I wanted it to be. It was early last Saturday afternoon and I had a good feeling about lunch. To begin with, reviews were positive and as we approached the restaurant, located on Dublin's Talbot Street, the attractive logo with its elegant font did nothing to dent that positivity. Le Bon Crubeen. It's a bloody good name, I thought to myself. 


Immediately, however, alarm bells began to ring. Small ones. Or was it air-raid sirens? Lets just say, as yet, this was not an imminent-threat-of-a-bad-dining-experience-alert, more like an elevated-threat-of-a-bad-dining-experience-alert. Got it? Good.


Initially we were seated in a corridor which linked the main dining room to a smaller ante-room. We asked to move and without much fuss we led ourselves to a small table by the wall, nicely out of the way, in the aforementioned ante-room. I say, out of the way, but at the time there was little to be out of the way of.


As LCB and I perused the menu, we were rather stoical in the face of the choices available to us. You see, we both hankered for fish, which in Dublin City can be rather problematic (much to the City's shame), and though there were two fish options available for starters, and three in the mains section, the obligatory salmon, all but halved those options. What's wrong with salmon? you ask. Consider this; when a friend is heart-broken and of low spirits in the wake of a wrenching break-up, one always hears the mantra, there are plenty more fish in the sea. And it saddens me so, that such advice is not imparted to the chefs and restauranteurs of Dublin, because there are plenty more fish in the sea. Or the rivers and lakes for that matter.


We were engrossed in our respective menus , but not for any reasons you may think. The wall, (remember, the one we are sitting next to) was smeared with what looked like boogers. And grease. Neither of us wanted to draw the other's attention to it, as appetite can come and go as suddenly as a strong tide. It wasn't until after our meal that our altruism become known to one another. So we consulted our menus, though mine wasn't in the mood to talk, and settled on two courses, no dessert.


LCB, whose menu was much more chatty, settled on a starter of Jane Russell Black Pudding with Crab Mayonnaise and Green Pea Puree and a main course of Grilled Hake Fillet with Lobster Crust, Slow Roast Tomato and Champ Mash. Without any help, I plumped for a starter of Smoked Haddock Chowder with Brown Bread and the same hake main course. There was a battered whiting with chips but I wanted something a little more refined and a little less fried. I drank water, infused with lemon and LCB an Atlanta based renowned soft drink. Or Coke to those of us not in the BBC.


Our starters arrived promptly, LCB's black pudding sat atop the vibrant green of the pea purée and looked like the remnants of a bonfire in a lush field. Unfortunately the analogy didn't stop there. The pudding itself was tasty enough, but the texture was that of raw cookie dough. The pea purée and crab mayonnaise were largely tasteless and lacked seasoning and the latter contained a number of fragments of shell. My chowder arrived and looked a little sorry for itself, as if it had been standing for some time (in the bold corner, perhaps?) and it began to develop a custard like skin. To my pleasant surprise, however, it tasted good and was perfectly seasoned. The only criticism I have of it is one that can be levelled at most chowders; the first mouthful tasted the same as the last. It doesn't stop me ordering them, the perfect chowder can be heavenly, but they can be rather boring to eat, though, as a starter this problem was largely negated. The brown bread was average and not freshly baked, though perhaps my expectations were lowered by the wording of the menu. For no mention of homemade read bought-in.


Our plates were cleared away and in no time at all our hake dishes arrived. We exchanged glances. Hmm. The words Lobster and crust, it turns out, were rather misleading. The crust was nothing more that a mixture of breadcrumbs soaked in lobster juice (Stock? Bisque? Flavouring? I am not sure, but the taste was negligible) and then balled up and strewn across the fillet. When treated in this manner, the quality and freshness of the hake itself, is incidental. The chef should be hauled in front of the ICCDR (International Culinary Court of Diners' Rights) and have the book thrown at him (or her). Preferably a cookery book.


The fish was grossly overcooked, perhaps by as much as 10 or 15 minutes. A fillet this size would require no more then 5 minutes, first on the pan to crisp the skin than a few minutes in the oven (but in this case, all under the grill). Alas, the skin was not crisp, how could it be when it was covered in singed (and therefore bitter) breadcrumbs? As far as I am concerned, the chef's job is to butt-out and allow the produce to speak for itself. Most of the good work should be done before he reaches for his skillet. LCB suggested the fish may have been frozen, but frozen or not, it was not fresh.


The champ was the worst I have ever had, though champ is disingenuous as there were two slices of spring onion in mine. There was no seasoning, no butter and more tellingly, no flavour. It was my companion's assertion that the mash was reheated. I could not disagree.  Nor could I disagree with her statement that, "the food was so dry it made swallowing unpleasant!' Or that the "champ was so solid and stolid it could be cut into squares that perfectly kept their shape and could be used to build a small house." Patent Pending ©LCB 2011. I even considered dribbling some of my lemon infused water into my mash to loosen it up. Oh the shame!


There was no sauce except for a teaspoonful of garlic mayonnaise which I am inclined to say was good. Though, perhaps, it is akin to saying PS, I love You  is a literary masterpiece, when for the past year all you've read is Heat magazine. Though I shouldn't take cheap shots at Cecelia, it's not her fault.


Oh, I almost forgot the slow roasted tomato, which in terms of flavour had no business on the plate, but in terms of the moisture it supplied, was like stumbling upon an oasis in the middle of the desert. I recall earlier saying we ordered no dessert, we should have gone for no desert, for this was a dish that was dry and barren.


For those of you in any doubt, this was the worst meal I've had since I ordered plaice and chips in the Kylemore Café on O'Connell Street some years back (those of you who have eaten in Kylemore know who you are).


On the plus side LCB's Coke was excellent.


Perhaps, those reviewers that championed Le Bon Crubeen in the first year or two of its life, should return. Perhaps the chef who cooks beautifully on Friday night is absent on Saturday afternoon. If that is the case, as excuses go, it is not good enough. Our lunch was not just a failure of cooking, it was a failure of philosophy.