Stars, Flowers, and Romance in Dublin
The Amuse Bouche
She had been yearning to satisfy a craving for expensive flavoured foam and mentioned something about Pearse station which is near Merrion Square, a location that I knew for its proximity to Restaurant Patrick Guilbaud – the only restaurant in Ireland to be awarded two Michelin stars and having donned the distinction since 1996. I wanted to go anyway but having company for such an opulent occasion would have made for a welcome and refreshing change in my life on the road. The prospect of a once in a lifetime meal seemed to curb her apprehensions of taking a chance on a drifter who was only passing through town, but it heightened my own fears that the expectation might be that I would have to cover the entirety of what would amount to a rather exorbitant bill.
I waited in the entrance and chatted with the hostess who was curious to know each time someone entered the restaurant whether or not it was the woman I was waiting for. I was dressed in the only clothes I owned that would have been fit to wear when rubbing elbows which such high society, though they were still made of cheap threads and were wrinkled from having spent too much time stuffed at the bottom of my case. She strode gracefully up the steps in her black dress, tall and statuesque and upon recognizing me greeted me with a smile and a kiss on the cheek.
The opener was a cream of Jerusalem artichoke with roasted hazelnut and a hint of sour pickle to awaken the taste buds. Though it was thimble-sized, it took more than a moment to eat as the novelty and uniqueness of the contrasts of savoury cream and sour pickle, as well as the crunch from the hazelnut and the light and airy melt in your mouth texture of the foam, brought all of your awareness forward and making a direct connection between the lips, tongue, and frontal cortex.
Several paths veered off in various directions as we stood at the entrance of the botanical gardens with the sun hanging long and high in the mid-afternoon on as crisp as any day that Dublin might see in mid-summer. The only question laid out before us was which route through the garden to choose.
The Entrée
Resting upon a creamy sea of butter was an exquisite combination of finely ground chicken and lobster boudin housed in a casing so thin as to be barely perceptible to the palette yet firm enough to keep all the flavours and textures from inadvertently dispersing and becoming soup, and topped with a delicate garnish of red pepper and green onion.
We exchanged pleasantries and subtle glances as I became overtly aware of my gaze and, after taking the opportunity to put to memory her shape, I focused on her eyes to be sure that she would not see my own stray lest they should give away my lustful limbic intentions. I would hypnotize and fixate on the movement of her lips as she spoke and, in turn, nervously I spoke too much for fear that a moment’s silence might cause her to lose interest or think that perhaps that I had nothing interesting to say.
Magpies hopscotched across the pathways of Dublin’s Botanical Garden and squirrels darted from the trees through tall grasses and past secret gardens. “Many people recognize these flowers,” she said, “but few know what they’re actually called.” I admitted to my ignorance and that, though I had a layman’s interest in botany and sought its delights strictly for my own joys and musings, I did not possess any real education on the matter but that I would venture a guess. I took a quick moment to study the shape and colour and muttered sheepishly, “Violet?”. “They’re called ‘forget-me-nots’,” she said with a wink bounding over to another bouquet of colour across the way.
The Main
Two cuts of lamb: loin served rare and surrounded by a thin earthy, yet zesty, rind, and a well-stewed portion of neck in traditional gravy served alongside garden vegetables and a polenta croquette with dabs of creamy spiced flourishes. Only a few bites but each one taken with real intention. Even the shared potato mash left one feeling that a dish, seemingly so simple, could only be prepared at this level by a true master and try as I might to source the finest potatoes in all the world with the richest cream and finest butter, not even after a thousand failed attempts would I be able to produce a potato mash so fine.
The rose garden sits at the northeastern corner of the botanical gardens separated from the rest of the grounds by a quaint but modern bridge of asphalt and iron railing. It is tucked away, but we knew that it was worth making a special trip. Four quadrants of roses of every colour, some fragrant, and some offering subtler notes, but each in full bloom with Ireland now not so much green but coloured of every hue and finally getting equal amounts of sunlight and nourishing rain. She took particular delight in an orange rose with graceful yellow highlights. I found a bush that emitted a bright bouquet of citrus and autumn peaches and laid in the grass watching the clouds roll by for a minute or two and breathing deeply.
I grow self-conscious swimming in all my insecurities as we mull over a drink in the pub. I am too loud and perhaps too eager to show my best self that the worst comes out. My accent gives me away and I draw eyes. We giggle and I am forced to apologize for my uncharacteristically loud behaviour. “This isn’t me,” I mutter apologetically, “I’m normally super bashful”. “Don’t worry, she responds, “I’m still here.”
Dessert
Sweet treats have never been a high priority. Café Liegeois was more about balancing back on the savouriness of the meal and rewarding the chefs by indulging in another course. We laughed at her reluctance to share from her plate but glancing at her milk chocolate and peanut parfait with yuzu and salted caramel even she could not deny me the opportunity to have a bite or two. It leaned heavily on the peanut, but just a touch of the bright and sour yuzu brought the palette into bold new flavour frontiers.
In our own moments of awkward silences, the unintelligible murmur of many voices droned through the pub and the clinking of glasses and shuffling chairs provided the harmony. A couple of pints of Guinness had relaxed the muscles at the edge of my fingers and steadied my nerves. Still, I kept my gaze fixed on her enchanting green eyes and now I could recognize that her own gaze was fixed on mine, each of us trying, finally, not to talk and searching for moments.
The pathways around the garden led us through the greenhouses and back to the entrance where we had begun before we ducked into one last secret garden with stone walls, an iron gate and a calm sprinkling fountain. We sat on a bench at the far end in the lotus position with the sound of the traffic fading off into the distance. In the calm, there were only the faint sounds of a gentle breeze, the fountain, and our breathing.
Petit Four
Striding through the gates of the garden the road opened before us turning from a trodden walkway of earth and loose stones to concrete. Brick homes and double-decker buses replaced the green grass and the flowers and the trees. Outside the walls of the garden, where time stood still and we were alone in our shared admiration of the wondrous beauty of nature, we knew that these moments of deep reflection could not last forever and it was time to return to the world. All of those moments in a day now a memory for a lifetime.
The noise of the traffic along the North Strand seemed not to exist, but the taxi was waiting to speed us away from each other. She would return to work and I would be off to somewhere new and far away – two separate lives colliding for a moment and agreeing to make the best use of these precious few and fleeting moments. Moments that would heighten every sense with the sight of beauty in its myriad shapes and colours, verdant and in full bloom; the fresh fragrances of the living Earth, the city, and the work of human culinary ingenuity; and the bittersweet taste of every moment spent together and now gone and to remain forever a part of our shared past.
The last of the flavours to subdue our taste buds were those juxtaposed by the succulent bitter taste of espresso and the concentrated sweetness of tiny confections. Rhubarb macaron, a thumb-sized hazelnut muffin, and a single spoon-sized, but whole, lemon meringue pie. Each tiny bite was a reminder to eat slow and make the moment last, for a meal like this one does not come often and must be savoured to the last. And then, with reluctance, you fold your napkin and leave the meal behind you with the promise to commit it to the most treasured recesses of your memory and think forever upon it fondly.
