Irish Eats

Irish potatoes at Midleton Farmer's Market

Ireland, along with Denmark, is one of my favourite European destinations. The Emerald Isle has everything: warm and friendly people, fantastic and varied food scene, not to mention one that is steeped in a rich cultural heritage.  And the landscape is stunning, a perfect place to go on a road trip and get lost as writer Matt Gross did and recently wrote about in this New York Times feature.

Two of London’s finest restaurants, Bentley’s and Corrigan’s Mayfair are run by the mighty Irishman Richard Corrigan, quite simply one of the best chefs in town, and ambassador for all that is so great about Irish food.

I grew up in a family with close ties to Ireland. My American grampa Jack, like many second or third generation Irish-Americans, went to catholic university Notre Dame and visited Ireland as often as he could, choosing rather conveniently to ignore his German heritage. My great uncle Walter was born in Castletownsend, West Cork and grew up in Dublin, subsequently spending most of his life working as a cardiologist in London.  Since the 1970s my Norwegian father’s been travelling to Cork on business and it’s always the place he most looks forward to visiting for work. Dad says he feels at home in Ireland, which is telling for such a staunchly patriotic Norwegian!

Through their stories and anecdotes I felt as if I knew Ireland better than I knew most other countries, and had a real soft spot for all things Irish. As a teenager I became nerdily obsessed with Irish history and my first extended essay for the International Baccalaureate many moons ago was on the Irish Potato Famine. Yes, I know, mention Ireland, mention potatoes. Of course when you visit Ireland the great famine is often cited in stories not just about food, but in the context of mass Irish migration to the U.S. and of course politics as a whole. But that’s not for discussion here today!

When I finally had the opportunity to travel to Ireland in the spring of 2006 my dad treated me to a 3 day course taught by Rachel Allen at Ballymaloe Cookery School. I loved the quirky black and white illustrations of the original Ballymaloe Cookbook given to my father by Myrtle Allen on one of his many visits to Ballymaloe House. I couldn’t wait to visit one day. It was that all too brief course in 2006 that made me realise I wanted to pursue a career in food, and the subsequent 3 days of feasting in Cork and Kinsale with dad and his Irish pals gave me a glimpse of what a hidden gastronomic gem this easterly coast of Ireland really is. Outside of Norway and Japan I’ve never eaten such delicious seafood as I did in Ireland.

Chelsea Buns

 

Hot, sticky buns...

“Go to Fitzbillies when you arrive in Cambridge and try their Chelsea Buns. They’re amaaaaaaaazing…” I was reliably told by my friend’s dapper older brother with the floppy Hugh Grant-esque hair. As he was in his third year and looked like a man who recognised a good bun, off I traipsed with another friend to sample this quintessential English teatime treat.

Arriving at Fitzbillies that sunny Fresher’s week afternoon, and foregoing the more familiar Norwegian cinnamon bun on their menu I took a deep breath and ordered the squishy, sticky Chelsea bun with some trepidation. You see an alarming amount of dried currants were tumbling out of this bun’s gloopy crevices. Currants and me have history. We have beef. It was to my mother’s chagrin that as a child I picked currants out of anything sweet and bun like. Something about the currants’ slight bitterness offended my finickety sensibilities, though who knows, this was also the same phase when I wasn’t eating cooked fish but would happily accept smoked salmon any day of the week.

But back to the bun. Was it a Eureka! moment, a revelation of all that was holy and great and secretly wonderful about British baking? Not really. Rather than soothing me with its spiced sweetness, all I tasted were the damn currants. The bun literally left a bitter taste in my mouth and it was seven years before another Chelsea bun passed my lips. I muttered some expletive to my friend – who had wisely ordered the Norwegian cinnamon bun – and launched into a tirade about how the English didn’t understand flavour, they didn’t understand cooking, food, the pursuit of love, the meaning of happiness, how to live…god knows what else, I was off and left Fitzbillies frustrated. Why couldn’t the English bake a decent bun?