Ireland for Days
The scone is a substantial thing sitting on a chintz plate as the city glides by. The shriveled little currants are a distraction, but the butter o the butter, how splendid is this butter? Especially when we pass Oscar Wilde louchely reclining on a rock. Irish tea diluted with milk and sugar. Ahhh perfect weather for our introduction to Dublin on a tricked-out vintage double-decker bus.
Big bulbous donuts topped with thick fluorescent frosting. LIke Dunkin’ to the max when paired with an Americano at 7 am on O’Connell Street. Dublin before us, quiet and productive, A Dubliner helpfully instructing us to Custom House Quay in his distinctive brogue ”Der” he pointed left “I tink it’s past tree bridges”
Potatoes, every which way. Being a semi-vegetarian in Ireland gives you an appreciation for the gravity that was the potato famine (I million died, 1 million immigrated, Ireland never recovered its population., and the mass migration changed the world).
Famous Boxty spot, David the waiter with his jaunty glib commentary. “The Irish are Jews with Booze”. Years spent in Queens gives him a special outlook. Amazing how easy it is to take criticism of US when it’s delivered in an Irish accent. Goes down much smoother than French disapproval.
The french fires aka chips were crispy and well salted. No one batted an eye when I requested ketchup in my American accent. It felt to me that the Irish view Americans as their crazy but lovable cousins. Familiar yet weird.
The fries (chips) at the Cliffs o’ Moher were more spectacular than the Cliffs. That’s not to say they were so exceptional (they were good, again, crispy well salted) but the mist was so thick and opaque the tour's hot spot was imperceptible.
By the time we got to Galway I was seeking flavor. Exotic flavor, multi dimensional flavor, I wanted all the flavors: sweet, salty, sour, savory, spicy, slippery and a little bitter to round it all out. Thai food is the answer for a roaming vegetalrian. Small side street. Taiwanese exchange student with an open smile and an easy devotee of Irish hospitality and chattiness.
Onto the Village green for Dingle Sea Salt ice cream so fresh and clean and what must be the epitome of pure vanilla taste, despite the fact that there was no vanilla in there. The dairy is pure and flavorful and like a bright and salty day spent sea side. The Irish kid scooping it could’ve been a character in an Edna O’Brien novel.
The scone I had in Kilkenny was mercifully without any feckin’ currants but unfortunately crumbled under the slight pressure of the butter knife. It had an aftertaste that was redolent of bicarbonate of soda, however, the layer of Irish butter took care of it. The brown bread was heavy and bland but that butter o that butter!
Stuffed potato skins at a tourist hallmark in Temple Bar, fresh sour cream, topped with melted orange Irish cheddar and a Guinness, of course. Live music, the Irish love live music, And who doesn’t? Nothing goes better with nibbles and sips than live music. Gobbles and Quaffs. too
Giants Causeway and Dunluce Castle, Celts, Vikings, English. They were all here like me facing this rugged and wild and verdant landscape. Salted air and the Mull of Kintyre. And a beautiful Country Inn, with an elegant tea room and the perfect scone. It remained intact even after I broke it into, the butter glided onto it without picking up more than a few crumbs and it tasted of kitchens and Irish literature and tea time and James Joyce or Edna O’Brien or any one of the native wordsmiths that Ireland has produced. I ate it on a tour bus with the garrulous Noel narrating the day feeding us gossip (Daniel Day-Lewis is very tall and slightly “Weird” because really, who orders tea at a pub???)
Disembarked at the Millennial spire: Stiletto in the Ghetto, “Pointless” the Irish have a way with words. We stumbled upon a Nouveau Irlandaise eatery, it was craic! A fish en croute under a creamy smokey veloute. Knobs of mozzarella dots of pesto, and crusty white bread with that butter, o the butter! Dessert: Eton Mess basically a bashed in pavlova, the berries were fresh and firm and sweet sweet sweet, but it was that thick bountifully fluffy whipped cream that kept me going all the way to the bottom of the glass.
Sipping Vietnamese Iced coffee chatting with a local who I bet could trace his Irish heritage right back to the Celts.
Him:Bono can piss off, telling us to give, give, give. What the hell does he do?
Also him: But Sunday Bloody Sunday is a great song, and very accurate.
Me: How about Where the streets have no name?
Him: Also excellent. But Bono can piss off.
The harsh rule of the British, the domination of the Catholic Church. The Irish threw them all off.
I waited in a long queue for sandwiches: Mozzarella and pesto on a fluffy roll. Goat cheese and honey. Beautiful.
And then shabbat at the synagogue in Terenure. We went on our own Odyssey and encountered characters along the way, all friendly and helpful and more than willing to point us in the right direction. We saw day-to-day Dublin. And lots of hulking medieval churches (including St. Patricks).
Behind the stone walls, we entered Dublin Hebrew Congregation. I had a need to connect with my people, the Irish made me homesick. ‘Tis a beautiful and comforting ‘ting to be able to go to a synagogue anywhere in the world and feel instantly at home with the songs and the customs. Dublin was different in its apres service kiddush: dairy! Fresh Irish butter with crackers and croissants. Slabs of bright orange cheddar and pale French fromagerie.
Shabbat shalom I'm Rachel from New York, said I.
Good Shabbes I’m Linda from Duuublin.” She greeted in her Irish lilt.
The weather was perfect day after day. And we left just before their heat wave and came back home in time for ours. I made scones, which fell flat, but the Kerrygold butter slathered upon it, made it all the better.
