UNINSPIRED, wretched and assured of nought but inevitable entropy and sporadic heartache. This is how it feels to have endured my least favourite months at the beginning of a new decade.
The despicable weather hasn't helped, but one can hardly expect much in the way of sunshine during the gruesome twosome of January and February. Winter can't last forever. Finally, with a triumphant shout and a stamping of feet, the accomplished and decadent foot soldiers under my haphazard command declared an end to winter, an end to depression and insisted an assault upon the city that we may devour fine plates of excellent cuisine, ably married with lashings of superlative dancing soup.
Nestled in the hustle and bustle of our rather majestic Castle Street, is a secret gem of a restaurant that I'm almost afraid to mention.
Should I ever find myself unable to secure a table at Franco's Bar Italia, I promise, there will be much cursing and threats of severe violence. I’d only popped into this suave little bistro on one previous occasion, a swift and excellent plate of cannelloni, consumed in half decent company with a quick swig or two of a rather nice Salice Salentino.
On this mighty occasion, however, I was entering into a bit of a face-off with some long-standing pals who have the innate ability to turn a spot of tea into a three-day excursion.
A couple of swift pints and some heavy metal in The Swan, Wood Street, set us up royally for a full- blown assault on Franco’s menu. A cheeky first course of antipasti and a few cold Peronis led us into one of the finest starters I’ve ever eaten. Immaculately seared scallops with some chilli and a slap of garlic were hammered down with a blinding Gavi id Gavi – the crazily fresh Cortese juice slicing right through the scallops and putting us in a universe threatening good mood.
Armed and ready for action, we called out the big gun and ordered a 2004 Amarone alongside our steaks. Amarone is made from partially dried grapes and packs a big, fruity, full-bodied uppercut and needs a big flavoursome dish – the steaks were not to be outshouted and, at this point, my comrades and I declared ourselves masters of all creation and started thinking about cocktails.
A swift bolt of some delightful vin santo, a friendly handshake with our excellent waiter and lord of the manor himself, Franco, and off we stomped, to the good old Noble House for some serious liquor.
Head Bartender and part-time wrestler, Conor Foley, mixed us a cocktail which I have to declare as the country's if not the world's finest. A blend of Rittenhouse rye whisky, outrageous antique vermouth, bacon infused maple syrup, atomised Lagavulin, 16-year old Isla malt and a dash of ingenious wizardry combine to create the Ellis Island Manhattan. If you do nothing else this month, go and see this Irish madman, demand an Ellis Island, pair it with an ice-cold beer and prepare to write off a weekend.
Conor, or somebody, probably one of the maniacs, then insisted we muck about with some 63 %rum.
Miraculously, none of us were arrested and one or two of us managed to come home to the correct addresses. My thanks and undying gratitude to Mr Foley for assisting us in our quest, such is the quality of his drinks that even my hangover was first class.
