LUNCH WITH GRACE KELLY

‘What’s the name of the restaurant?’, Colleen hollered.

‘MAMO’ with an accent mark.  I don’t think it’s Irish,’ her husband shouted back. 

‘Sounds foreign to me,’ yelled someone in the group. 

‘Look, anything not named Murphy’s or Shamrock sounds foreign in Ireland.  Let’s try it,’ added Richard.  

 This was a shouted semi-conversation because so much of it was drowned out by the clack of the rails.  We were headed to Howth for the day and Richard had looked up restaurants in the small fishing village south of Dublin, Ireland, for lunch later today, a Sunday.  There were not a lot of reviews but the ones that were on line praised the food and the service so it seemed like something to look forward to, probably a place with cold beer, good stout Irish food and ambience. One review mentioned that it was a tiny place, tucked into a neat row of buildings lining the main street, and reservations were advised.  No one bothered to look at the menu or the prices but Richard made a reservation for 7 anyway.  From the reviews (‘inventive’, ‘tasty’, good service’, were words dotted throughout all of them) the place sounded fine.  

Ireland has loads of fishing villages but most aren’t as lovely as Howth which sits directly on the Irish Sea coast.  The commuter train makes the town more or less a bedroom community for Dublin, at least for the wealthy.  Homes in the area are particularly expensive even by Irish standards. A double wide, if they existed, would be out of my price range.  

The setting could hardly be prettier. A wide, crescent bay of placid water is ringed by restaurants and shops and at one end sits the tiny end-of-the-line train station, at the other end, the pier.  The train ride from Dublin’s Connolly Station is less than 30 minutes which means, on a bright sunny Sunday like today, Howth is the getaway beach destination for half of Dublin, or so it seemed.  The train was crowded with city escapees equipped with lunch baskets, blankets to spread on lawns, backpacks with clanking bottles of beer, tubes of sunscreen, portable radios and furled beach umbrellas.  It was that kind of a day.  How the Howthers felt about the invasion is pure speculation.  Considering the average income of the residents, it must have seemed like locusts descending on their little patch of paradise, the Barbarians coming ashore at the Hamptons.  

For its location and beauty, the village should have been accustomed to day tourists, like the towns of Blackpool England, Mackinac Island in Michigan or Ostia south of Rome, but it isn’t.  The lack of McDonalds, Dollar Stores (or Euro Stores as they are called here), tawdry mega chotzky shops smelling of feet and sunburn, portapotties or Kentucky Fried Chickens is part of its charm.  Sailboats bobbed in the harbor alongside quaint, gently rusting fishing trawlers, folks strolled the paths of the waterside park and, when the crowd from the train dispersed along the waterfront, the town became placid, almost serene. 

The liquid, dazzling sunshine and the cool breeze across the water morphed into a Hollywood film.  The cameras were rolling. There was the ocean, sailboats on the blue mirror of the water, expensive blond hair tousled in the wind, toffs laughing, a gin and tonic in hand, Grace Kelly in conversation with Cary Grant, an easy aura of carelessness, wealth and position, and in the background, Frank Sinatra singing ‘The Summer Wind’, the romantic 1960s soft melody about a time and place that never was except in Hollywood. Days like this don’t happen in places like Gila Bend or Appalachicola or Gary Ind.  Water, hills, cliffs, hikes are required to make a day such as this.  Hot sun and cool winds are a must. Such was Howth on this Sunday. 

Everyone wanted a good stroll and the city map indicated several trails starting from the east end of the bay into the hills that roll, green and steep, up from the bay behind the main street.  One was marked ‘easy’ and looped back into town so that was the choice.  The trail skirted the coast, then jutted above the cliffs and went ever higher inland. 

Below the cliffs, the sea was dotted with billowed white sails, blue and yellow kayaks and, toward the horizon, the occasional cruise liner or ferry.   We wound through dense semi tropical vegetation. The thick-leaved, dark green plants covered the hillsides above and below the trail.  Here and there was a spot of violent yellow or glowing red nestled in the dense green, the flowers of another plant caught in the thick undergrowth.   At the top, the trail became a sandy wide road that headed downhill.  

After a couple of hours of happy hiking, gorgeous views and reading memorial markers to WWII heroes, hungry and thirsty for a cold beer, we headed back to town and to Mamo’s.  We’d earned it and wanted nothing more than a hearty meal of Irish Shepherd’s Pie wolfed down while swilling a couple of pints of Guinness.  

Mamo’s was so narrow we walked right by it the first time.  Two or three tables out front were decorated with RESERVED signs but the owner, who stuck his head out the door, said there were a couple of tables open upstairs.  It was about then that someone in the group noticed the small, square, dark red plaque, ‘MICHELIN 2021’ next to the front door.  

‘What does that mean? Do they sell tires, too?,’ someone asked.  I had never eaten at a Michelin rated restaurant before but I knew the meaning of the sign.  I read from the small guide book I carried,

‘A restaurant so indicated has been evaluated by the prestigious Michelin Travel Company and received a recommendation, a highly prized honour.’

They looked at one another.  ‘It means it’s expensive and doesn’t have beer, I’ll bet,’ said Karl.  The menu was posted out front and while I didn’t understand half of the descriptions of the food on it, the prices weren’t bad.  Three of us were intrigued by the place but the others simply wanted a cold one and a sandwich, basic ‘fill your stomach food’, no fancy stuff, please, no high prices.  I get that because I often feel the same way.  But there was a hangover from the hike, a tinge of adventure, and a feeling of intrigue about this place.  

The others walked on in search of a pub. The three of us went into Mamo’s and followed the hostess up the stairs to a table by the open breezy window.  Frank Sinatra and ‘The Summer Wind’ drifted through.  The view of the bay and sailboats, the feel of the crisp white linen of the table, the sparking wine glasses, were all part of the film.  I looked around for Grace Kelly, hoping she wasn’t there since I was sweaty and mud caked from the hike, with a beat up backpack older than the average diner in the room.  I was surprised they let us in before we had showered and dressed in evening wear.  But I was wrong about the place.  No one was pompous or pretentious, just friendly and helpful.  

Grace and Cary, having lunch, were seated inconspicuously at a back table, the rest of the patrons straining not to stare.  She, with her golden hair in a French twist, was explaining something about the wine, he, tanned and smiling with teeth that could bring ships to shore in a thick fog, listened intently to her velvet voice.  Women used compacts to check their makeup but were secretly trying to get a glimpse of the storied couple.  Others used knives or spoons instead of mirrors which must have distorted the faces but the patrons didn’t care.  They wanted a visual keepsake of this moment, as did I.  It was a heady moment or two, the sparkling laugh, the tilt of the head, the touch of one hand on another in gentle conspiracy.  When I blinked, Cary and Grace were not there.  But the waitress was.  I turned to her, a bit startled by the change.  

‘Can you explain the Taleggio and ox tongue croquette with caramelised onion and Chargrilled broccoli, smoked yogurt and spiced almonds, please,’ I asked.  I’m sure they were silly questions but the staff was patient in the face of my culinary ignorance.  Since the restaurant had no beer (on that note the others were right), I ordered the only wine I was acquainted with, the Pinot Nero, the Italian equivalent of French Pinot Noir.  To appear less like the village idiot, I asked if the wine was dry.  Pinot Nero is always dry so this question only confirmed my bumpkin status. I was assured it was dry as dust.  

The wine came, a generous pour, a rich, deep red.  The aroma alone was enough to make me close my eyes.  The taste was even better.  The food came.  Small quantities but huge flavors.  In truth, I’m more at home in Murray’s Pub, a dark wood-paneled place in Dublin with years of nicotine scraped off the walls since indoor smoking was banned, a sticky floor and three beers on tap. I think they all may be Guinness; no matter, I love the stuff.  With a rowdy Irish band, Beef and Guinness stew, heavy Irish soda bread slathered with a half inch of Kerry Gold butter, I’m in taste bud heaven.  

But every now and then I like to get my taste buds out of the Dodge Minivan and take them for a spin in a 1967 Mercedes 230 coupe convertible.  This meal was my Mercedes.  Every bite was like swerving around a tight curve in the mountains overlooking the sea in Portofino, every sip of wine, a trip to sun drenched Tuscany.  Memorable to the last morsel.  The meal finished, the bill paid, we floated back to earth.  That night for dinner, I could afford only two slices of bad cheap pizza and one beer, but lunch with Grace was worth every penny.  

The train left in 15 minutes so we walked across the green and met the others near the station.  It turned out, their experience had been somewhat different from ours.  

Every pub, they said, had been chock full of day tourists looking for a cheap meal and a cold beer.  They had wandered, grabbed a bit here, a bit there, but never found a place to sit, even at LOU’S UNLIMITED FISH AND CHIPS EATERY, such was the crowd.  They were still hungry and in a rotten mood.  In the interest of camaraderie, it was best to stay silent about the meal at Mamo’s, admitting only that there had been no beer. Besides, it would have been embarrassing to describe the cool breezes, wine like liquid sunshine, and succulent food in a tiny French restaurant with Grace Kelly.