Irish cuisine was once an oxymoron, but those days are long over. The high-tech boom and the strong euro have spawned a generation of Irish foodies, and the Emerald Isle has become one of the hottest food destinations in Europe.
How does this concern Vegas, I hear you cry. Simple. Most of us are aware the city abounds with Irish-themed pubs, and that the better ones, McMullan's, Sean Patrick's and Fado, to give three credible examples, serve good, trumped-up versions of dishes Ireland is best known for: corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew, and of course, fish and chips.
But the striking Nine Fine Irishmen at New York-New York, constructed from materials that required nine full containers from the Olde Sod, goes them all one better.
Not only is the principal chef a cooking teacher and TV personality back there, he is also owner of a one-star Michelin restaurant and a country inn called Dunbrody House, where it is possible to taste the "new Irish cuisine," as it is referred to there.
That man is Kevin Dundon, who flies over here monthly to check on his charges. Dundon doesn't do the highfalutin stuff here that he does in Ireland, but he does have his own butcher to make various cuts of pork and a variety of sausages, and an aesthetic that calls for top-notch ingredients.
By all accounts, this is also quite a beautiful place. I prefer to sit upstairs on the mezzanine, at a snug, a tiny compartment with a cushy sofa. A snug is an intimate place for a couple, and the concept came about so Irish women could drink in a sequestered area, since it was considered improper for them to imbibe openly in a public house.
But the downstairs is probably more impressive from a design standpoint. The foyer has a gorgeous inlaid floor, and there is lots of stained glass, cherry-wood paneling, and high-end furniture, such as high-backed tapestry chairs, a partitioned bar, and stools that look drop-dead expensive.
After you've ordered a Guinness on draught, Harp Lager or Killian's Red, an onslaught of food is sure to follow. First comes a basket of the restaurant's various house-made breads: two kinds of soda bread, and a kind of puffy-white, topped with caramelized onion. On a side plate, your serving wench (well, they do dress the part) will bring a giant wedge of Kerrygold imported Irish butter, the best in town, drizzled with, for the love of Mike, pesto.
My favorite starter here is chef Dundon's grilled Irish goat-cheese salad, an herb-crusted hunk of a fine farmhouse cheese atop a bed of greens dressed in a balsamic vinaigrette, and garnished with a summer fruit compote. The flavors all marry well, and it's best to share if you're planning a main course.
Colcannon soup, served at lunch, is a creamy puree of potato, cabbage and leek, swirled with more of the pesto. It's delicious, though impossibly rich. Smoked Irish salmon is flown in from Ireland, and it's just great, too, dished up on a warm chive pancake.
One main course I'm a sucker for anywhere is Irish stew, just like a beef stew but with chunks of lamb standing in for the cow. Irish sausage, "nine fine inches" in the menu's description, has crisp skin, a fine-grained texture and mild spices, the most authentic-tasting Celtic sausage this side of Dublin. For the record, this is served with a trio of Irish whole-grain mustards and something called champ, a mashed potato and cabbage deal.
Dundon also gets salmon from Ireland, and smokes it lightly with hickory before grilling. Once you taste Irish salmon, you'll never settle for the farm-raised salmon from this side of the Atlantic again.
For the adventurous, there is Kilmore Quay's fisherman's crumble, smoked fish, mussels and oysters with a creamy cheese sauce and buttery bread crumbs on top, baked crisp like an apple crumble. It's the kind of dish one would eat on the drizzly Irish coast on a cold day in January.
Desserts are especially good here, though no Irishman worth his salt would be caught dead eating something called cloud nine chocolate jaffa cake in a pub. It's a rich chocolate-layer cake with orange filling, swimming in an equally rich chocolate ganache. I'm having bread and butter pudding, custardy stuff spiked with raisins, cream, vanilla and butterscotch. And then I'm going to ponder why the Irish aren't the fattest people in the world.
Hmmm. I think I'll mull this over with one more Guinness. That's what Joyce or Beckett would have done, no?