If you didn’t catch the tired Rigoletto reference, the menu changes regularly, but on this night I very much wanted to order a dish of grilled whole slipsole (that’s an industry term for a juvenile black sole) with white asparagus, cockles and sherry butter, simply because it sounded like the most Spanish thing I’ve ever heard. Nevertheless, you don’t want to order it, as the folks at the stoves can do much better if you give them the opportunity.
You get deeply flavoured, assiduously cooked flesh, a textbook rendition of that master sauce and possibly the finest, craggiest roast/deep-fried potatoes available to man. This is a throw-back to the Etto menu and at €68 can stand with the best in the city. Unaware, or uncaring of such concerns, our guests go right ahead and summon the obligatory sharing steak, in this case a salt-aged Delmonico (generally a thick-cut rib-eye), served with beef dripping potatoes and béarnaise. I’m very tempted to order a plate of Jamon Iberico Paleta (from the front leg) but that’s not a test of the kitchen, however much I want it. Don’t expect to see these on the menu when you next visit, La Donna É Mobile, or however that goes in Madrid. Everyone is pointing tines at the same time. Even better is a crudo of Yellowfin with the crunch of radish and comfort of gobbets of avocado creme. Veal Carpaccio with broad beans, anchovy and manchego brings all of those things together without one element elbowing the other out of frame. We order our first bottle of well-priced rosé (Marc Isart, Clarete, ‘La Maldicion’) at €34 and press on with some stellar padrons that carry heavy smoke with their inherent fruitiness. The bottle of Hojiblanca oil left on the table is verdant with that polite kick, at the back of the throat, that denotes quality. I’m not sure we would be graced with the pan-theon of options we now enjoy, like Tartine, Scéal, and Bread 41, were it not for his dedication to the craft. We should all be grateful that he did, because Le Levain undoubtedly helped usher in a golden-crusted age for the baking of real bread in this city. I knew Rossa as a pup when he was slinging cheese in the Temple Bar Food Market and I well recall his decision to follow his vocation and re-locate to France to serve his apprenticeship. When the product that hits the table is at this level, it is churlish, if not downright ignorant.
I’ve heard many people (both critics and civilians) carp about paying for bread service in restaurants but this is a hang-up that has no place in the context of modern dining. This young pair have taste to go with their talent. When we arrive, they have already ordered a dish of almonds along with excellent Verdial olives and bread from Rossa Crowe’s Le Levain bakery. It is also rumoured that the latter can play the drums like two jack-rabbits banging. On a close, late July evening we are joined by Clara and Greg, another husband and wife creative team, combining design, illustration and photography.
#UNO MAS HOW TO#
Owners Simon Barrett and Liz Matthews would seem to know what you want, and Chef Paul McNamara knows how to cook, so after some eight months of rough trade on Aungier Street, is the desire to please still there? Honesty is prioritised over authenticity. Their mother tongues are romance languages and their menus are love-letters to cuisines that encourage gustatory infidelity. They are both actually modern Irish restaurants that speak with ‘foreign’ inflections. You won’t find red gingham tablecloths in the former, just as you will need to bring your own castanets to the latter. Uno Mas is a Spanish restaurant in much the same way that its (much garlanded) sire Etto is an Italian one. Not for me the premature ejaculation (or expostulation) that too often results from a hasty assignation. Restaurants may put out on the first night, but critics should really get to know themselves a little first before attempting to nail them. One needs to take some time to understand how the other wants it. Just like relationships, these places need to bed-in, to relax into a position that aligns the pertinent parts for both giver and receiver. As I say ad nauseum, I’m quite happy to bring up the rear when it comes to considering the merits of a restaurant. I’ve lately come to the conclusion that the key to maintaining that magic and intimacy is delayed gratification, that a little restraint renders the relationship more meaningful, makes the inevitable union more special. After that, you take the girl’s clothes off. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. If I might re-purpose Chandler’s alcohol analogy – restaurant reviews are like love.
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