It’s the day of April 23rd in the year 1014, (Good Friday no less) and the sun rises above Dublin Bay, illuminating two opposing forces, two hosts of warrior men assembled for the purpose of bloodshed. Formed by alliances too internecine to be amusing here, a basic reading has King Brian Boru and his (mostly) Munster chieftains (and assorted mercenaries) facing off against King Sitric, the armies of Dublin and Leinster and a horde of Vikings under the command of Sigurd of Orkney.
Apocryphal accounts (waayy before camera phones) describe two individuals (Plait from the Norsemen and Donal Mac Eimín for the Boru crew) trading insults before meeting in the middle of the field and summarily ending one another. I’d like to think that that those insults revolved around the relative attractiveness of the respective wives but alas, sands of time etc. Battle was then joined. Estimates vary but some four to eight thousand men likely went to their reward(s) on that day.
In the probable absence of an afterlife (or at the very least a problematic verification process) their prize was variously to be hacked, cudgelled or run though with dull pikes – their bowels festooning the scenic seaside field of battle. I imagine chunky waves of gore and viscera sloughing toward the water’s edge where countless droves of drowned, mail-clad Norsemen already clogged the very tide. No guts, no glory as they say. It also sounds to me like a plausible origin for the expression ‘no day at the beach’.
In the intervening millennium nearby Dollymount Strand has borne witness to many more scenes of carnage, not least when the mercury tips above 20 and neighbouring Northside factions descend upon the shoreline, hell-bent upon leisure activities. These ‘patch invasions’ pale however next to the true battle that rages today amongst this coastal coterie – the fight to secure primetime reservations at Chubby’s and leave nothing but scraps for the outlanders.
Barry Stephens carved out a legend of his own – scratch-making superior sandwiches on Parnell St at his late lamented 147 Deli for more than a decade before bowing out in late ’24. He did so knowing that the ‘Just Chubby’s’ taco truck concept that he had trialled during the Covid hiatus had been rabidly received and (with partner Jen) duly set about transforming the warehouse space where it traded into an actual restaurant. Just Chubby’s became, well, just Chubby’s and I must say – Mr and Mrs Stephens have built quite the thing – a neighbourhood restaurant that people are more than willing to travel to. From a carpark they’ve conjured a place with real character and charisma to burn. It was the feel good hit of last Summer and those feelings haven’t gone away.
The room, designed by Jen Stephens (who has a background in art-direction and branding) makes a virtue of the space’s proportions – it’s at once light, airy and enveloping, awash with what used to be called millennial pink. The oddly truncated mezzanine that runs above two sides of the room was intended as a de-facto second floor but due to an architectural snafu that was not possible. I don’t think it would have made competition for seats any less fierce. It’s pleasantly lit and comfortable, a swell place to be. A bar counter runs down the left of the room and if you are a deux (or solo) then this is where you want to be – watching the guys on the line doing their thing(s).
Those things are often coming from the smoker (shipped from Missouri) or the clay oven grill and the dishes being plated up might have originated in Mexico, from the Middle East or South East Asia. Essentially from any place where big, strident flavours (like spice, smoke and citrus sharpness) call home. I had been threatening to end my relationship with dirty (vodka) martinis following the internet’s discovery of them a couple of years back. It was like an idiot of your acquaintance suddenly talking about a band that you’ve revered for decades. I make many such threats. In this instance I’m glad I lacked the fortitude to follow through. This was one of the very best for some time – cold as a stepmother’s cruelty with a single tumid Gordal olive, balanced brine and a few drops of Picual olive oil to coat the lips. Why should I cut off my anything to spite whatever?
So – they take their cocktails seriously – there’s a serviceable and concise wine list too and kudos for having a decent Cava by the glass – just off-dry fizz loves this kind of stuff. Stuff like Salt and Chilli Chicken Skins with angry aul one sauce. Crunchy and salty and possibly not very good for you. Add some life to your years. Indian Fried Chicken arrives wreathed with a tangle of fried curry leaves. It is piquant and almost impossibly succulent. It is the kind of thing you think could only be done this well, by well, Indians. Chubby’s borrows from disparate cuisines and pays them back with respect and (one suspects) meticulous R&D. It feels (and tastes) like a fair exchange throughout. See also the outrageously delicious Spiced Comeragh Mountain Lamb Flatbread with curried Mango, Picked Fennel, Pomegranate and Feta. I’m not making this up.
There’s a dry-aged burger so it arrives quartered for the table and cooked as requested (which just so happens to be exactly as the FSAI stipulates, go figure). We could argue about ranking but it goes immediately onto the list of the very best in the city, or just outside it. The city, not the list. The others can come back to me when they are baking their own sesame potato buns in-house.
Given the origin story the Pork Carnita Tacos were probably the least successful dish of the evening – the meat had (for me) been a little over-worked on the chopping board, leading to a kind of mealiness. There’s also too much of it, I like my tacos a little understuffed. That said – the flavours were singing. With the much-vaunted 10-hour Beef Short-Rib off the menu on the night we were ‘forced to make do’ with some Smoked Lamb Ribs. Oh my. You could spoon the tender filaments of flesh from the bones and then there’s a silky White-Bean Hummus so comforting that it could be used to treat a bad mood.
The brisk brightness of Mint Taboulah (sic) and Lemon & Feta Toum set ever more neurons firing. Use the Garlic Butter Flatbread to clean the plate. From the Levant with love. There can be few better ways to spend thirty bucks.
This was the most expensive thing on the list – a testament to the keen prices from top to bottom. Why didn’t I spend €12 on an order of Twice Cooked Fries with Fried Pancetta, Caesar Dressing and Roast Chicken Skin? Can I have chicken skin with every meal? Next time for you. Salads and vegetables are also available – neglected in our protein frenzy. I’m sure they slay too. Service is charming, attentive and accommodating, relaxed but never offhand, exactly as it should be in a place like this. Bravo.
Sourcing and provenance is unimpeachable. Fire and smoke tends to signify a certain kind of inked-up restaurant butchness but it’s not the case here. No one needs to flex when the flavours are this potent. The food here pulls off the trick of being precise without being precious and brawny without being boorish. With boisterous and brash flavours from wherever takes their fancy – Chubby’s is a belly laugh all the way around and the humour is infectious. Don’t let a prime-time booking be the hill that you die on – plant a flag on whatever table you can get.
Words: Conor Stevens
Photographs: Killian Broderick
46 Clontarf Rd (Rear)
Dublin 3
