We have as a species long striven to make sense of the stars above us. We craned our necks to afford meaning to argent points of light, tracing god-shapes upon constellations until squinting ourselves into a kind of rationality. Shooting stars though have always retained a particular potency for excitedly superstitious types. The mere anticipation of these celestial streaks has been linked to outbreaks of mass hysteria since time immemorial. We can’t seem to develop a resistance to certain contagious delusions. Recall the bizarre spectacle of Trump supporters swearing blind that they could see bigger crowds (in photos) for his first inauguration than those of his predecessor. Or closer to home The Moving Mary of Ballinspittle, which I initially misremembered as the miraculous occurrence of a statue salivating in a place called something else. Sometimes folks will see what they need to see.
Comet (a restaurant) finally made landfall a couple of months ago following a relatively brief but intense flurry of hype that probably had little to do with the principals involved. Restaurants these days seem to require origin stories and this is one of the most durable. In a tale as old as Luke travelling to the swamps of Dagobah to learn at the feet of master-chef Yoda, (and learn he did) chef Kevin O’Donnell (formerly Bastible) proved himself in some very serious kitchens in Denmark and has now returned (with wife and partner Laura Chabal) to do his thing in Dublin. We should be glad – what he’s serving up would be gobbled with just as much relish in Paris or Berlin. They are now resident I’m told, close to my own manor. This pocket of Dublin 8 is rife with auteurist cooks it seems, drawn no doubt by the keen property prices, abundant green spaces and general quality of life.
The venture is backed by the Bastible folks and situated in an alleyway off Dawson St. Some might remember Joshua Lane as the location of a harmless wine bar called La Ruelle, far fewer will have any recollection of staggering down there bladdered, to relieve themselves of their Friday night(s). On a recent Thursday night the room is full of people who have been led to believe that they are about to be cooked for by the risen Christ, and he’s wearing the leather two-piece from the ’68 comeback special.
It’s a relatively tight space that’s been done over with lots of wood for a kind of luxe-monastic feel. It’s a self-consciously serious room and that’s fine. My companion favours the word ‘soulless’. There’s a bar with a few stools but it seems like more of a service area at this point. Some have commented on the relative gloom of the restaurant but I had no problem with the lighting level, it was the sound level that ground my gears.
From the large table at the front of house comes the thunderous roar of over-stimulated millennials. The now obligatory table of juiced-up, hearing-impaired pals who are all simultaneously experiencing the telling of jokes for the first time. This is not the fault of the restaurant but If I was here on my own dime (and not with my wife) I might have considered a (minimal) intervention. The eponymous house aperitif had enough vermouth zip and salinity to bring my attention back but I guess I’ll front-load the negatives – this is a natural wine place.
I’m sure Ms Chabol knows her subject very well. I don’t want to re-litigate. The lines have been drawn, the trenches dug and both sides are going over the top. If you don’t care for it you’re Nigel f**king Farage, if you do you’re Greta Thunberg. Whatever. Call me a churl but I don’t want my €72 bottle of Aligoté to taste of cider. I like good cider. When this is published I’ll most likely be in the green wilds of Asturias having it poured from a height into my gaping yap. I just want my wine to taste of wine, not wine that is still fermenting. Over a recent lunch Valentine Warner advised me not to write that all natural wine tastes like cider, so I will not – in deference to his breadth of knowledge and modest celebrity. Nevertheless – a €24 glass of champagne shouldn’t feel like an infliction.
I’m willing to move on. House charcuterie is a good way to set your stall out if you’re opening a new spot these days. You drive the car like a stud but you’re a mechanic too. Referring to it as ‘Cold Cuts’ on the menu is cute. The gossamer slices of Lomo and Culatello are absolutely as good as it gets. Get the bread that I didn’t. A dish of ‘Peas, broad beans and pistachio’ is just that. It’s pleasant, verdant, Summery with a hum of fermentation that punctuates the menu. Scandinavia, remember? They possibly describe sauerkraut there as ‘fermented cabbage’ too, it shares a plate with a quite delicious skewer of Wagyu Featherblade that could possibly taste even better if it didn’t come with a €22 price tag. That’s where we’re at. Supernal phenomena don’t come cheap.
A dish of Courgettes, Coco Beans and Brie is somewhat confounding and presents as a soupy melange of ingredients. It eats reasonably well but feels a little worthy, like something that might be served at a high-end wellness retreat. Give yourself a pat on the back for ordering it. The Quail on Toast has been fervidly ballyhoo’d with critics lining up to sling superlatives like they were giving them out for free. Given how much these gigs pay that phrase is not entirely inaccurate. For a moment I feel as if I might be succumbing to the hysteria, until the moment I’m told that the quail is off on this particular night. Stricken, I order the duck, my voice cracking as I do so. Maybe it’s some kind of cosmic payback for not enjoying natural wine.
That (French) duck is perfectly fine, cooked just so, sliced and sitting it its jus. The cabbage rice roll that comes with it is a challenge to my dentition. Weeks later I feel like I’m still chewing it. The Pommes boulangère is worth the hype – this is a rich, indulgent rosette of pomme de terre, bolstered with fat and stock. We finish with a hickey little stainless steel bowl of Olive Oil Ice Cream with Peach Sorbet that felt like consuming perfect contentment.
The most obvious comparison for Comet is of course near neighbour Library St – you’ve got the returning wunderkind, the skill and ambition, the house charcuterie and a similar maniacal effortlessness. The price point is comparable too – high but not quite astronomical. Service is a little aloof but warms a little as the room quiets down, as is often the case. It’s not lost upon me that this is the kind of highly proficient, unshowy cooking that I’ve often advocated for and yet I don’t think that this Comet will impact me as profoundly as the one of my youth.
That was a record store on the corner of Crown Alley where you could make genuinely life-changing purchases, pay for pleasures everlasting. This is merely a very good restaurant - I have no reason to believe that it won’t become an even better one, it’s just not the Tunguska level event that some would have you believe. I must get in to try that quail though. I hear it’s out of this world.
Words: Conor Stevens
Photographs: Killian Broderick
Joshua Lane
Dublin 2
