The last time I was in this room underneath The St Stephen’s Green Centre it was a branch of Wagamama and I was politely asked to extinguish the just-lit Dunhill dangling from my mouth. This was a couple of weeks before the smoking ban came into effect – on March 29th, 2004. I remember this not because it was the world’s first such work-place edict but because that was the day of my thirtieth birthday. Tempus fugit etc.
For those today who don’t chow down in suburban shopping centres Wagamama is a successful Pan-Asian chain launched in London in ’92. It probably introduced many of us round-eyes to chopsticks and still has its fans. It was to wholesome Asian food what The Body Shop was to ‘smellies’. I’m not going to explain The Body Shop but for many of my vintage it was the scent of first girlfriends. Malls seem to be having a moment right now, not least among the protest-prone.
I’m told that the redevelopment of The Phibsboro Shopping Centre is now a hot button topic for the ‘brutalists’ and I’ve heard even more preposterous claims about the architectural significance of the one that sits above this restaurant. Where I wonder where were these hand-wringing Insta-conservationists when I observed my lonely vigil to decry the destruction of the unlovely Crumlin Shopping Centre?
Whatever – chef Richie Castillo and partner Alex O’Neill had been trading (as Bahay) since the pandemic, first in a food-truck and then doing the pop-up peregrinations, much like Chubby’s in fact. I’m sure that I had eaten Filipino food before Castillo’s but the stuff that was put up to us at one of those pop-ups (in the Harold’s Cross Warehouse Market) was something of a revelation.
Since last Autumn the Bahay pair have had the run of this space and Kaldero (a pot or cauldron in the Tagalog tongue) has been revealing the many delights of this unsung (in Dublin) cuisine to a receptive audience. I don’t generally enjoy windowless basement dining-rooms but it is what it is. The long communal benches of Wagamama are long gone – you’ll want to be in one of the comfortable booths that punctuate the length of the open kitchen. It’s louche and clubby and not in the pass the port to-the-left way – there’s a serious looking turntable set up, mercifully vacant on the night. I don’t want to eat at the club or dance in a restaurant. Not at this stage.
The slightly-sweet bread-rolls (Pandesal) are delivered from the oven, fluffy and puffing out gusts of steam. Tear and drag through the Roasted Yeast Butter. Mo’ butter, mo’ better. The house (Pinakurat) Bloody Maria ratchets the umami up further still. I normally wouldn’t countenance a Mary of any kind after 3pm but I’m attempting to be less rules-based. It’s built on smoky Del Maguey Mezcal and so moreish that it almost orders another for itself. If that happens you should have the tempura-grade Crispy Aubergine with Whipped Tofu and Tamarind Salt.
If you can resist the urge to order another starter (pampagna) listed as ‘Chicken Joy’ (not the bird’s I’m guessing) you might busy yourself with the Stir-Fried Roaring Water Bay Mussels. The ochre liquor is of uncommon depth and suggests coconut milk and fish-sauce. There’s a gently insistent heat that tugs at your sleeve. RWB Mussels is a producer menu shout-out that has now reached almost Ballymakenny potato levels. It’s as if other mussels and potatoes have ceased to exist.
In Mongoose recently the menu tempted with necking and tonguing – things get even more torrid here with the opportunity to ‘wear the face off’ a pig. Sisig (see-sigg) is a dish that dates back centuries though it was re-popularised in the 70’s due to an abundance of cheap pig’s heads – unwanted in the mess-halls of the vast U.S (Clark) Air Force base and considered a waste-product. How’s that for a delicious irony – delivered courtesy of the American military-industrial complex.
The preparation is a laborious one with whole heads being boiled before being broken down – the maskara (ears, jowls and more) removed, grilled, then chopped and fried with onions and the tingle of timut pepper. The (delicious) porcine fattiness is cut with the addition of vinegar and calamansi juice – a fragrant and lime-like citrus native to the region. That lip-smacking quality may be the result of meeting lips other than yours. Gently spicy, pleasingly sour and savoury, it is a remarkable dish and one that I can’t stop thinking about. You need, at the least, to get a plate for the table.
Kare Kare is an Oxtail curry so good they named it twice. I’m happy to double down on its singular quality. It is cosseting in the very best way that long braises of humble cuts often are – with spoon-tender flesh surrendering to a mild and creamy peanut sauce. Think satay and then imagine further. Add dabs of bagoong (a potent fermented-fish condiment) as you go. Ben – one of the cooks – tells us that it is his granny’s recipe. I didn’t catch her name or know if she still walks the earth but in any case – I salute her and I’ll eat it next time with a spoon and fork in her honour. For less intrepid explorers there’s a Bavette steak with Juniper and Bone-Marrow or a whole bass with a Blood Orange Escabeche.
It has occurred to me that we really drew the short straw when it came to our culinary colonisers. The Portuguese left Piri-Piri sauce in the wake of their Southern African intervention. French adventures in South East Asia bequeathed the Bánh Mì with its baguette and paté to Vietnam. We were left with little more than the bitter taste of a regime that oversaw (in some places) the removal of food from the Irish diet entirely. You can stick your Toad-in-the-Hole.
The (Leche) Caramel Flan here is of course a legacy of the 16th-century Spanish conquest of the archipelago. Kaldero now surely joins Uno Mas and Bang to form a holy trinity of Flaneurs in the city. The dehydrated dilisk that is dusted over this laser-cut slice of set custard is foraged from Baltimore harbour. If any further evidence were needed that this is a kitchen where no corners are cut and no asses halved the dish is finished with a planing of Asín tibuók salt. Referred to as ‘dinosaur egg’ due to its smooth ovoid appearance it is a vanishingly rare foodstuff made only by a few families of the Boholano people and involves filtering sea-water through the ashes of burnt coconut husks. Few desserts are so anointed and fewer still are so deserving.
The prices feel eminently reasonable for cooking of this level and the service is a joy, attentive and eager to share. On my way up the stairs I inquire of another exiting diner whether he enjoyed his dinner. He nods and returns the query before introducing himself as Mr Castillo senior and telling us that he’s glad we enjoyed his son’s cooking. He has much to be proud of. Kaldero is an invitation to experience and explore a food culture that draws from myriad directions, each freighted with history and meaning.
If the Chubby’s menu feels like a series of excitable post-cards from delicious destinations then this one reads as a hand-written love-letter to a cuisine and a heart-land. I can’t think of a better reason to protest the re-development of The Stephen’s Green Centre. Or indeed any other reason.
Words: Conor Stevens
Photographs: Killian Broderick
Unit 4b
South King Street
Dublin 2
