It is my fervent hope that January will bring somewhere good enough to sustain my interest over a thousand words, or awful enough to sustain yours.

There is some solid cooking happening here, but not quite enough consistency to justify the enthusiasm of the pricing.

This joint is operating exactly as it was conceived – a round of three card monty to separate the Irish oiks from their silly queenless currency.

I like the feeling that potentially calamitous choices are just maddeningly out of reach. What if I were to pull that lever? Would a tsunami of Hop House 13 roar down James St…?

“The finest seafood carpaccio I’ve ever eaten, sweet, delicate, the flesh still firm. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

This is a menu that promises to do many things to me. Japanese things.

This would be a first – an initially sober experience of the shop formerly known as The Czech Inn, formerly known as Isolde’s Tower.

It bears the feel of something curated rather than created.

Bread is to be broken. The nature of that bread is the issue.

“I’ve found over the years that this space can repay the patient tippler with singular pleasures.”

This is straight down the line Korean cooking (with some needless nods to Japan).

Despite the name, this is the least precious cocktail bar you’ve never been to.

Too good to be regarded as merely a neighbourhood spot, and perhaps too good for Monkstown: this place deserves a postcode.

A pleasant way to make yourself poorer and moderately less hungry in sumptuous surroundings.

Nine Below is an actual thing and it takes them two days to accept my booking.

As you might expect, the service is warm and the welcome genuine. I’m tempted to comment that this may be the most hospitable restaurant in the city.

With the opening of Lucky’s we (you know who you are) now have an unassailable triumvirate of fuck-off places in which to wet our whistles.

It’s for special. Wear some adult shoes and run a comb through your hair.