Another post-pandemic daylight robbery!

Cavanman's Diary

The boom is back, baby – and we should beware. There follows a cautionary tale about an over-priced breakfast. If you’re squeamish about graphic descriptions of rip-offs, turn the page now.

Of course, we’re all well used to price gouging in Ireland these days but sometimes the thing is so egregious that it retains the ability to catch the unsuspecting customer off-guard.

The price of things now vies with the weather as the principal topic of conversation (in Cavan, anyway - no sniggering down the back, or in Monaghan, please) and if you’re like me, you’ll take a degree of masochistic pleasure in trading war stories about how much you were charged and for what.

Like the angler who caught one this big, it’s not unusual to add a euro or two for effect when recounting tales of muggings in post-pandemic Ireland but what follows is, I can assure you, an accurate retelling of my recent visit to one of our capital’s most iconic eateries, Bewley’s Oriental Café in the city centre.

Now, I want to preface this by saying that I’m not generally one for reviewing anything unless it’s relatively positive. I have a TripAdvisor account; I checked back and in 15 years on that app, I have only ever posted two negative reviews. One was for a hotel in New York after I witnessed a hilarious scene where a guest asked for another pillow and was told forcefully that there were plenty of other places to stay in the city if he didn’t like it. Three stars, since you asked.

So, I’d like to think it’s safe to say that my credentials as “not one of those people” are strong. Bona fides thus established, let me tell you about my recent visit to Bewley’s.

Having stayed overnight in the Big Smoke, I was looking forward to visiting the famed eating house for breakfast. I’d often walked past it in my impoverished student years, staring hungrily at over-sized Americans wolfing the finest rashers to be got on all of Grafton Street - but I’d never actually been in through the doors, even in those mid-noughties Celtic Tiger days of plenty.

Spirits were high after attending a show in the Bord Gáis Theatre (To Kill A Mockingbird, five stars) the night before, so I approached with a degree of excitement ahead of what would, as a lifelong fried breakfast enthusiast, inevitably be a morning meal I’d recall fondly for many years to come. I’m not messing, by the way; one of my WhatsApp groups is called Rate My Fry and does exactly what it says on the tin.

Bewley’s, of course, has name recognition and, shallow as a pan, that was enough to get me excited about this long-awaited sit-down. The Cavanman in me recoiled at the thought of what the damage might be but when you’re out, you’re out and all that…

So in we went and we were led to a wonky table by a friendly woman with an arresting accent. Soon enough, a teenage waiter arrived and was perfectly pleasant. Something, though, felt off and I began to cool on the place – maybe it was the draught.

No plan, they say, survives first contact with the enemy. Spooked partly by the breeze but mainly by the price (€17.50), I panicked and abandoned the planned Full Irish and – and I take no pride in admitting this - ordered the porridge, despite it costing a frankly hilarious €9.50.

Predictably, it turned out to be the worst porridge I have ever been served - gloopy, dead-badger grey, lukewarm and adorned with about half a dozen sorry-looking blueberries, bobbing around like barnacled buoys, served in a cold bowl.

The spoon was what second-hand shops call “pre-loved”; I was hungry but didn’t fancy the remnants of the previous guy’s Acai bowl either so I had to ask for a replacement, which thankfully was clean.

The porridge itself was memorable; I didn’t have access to carbon dating but I’d hazard a guess that it wasn’t freshly made that morning. The alternative – that someone, a chef presumably, made a hames of porridge – is unthinkable.

Ah well, at least I had the toast, which I’d ordered as a sturdy scaffold on which I would construct this mighty feast. It is generally taken as an article of faith that, burning or barely browning aside, toast cannot go wrong.

But, to quote Mick McCarthy, it can! I had meant the scaffold part metaphorically but, unfortunately, it arrived in the literal form.

Being a prima donna, I had specified to the waiter, whom I half expected to don a pair of tights on his face and produce a pistol, that I wanted brown toast. “No problem,” he said, but my gut told me he hadn’t been listening, so I politely repeated it. Showing consistency, he ignored it again. I told you so, my gut said.

Inevitably, when the toast arrived, it was that cursed sourdough which is all the rage now and, in a lovely touch, was served, like the best Chardonnays, chilled. I then attempted to apply the butter and marmalade, both of which helpfully came in those hard-to-open plastic sachets, but eventually lost the will to continue.

My good lady had the pancakes, which were soggy and were soon at the same temperature as the freezing plate they were served on. She pushed them aside early doors, bringing to mind Dickinson: “First chill, then stupor, then the letting go…”

The review in short? Two coffees – these were fine. The porridge? Inedible. The pancakes, abandoned like a half-built housing estate in 2008. The toast, refrigerated.

The bill: €42.

Forty-two euro, for that. At these rates, the next time I’m in Dublin, I might just bring a flask and stand outside, staring longingly in at the tourists, just like the good old days.