The Mews, Baltimore, West Cork. Putting fine dining in its place.
It's been almost two years since I last posted on my own website and this time round, everything feels different - lighter, easier. My Old Bakery is sold and my furniture is in storage deep in the Languedoc, waiting for its next home in Ireland or France, I'm not sure where or when. Tomorrow I'm heading back to Ireland after six weeks in France and cannot wait to be on Ballyrisode beach with my my daughter and my dog, Skibbereen market with my basket and Ballydehob with my pint of Beamish.
I've had my fill of French restaurants, markets and shops, and day to day, in crushing heat, pretty much lived off melon, tomatoes, figs, ricotta, almonds, olive oil, garlic and basil. I've hardly touched a scrap of butter, planning my homecoming slice of toasted soda even before I left. My appetite feels rebooted, my palate rejuvenated, my mind and senses nourished by images of olive groves and vines as far as the eye can see, by all that abundant and flavourful French produce, unshackled by layers of plastic, and whispering, only inches from my mouth and fingers,"take me home and eat me".
But through all that, the flavours of my July dinner at Mews Restaurant in Baltimore held fast. Fine dining, when it is done this well, without the silly pomp yet rising to whatever occasion you might be celebrating, still and always will have a place. Even if as a business model Mews is unsustainable all year round in places like west Cork, what a joy it is that someone ran the risk, no matter how calculated, of that first season.
The Mews goes overboard on the listing of ingredients and producers on its menu. But you instantly forgive the homage/gimmick when the subsequent work is there and each dish goes way beyond the words. I can still taste the opening, delicate mouthfuls of oyster on crumbling seaweed flecked biscuit, the sweet, funky crab on an intensely potatoe-y pancake, the nuances of Vincent Collins' tomatoes with sweet cicely and tarragon, the brilliance of a fennel, wood sorrel and meadowsweet pre-dessert announcing a gorgeous tumble of Mary Stoutt's tayberries, raspberries and Worcester berries spiked with lemon verbena, slivers of fruit leather and raw milk creme fraiche. Sure it wasn't perfect. And as I enjoy the luxury of complete independence, I can say there's at times an excess of swagger in the service, the pork meat was lacking flavour and texture, but that is all I can fault this young, passionate team with, and I hope they soon receive the accolades they deserve.