Beautiful Affair

Smokey Joe’s really caught the imagination of the students. Lunch was simple fare: homemade soups with large chunks of red and white Cheddar on brown bread baguettes from Griffin’s bakery in the city, all served by the students, and occasionally grains and pulses made an appearance on the menu as our generation began to embrace vegetarian and macrobiotic diets. Although I distinctly remember one particular ‘chef’ at Joe’s, a real character who I discovered had a different slant on the menu. One day I plucked up enough courage to approach him, hoping for some tips on cooking. ‘You seem very dedicated to this food yourself. It’s really beautiful. Any tips?’ ‘Ah Jaysus no, Mike,’ he spluttered, surprised. ‘I only sell the feicin’ stuff. I’m purely a burgers and chips man meself.’

The music was cool, with the likes of Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons regularly featured by spinners Tom Prendergast and Mike Kilduff, and the UCG Arts Society set up a weekly Sunday folk club from October to March. Admission was a mere 50 pence and the café seated 200 people. The sale of alcohol was prohibited, so the audience usually arrived with their flagons of cider from nearby Kelehan’s bar. For those who came without, there was always the house special, a potent and highly illegal wine punch, served in discreet paper teacups. If discovered, the college authorities would certainly have closed down the folk club.

Our first Smokey Joe’s gig was well received, and Ollie invited us back again and again, on one occasion to support a Loudon Wainwright III gig in Galway city. Loudon toured Ireland quite a lot in those years. His hallmark, apart from being an excellent songwriter, was his ability to ad lib songs, reacting to issues in the news or those people unlucky enough to be seated in his immediate vicinity. Walking to the bar or the toilet was worth at least two good lines of verse. To acknowledge our support slot he sang out, ‘And what about the music from the two lovely slickers, the Shannon Shitkickers? Yeah you, Shannon Shitkickers!’ Whenever we met at festivals, he’d always greet us with, ‘Hey! The Shannon Shitkickers. How you guys doin’?’

THE RELUCTANT VEGGIE

Some of our friends moved to London to study nursing at Whipps Cross University Hospital in Leytonstone. Whenever they were home, they’d hang out and eat with us at the flat, go to all the gigs and never missed a session. We were a good solid crew. We went to London and stayed at their tiny house on Chadwick Road in Leytonstone. They introduced us to London life, jumping the tube station barriers to head into Portobello Market, to fill up on albums from Honest Jon’s record store, catch gigs at Dingwall’s, the Marquee Club or the Hammersmith Palais. A couple of the girls presented me with my first cookbook, The Bean Book by Rose Elliot – it was a revelation. I quickly developed a taste for veggie cuisine, although I never could proclaim to be a complete vegetarian, preferring to keep my options open.

Back at home I started to branch out and cook from the book. Dad had great difficulty understanding what was actually sitting on my plate, as I stubbornly refused Mum’s crispy pork chops and spuds in favour of kidney bean moussaka, toasted chickpea salad or a plate of lentil mush. He once remarked that even Dinky, our lovely dog, wouldn’t touch that stuff – or a word to that effect.

With Rose Elliot’s help, I persevered as a reluctant vegetarian for a few years until my journey ended abruptly at a hotel restaurant in Kilkenny. Ireland was not renowned at the time for multiple-choice vegetarian menus, so it was hit and miss. Having ordered the usual hotel chef’s go-to veggie option, ‘the vegetarian salad special’, I sat back, waiting in anticipation, ever the optimist. Unfortunately, back in the day veggie options were more than likely put together by the kitchen porter while the cooking crew concentrated on the real stuff. A veggie salad plate was often a respite home for bewildered greens and miscellaneous garnishes intended for other dishes, all smothered in a blanket of salad cream. Occasionally a tin of kidney beans might find its way on to the plate for added texture, and it seemed a great repository for jars of beetroot and burger gherkins, with a bonus fistful of Tayto. I patiently waited as steaks, burgers and stews were served to the rest of the band, imagining all sorts of lovely things: ‘He’s probably in there roasting the cumin-spiced vegetables, or frying homemade lentil fritters while waiting for the brown rice to boil.’ Soon I was eyeing the service hatch. The waiter quickly scampered off through the swinging doors, followed by the sound of kitchen discontent. He returned far too quickly with a few apologetic words and presented me with my salad: a mountain of oil-drenched wilted lettuce leaves, a badly sliced hard-boiled egg coated in a Marie Rose sauce, tomatoes and cucumber that had clearly spent the morning atop a dressed salmon. The gherkins made their scheduled appearance, along with a few black olives to keep them company. Mixed herbs were pebble-dashed around the rim, with the obligatory series of little red paprika mole mounds dotted about at random intervals. But the centrepiece, the main event, was a pair of honeydew melon wedges, unsegmented, sitting like two ships bobbing on a very stormy ocean. I searched around for any specks of hidden Italian ham, but the kitchen porter had clearly been very clinical in its extraction. Game over, I called the waiter, ordered the roast beef and said, ‘Tell the chef not to spare the gravy.’

BETSY IN SHOW

Bebke returned to finish her studies in Holland, so TV and I decided to travel over for a couple of weeks to say hello. Betsy the black Morris Minor was readied for the great adventure, and on a bright, brisk September morning we left for Rosslare, taking the ferry across to Le Havre, chugging past Calais, Dunkirk and on into Belgium. We had never seen such scenery, vast tracts of land presenting an array of stunning blooms, from brown to blue to orange to purple, then on to large fields of maize, beets, corn and wheat all growing in perfect symmetry. Betsy caused more than a little excitement on the journey. While her sleek black form should have been a spectacular sight as it cut through the beautifully manicured Ardennes countryside, the reality was quite different. She had taken a shine to oil and was burning it at a ferocious rate. The view through the rear window was of a long black vapour trail stretching for miles as it obliterated the beautiful vista. We eventually found a garage and with some very animated sign language, broken French and lots of charm, we managed to get Betsy a new filter. We set off once again, heading into southern Holland, and soon hit a major traffic jam on the outskirts of a small town. There was a lot of commotion from what looked like a convoy of farm machinery heading towards the centre. ‘Maybe it’s a protest,’ we wondered. As we rounded a bend into the town square, we were met with hundreds of happy faces waving flags and banners and the sound of a very large brass band. The entire area was covered in bright orange bunting. As Betsy came into view a wave of excitement grew from the crowd as they clapped our every chugging move, until we came to a stop in front of a viewing stand, where the dignitaries stood to applaud. There we were, in the middle of a municipal parade, looking and feeling like the main attraction. Betsy was Best in Show. We rolled down the windows and waved in a royal fashion, shouting, ‘Come on, Ireland! Viva Irlande!’ with our Dutch hosts responding in kind.

ZANGER, GITARIST

Bebke lived in Boxtel, a small town in the Brabant district of southern Holland, and she had organised a gig for me at the local youth club. The council handed over a section of one of its buildings to the youth service to host events and provide a place for young people to gather. Deal-breaking conditions applied, and one of the more innovative ones allowed for the use of cannabis within its walls – as long as they refrained from smoking in public places. Open-minded though they can be, the Dutch love their rules, and I don’t think that rule was ever broken. Bebke, having acquired financial support for the gig, had to justify the sponsorship by presenting it as a promotional event for the youth of Boxtel. She contacted the Irish tourist office in Amsterdam and requested some help and support for the special Irish night she was organising for the young people of the town. They were delighted, and sent reams of Irish posters and bunting. It was suggested that she offer some food, so she decided on bacon and cabbage to remind her of her time in Doolin. With no bacon in Boxtel, she settled on pork sausages, and sauerkraut replaced the cabbage. The room was decorated with large posters of the Killarney lakes, Blarney Castle and the Cliffs of Moher. In bright lights a banner read, ‘Mike Hanrahan: Zanger, Gitarist, liedjesschrijver uit Ierland’ – singer, guitarist and songwriter from Ireland. I had arrived … well, in Boxtel at least.

WE THOUGHT WE COULD DRINK

On our way back home to Ireland we stopped outside Louvain in search of a campsite. We met a family on the roadside who gave us directions and off we went, but somehow ended up right back where we started and met them again. They took pity on us and invited us to follow them up along a dirt track to spend the night at their farmhouse. The mother, who spoke no English whatsoever, ushered us to a table where we ate a bowl of hearty, warm carbonnade flamande – the first of many. It is without doubt one of the tastiest stews you will ever eat. Beef, brown beer and vegetables cooked very slowly and washed down with some strong Belgian ale. Oh, and there’s bread in the stew as well. Belgian food is well worth an investigation; traditional restaurants produce very special local dishes with influences from a variety of cuisines. I will always remember this particular dish for the flavour and the warmth of Flemish family hospitality.

Carbonnade flamande

Serves 4

This is my take on carbonnade. I have tried all sorts of cuts of meat, but my favourite is short ribs with a portion of oxtail. If I have time, I will marinate the beef overnight in beer, herbs and bay. You could also dust the beef with seasoned flour for a thicker sauce. I cook this in stages, and the bread is optional and not always used, but when you try it once there is no coming back. I think it is essential to the dish. Close your eyes to the calorie count and enjoy.

1 tbsp rapeseed oil

2 small onions, peeled and quartered

500g stewing beef

1 butcher’s portion of oxtail (about 8cm)

A knob of butter

2 carrots, chopped (optional)

2 celery sticks, chopped

A pinch of brown sugar

2 tsp apple cider vinegar

1 glug or about 1 tbsp red wine

1 bay leaf

2 cloves of garlic, roughly chopped

100ml good beef stock

250ml good dark ale

1 tbsp chopped fresh herbs (parsley/thyme and/or marjoram)

Lots of Dijon mustard

1 French loaf, cut into thickish slices

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 Preheat the oven to 160°C/140°C fan/gas 3.

2 Heat a deep pan, and fry the onions in a little oil until coloured. Transfer to a casserole dish.

3 Season the beef and oxtail, then fry in batches, transferring them to the casserole dish as you go.

4 Add a knob of butter to the pan, fry the carrots and celery, then transfer to the casserole dish.

5 Add the sugar, vinegar, red wine, bay leaf and chopped garlic. Cook for a minute to reduce the vinegar and wine, and to dissolve the sugar.

6 Add the beef stock, ale and herbs. Continue to cook rapidly for another 5 minutes.

7 Transfer everything from the pan into the casserole dish and mix well.

8 Spread the mustard liberally onto the bread slices and place them on top of the stew, mustard side up. The bread softens and soaks in all of the flavours and the mustard creates an extra flavour layer sensation.

9 Cook in the oven for about 3 hours. You could serve this with herbed boiled potatoes; some roasted carrots would be nice, kale colcannon and, dare I say, the remainder of the bread.

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