Days 55 & 56: Plastic Jesus

After lunch, but before demo, on Friday, we were treated to a live performance by two crazy Belgian musicians who happened to be passing through the area. One of them played the guitar the other the harmonica. They were brilliant. After the lamb butchering on Friday, I popped in to catch the end of their concert in the Grainstore at Ballymaloe. It felt like a gentle way of unwinding into the weekend without causing myself too much damage. By 4am, I was sipping a gin and tonic from an empty jam jar, and the weekend had unwound into me. (You only seem to get Cork Dry Gin round here - it’s not in the same league as Tanqueray, which is probably a good thing since it stops me making martinis with it).

Saturday morning passed me by, and I was in the kitchen in time for lunch. One of the chefs, who also happens to be a brilliant baker, showed me his method for making focaccia. Vastly different to the one we learn at the school, and with far more impressive results. I chip in during prep but leave before service starts. Partly because I am exhausted, but mainly because there are plenty of people in and I get the feeling that I may just get in the way if I stick around.

I felt properly refreshed by the time I woke up this morning. I wanted to go somewhere different today, and with the washing on, a coffee in the belly, and spurred on by the sunshine, I headed for Youghal, east of Cork, with my best buddy. We walked about the place, climbed a hill through a graveyard and traipsed along the city wall. There was a plaque by some ramparts alluding to the guy who had fortified the town. Turning round, looking out to sea from our vantage point, I was slightly taken aback. The thought of the guns going off - the smell, the smoke, the confusion. History. What my country subjected this country to. The inscription read: Just hear what the old fellows say - When trenchmen landed at Monatray one of us made them scamper away.

Back in town we pondered lunch options, and after an abortive attempt in the Rendezvous Café, wound up in Capri Bay, an ‘authentic Italian trattoria’. Of course it is. But no. It actually is. Bresaola could have had a bit less balsamic on it, but the mozzarella salad was perfect. Crisp leaves and the best Mozzarella di Buffalo I have tasted outside of Italy. My lobster linguine arrived with the lobster cracked and on the plate, and was sublime. Delicate and fresh, fishy but not fishy, if you know what I mean. Eclipsed only by the panna cotta, which just edged out my tiramisu in the dessert stakes.

After this enormous lunch I spent the rest of the day with that gluttonous fat feeling. I desperately want to sleep when I get home around half six, but settle for a quick powernap to replenish my reserves in time for the Blackbird. The usual suspects, plus the Belgians, treated us to a great evening’s music; the highlight being a rendition of Plastic Jesus that brought a smile to my face. Just got home from there now, probably had too much to drink for a Sunday, but the full stop has been drawn at the end of yet another week. If only I had a Plastic Jesus riding on the dashboard of my car, I might just about be ready for the next one…