For breakfast, I wandered into a tiny café that, as I realized after sitting down, was plastered floor to ceiling in high-class male erotica. Framed photos of David and other nude classical statues were everywhere, as well as Italian paintings, signed hand-drawn military posters, and collages from magazines. The parts of the building not covered by these images made me think of an eccentric grandmother: dozens of empty wine and whisket bottles with candles stuck in them, novelty salt and pepper shakers, potted narcissus, and small dog statues. A Bratz doll dressed as Diana Ross stood guard at one corner of the bar.
The waiter/owner recommended the full Irish breakfast because it was pretty sexy. He said this at every table. He found out that the table behind me was a newlywed couple and had everyone clap, and then gave them free cherry. The restaurant kept the menus in a crate above my head, and every time someone came over to grab one, I prayed that the dust on the fake olive garlands wouldn’t shake loose and fall into my tea.
I was alone at the bar, and at one point the busboy had his break and slouched into the seat next to mine. He inhaled an egg sandwich and sat hunched over his plate and phone the rest of the time. He paid me no mind. He got yelled at briefly to sit up a bit and straighten his back.
When I got up to pay and leave, the waiter/owner asked if I was a travelling student. I said yes. He said that he couldn’t let me go without a memory, so he gave me a postcard with a drawing of the restaurant on the front, no charge. He asked me if I found the meal to be sexy. I said yes, of course, the sexiest meal I’d ever had. He seemed pleased.
One of my goals with this blog is to create an accurate trove of information that I can one day return to and be reminded of the incredible things I saw and experienced. That is why I am posting this; because it is true, and it is honest, and it is part of my experience here. Also it’s funny and the food was great.
Cordialement,
Allison
P.S.: The place was called Stage Door, I think. Stop by if you’re ever in Dublin.
Flan in France 