I will begin with a confession. One that, as an Irish person, carries with it a degree of dishonour. But on I must endeavour in the name of truth and transparency. So here it is.

I didn’t like Guinness when I first tried it. The words feel weighted as I write them. I see a vision of a pristine pint, standing distinguished and disappointed atop a dark wooden table, its crisp white collar pinned above its cold black body. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

In fact, it took me quite some time to get the taste for it. As a younger man, I struggled with the notion of an acquired taste in general. If you tried something once, twice even, and didn’t like it, why on earth would you go back for more? In my lowest moments, in hushed murmurs, I even requested a dash of blackcurrant cordial be added.

My older brother sought to save my soul. I recall nights when I was drinking nondescript lagers, and he would appear suddenly with a fresh pint of Guinness, thrusting it into my hand earnestly. “Just try it again,” he’d say. “You need to have two or three to really get the taste.” One particular night, buoyed by his concern, I made myself power through. I was midway into the third pint when something clicked. It made sense.

What was once peculiar became complex. My palate began to appreciate the subtle bitter undertones. Those dissonant ghost notes elevated and, by contrast, sweetened the rest of the orchestra. I began to pick out the hints of caramel and coffee. To marvel at how the viscous, creamy waves on the surface seemed so at odds with the mysterious, malty ebony ocean below.

Looking back, I begin to wonder if I was alone in this experience. I poll friends and family, perhaps seeking reassurance. The feedback proves surprising. Granted, my methodology isn’t the most scientific, but results show that 50% of all people that I randomly bother with this question also had to acquire the taste for Guinness.

It reframes things for me, I realise that I may have unknowingly experienced a rite of passage, that learning to appreciate a good pint may well be part of the process for many people. As one person that I asked commented, “It’s like getting into a hot bath on a winter’s night. It might take some time to ease in, but once you’re in, you’re not wanting to get out.”

And here marks another aspect of Guinness that strikes me as wholly unique. The way in which we speak about it. We romanticise it. There is a passion for this drink in Ireland that seems to unify the past and present and resonates through our collective culture. People identify with it.

It’s as if we almost forget that it is a product, one that is today owned and operated by a multinational corporation. It is seemingly impervious to the consumer-fatigue and advertising wariness that we see creeping into modern life as we are bombarded more and more by ads, paywalls, and globalisation.

This has historical roots. Guinness has long invested in genius marketing. The famous “Guinness is Good For You” slogan started it all, when the family first agreed to run advertisements back in 1929. The work of artist John Gilroy in the period from the 1930s through to the 1960s has become iconic. He is responsible for a spate of colourful creations featuring big and bold typography alongside animals like toucans, ostriches and sea lions. The inspiration for that work supposedly came to the artist while he was visiting a zoo. The advertising has evolved with the times, whether it’s evocative television commercials or the brand’s involvement with rugby.

Today this translates to well-chosen collaborations with artists and creatives who have cultural capital. The brand is cool. Irish artists such as Kathi Burke and Stephen “Hephee” Heffernan have happily brought their own distinct styles to the world of Guinness, while independent streetwear brand Lazy Oaf has just announced a Guinness collection, supported by a pop-up shop in Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre. Bohemian Football Club, marketing geniuses in their own right, even has a Guinness Jersey. I have witnessed the excited reactions to these products. They are seen as new manifestations of Irishness and are rarely deemed as cynical capitalist cash grabs. I struggle to see the likes of Coca-Cola having such a wide stream and niche appeal. There’s even a Netflix series, House of Guinness, which adds some poetic license to the history of the family.

Another example of distinctive conversations regarding Guinness in Ireland revolves around where you can get the best pint. It’s hotly debated by locals. People have their chosen spots. There are now numerous social media accounts with massive followings dedicated solely to this idea, rating and reviewing pints across the island. To bring my youthful naivety in once again, I admit that there was once a time that this struck me as curious. How could the same exact product be different in multiple locations? Was this just a strange form of tribalism? Or was it the placebo effect in action? A pub gains notoriety for having a stellar pint of plain, so we therefore perceive their pints to be great.

I seek answers, and so I go straight to a trusted source whose opinion holds a lot of sway in this arena. Ciaran Kavanagh is the chef and proprietor at one of Dublin’s most beloved establishments, John Kavanagh, also known as The Gravediggers.

The pub has been in the Kavanagh family for a startling eight generations and is beloved by tourists and locals alike. Sharing a wall with Glasnevin Cemetery, it’s said that back in the day, the shift working gravediggers would tap on a hatch of the pub and pass their shovels in to receive stout.

It’s particularly famous for two things. Coddle—a traditional dish of bacon, sausage, potatoes and onion simmered in a simple broth—and an amazing pint. I call in to talk with Ciaran one cold winter’s morning. It’s a Monday, and the pub has just opened. Despite this, there’s already a steady stream of patrons trickling through the door. Ciaran places a freshly poured pint down in front of me.

“There are four cornerstones of a great pint. Consistency, temperature, glass hygiene, and pride. My family all grew up here pulling pints, and everyone that works here now cares deeply about what they do,” Ciaran says.

As a younger man and before purchasing the pub from his grandfather, Ciaran’s father worked for Guinness. Nowadays, most pubs follow roughly the same procedures for cooling the drink, which plays a big part in delivering a good pint. “Back in the 1980s, there was no such thing as cold rooms. Dad introduced a system in the pub for double cooling. Underneath the tap, there was a large cooler and the beer would then go over an ice bank to chill it down before tapping, so he was way ahead of the game from early on,” Ciaran says.

He also goes on to explain more of the technical details that go into keeping things consistent. First and foremost, the kegs are stored for a few days in the aforementioned cold room at around seven degrees centigrade until the core temperatures have lowered. It then goes to what The Gravediggers have coined “the coffin”, a large cooler that sits at zero degrees, with liquid water that never freezes. It is pumped into a pipe so that the temperature can sit at something closer to three degrees. From there it goes to the tap. They have taken steps to make sure that the draw distance is short, meaning that the final product can arrive as cold as possible. I learn that temperature consistency is what leads to the perfect height for that signature head on a pint of Guinness.

“We are massively into glass hygiene, too. We wash our glasses with cool water in the morning and then they go into a sterilised machine. During the day, they get washed, dipped in cold water and drip dried to ensure that there is no residue like soap, lipstick or lip balm,” Ciaran says.

One side of the establishment serves food while the other is reserved for drinks. Things like coffee cups and plates are washed in a completely separate area to ensure that grease and debris do not make an appearance.

“It isn’t just about the pint, of course. I feel that there is a collective energy in spaces like this. Meeting your friends to have a drink. Reading the newspaper or talking to the barman, it’s all a part of the ritual,” Ciaran adds.

There’s no doubt that John Kavanagh has a special aura, and it obviously resonates with people. As we talk, we are periodically interrupted by visitors who want to meet Ciaran. One young couple presents him with a deck of illustrated playing cards titled, ‘The Pubs of Ireland’, with paintings of different establishments. They ask him to sign one of the John Kavanagh faces, and tell me that they are making their way across Ireland to visit every pub featured in the deck. Ciaran tells me that he frequently has visitors who fly over from the UK just to spend a few hours at the pub before going home.

One of the pub’s most famous guests was Anthony Bourdain, who visited back in 2012. He tried Ciaran’s take on coddle, and the two struck up a friendship over pints of Guinness. This played a pivotal role in the establishment’s reputation, and today, they are still feeling the aftermath of it. With all the history and passion in the building, Ciaran reiterates that attention to detail and not becoming complacent are key.

Guinness, for their part, has made a major shift towards supporting pubs and bars in their efforts. The brand’s owner, Diageo, channels an impressive amount of time and energy into working with pubs like The Gravediggers across the country, with technicians from the quality team visiting establishments every 28 working days.

I speak to Vicki Donlon, Head of Quality, Events and Third Spaces at Diageo Ireland.

“Ireland’s bars, pubs and restaurants have rightly earned their excellent reputation for outstanding hospitality, and we continue to support our partners as they uphold that mantle. Every detail matters. Clean beer lines, the right gas pressure, correct temperature, and a clean tap spout all come together to create a perfect pint and that beautiful surge and settle we associate with a great Guinness. We ensure our product is always served at its freshest by rotating stock, regularly cleaning lines, troubleshooting any issues, and training staff,” she says.

Another hotly debated topic is that of the two-part pour, said to give Guinness its distinctive creamy head. In 1959, Guinness changed from using CO2 to using nitrogen, a lighter gas that takes longer for the bubbles to make their way through the beer. Today, the technique is said to allow time for the beer to settle before topping it off. This practice actually dates back to a time when drawing from two separate casks was necessary to achieve separation. Some say modern technology has rendered this practice obsolete, with it being based more on tradition than anything else, while others swear that the taste and texture is affected if the two-part pour is skipped.

“The ritual is crucial. It’s part science, part art. We spend time training bar staff on why it matters and how it delivers that distinctive experience and beautiful, balanced flavour,” Vicki says. For the final part of the pour, experienced bar staff will push the tap backwards rather than forward in order to top the pint off without introducing more gas. There’s even an official recommended time in which the whole procedure should be done – 119.5 seconds to be exact.

Keith McGovern and David Beirne have translated their passion for Guinness and pub culture into a successful business. Together they operate The Perfect Pint Tour, which sees guests being brought around Dublin city by luxury bus to visit a selection of establishments celebrated for their Guinness. There is also the option to add whiskey and food experiences to the day,

“Our tour exists to educate visitors on Irish hospitality and pub culture, and to explain the important role that Guinness plays alongside that. We want to show people why there is an Irish bar in every country in the world, trying to emulate what we do. We also want to question the stereotype that Irish people are simply big drinkers, when the conversation should be around why we love and support our pubs so much. Every pub has a different pint of Guinness, a feel, a charm and a culture, and we like to explain to people why that is,” Keith tells me.

One of the pubs featured on The Perfect Pint Tour is The Gravediggers. With Ciaran’s words still surging in my head, I ask Keith what it is in his opinion that sets certain establishments apart when it comes to Guinness.

“Small details that are done right. I have noticed that pubs that only use two Guinness taps are usually the best. A third tap will be used more infrequently. This leads to yeast buildup and off flavours. It takes at least 48 hours for a keg of Guinness to settle after delivery. We favour pubs that only take a delivery once a week to make the chances of getting an unsettled pint lower. Let it be known also, serving a great pint is 90% science and 10% magic.”

Laura Murphy creates content all around rating pints, going by the moniker @thatguinnessgirl on Instagram. I ask her why she thinks there is such an audience for what she does and what makes people so passionate about Guinness.

“I think Irish culture has blown up as a whole in the media as of late. We have tremendous talent from Ireland being recognised internationally and Guinness is a symbol of Ireland and its people,” she says.

There are certain things Laura has noticed that are sticking points for people when it comes to reviews. “People like to see pints being drunk in properly branded Guinness glasses. They like to see an even, smooth head with no bubbles, and they like a glass that looks cold but not too cold.”

I now see the whole thing in a new light. Having talked to so many people about it, my journey towards understanding and appreciation of Guinness feels all the more expansive. A pilgrimage of the pint.

The most sincere and sage closing sentiments on the topic come to me somewhat unexpectedly. Not by way of industry expert, marketing department or influencer.

I meet up with an old friend. Dave Ferriter, musician, writer and Corkonian prone to poeticism. He also happens to have a serious grá for the black stuff. After ordering our pints, I tell him that I’m actually in the middle of writing a piece about what makes the Guinness experience so special.

His face takes on a sombre expression, and his gaze shifts towards the swirling cloud of the settling pint, hues of sable and copper dropping and darkening in a blanket. I tell him about the conflicting research regarding the two-part pour, and his brow furrows.

“You know, for me, I think what’s special is the fact that it’s one of the few things left in this world that involves both parties displaying patience. There’s even reverence attached to it. You wouldn’t dare drink that unsettled. You can’t hurry the bartender. You can’t rush the pint. Everything else we consume these days is led by convenience. Down to bars serving ready-made cocktails,” he says.

As the barman tops off the pints, I offer my reply, caught off guard in that way that only Dave can get you. “I suppose you’re right there. And as is often the case, it’s worth the wait,” I say. Finally, the drinks fully settle, with perfect pillowy domes resting gleefully atop our shining black trophies.

We sip, tasting that first rush of malty sweet bitterness, parting the velvety ethereal mist to allow the thinner liquid beneath to fill our mouths. Sitting his pint down and looking out towards the door of the snug, Dave offers up one final thought.

“All it does is ask you for that moment. That brief, intangible happening hanging in the vastness of time. I’m not religious, but at mass when you’re asked to take a moment for quiet reflection during the service, it means something. That’s what we give the pint of plain. Or what it gives us.”

I nod.

“Absolutely. Let’s get some bacon fries.”

It always seems to start the same.

The posts begin with a disclaimer.

“I want to be clear. Abuse of any kind is unacceptable. However….”

Aw shucks. You’ve already lost me.

This week I’ve watched in frustration as a frankly confounding number of my fellow chefs have contorted themselves into human pretzels while sharing their confusing and bizarre takes on René Redzepi and the reports of abuse coming out of Noma.

In some respects there have been eerie similarities across the board. They share photos of Redzepi on their Instagram profiles, or leave heart emojis on the Noma account, or they like comments from the more outspoken social media users excusing his behaviour or discrediting the victims.

From there it can diverge, like a tapestry of endless multiverses unravelling in a tangled mess, depending on how willing the chefs in question are to stick their necks out for Redzepi. They do just enough to be able to contextualise their show of support however. And here we get the muddled takes and perplexing flexing.

Some start with the qualification as outlined above - stating that they are not an apologist for abuse and that they believe change is needed in the industry - before delving in to explanations on the demands of professional kitchens, the stressful nature of striving for perfection, the passion and dedication that links industry workers together and the incredible breakthroughs and opportunities that people like Redzepi have had a hand in facilitating over the years.

I’ve read the words “context matters” a shocking number of times, or variations on it, calling for “nuance” and “good faith” in conversations around the Danish chef, before they once again begin stating his accolades.

As if achievement can scrub out the ruination.

Some seem too preoccupied with their own success stories to be able to pause long enough to see if they are capable of empathising with the victims, instead choosing to defend the genius of their hero and the role that he has played in their journeys as people or professionals.

Others have called out the hypocrisy of the general public, who have enjoyed watching Gordon Ramsey raging and shouting in kitchens as entertainment on television, but who are now appalled at the Noma ordeal.

Double standards, they say, and this from people who have never even stepped foot in a professional kitchen and therefore are really in no position to comment on it. Oh. But just to be clear, abuse is bad and they do not condone it.

There’s a scene in one of my favourite comedy series, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, where the character of Mac states to the gang, “I’m playing both sides, so that I always come out on top.”

The posts that I’ve seen circulating from certain industry workers are dripping with this mentality, and we are expected not to notice.

It’s as if by presenting these strange commentaries in as vague a way as possible and then documenting them they can, at a later date, revisit them if needed as evidence of - something or other, support for the right team maybe? - depending on how things go. Just in case there is a return to the status quo. It’s disingenuous and unnerving.

People are wise to it though.

We live in an age where every person walking down the street has a fully equipped media studio in their pocket. I would argue that in some cases we have actually become more shrewd at spotting bullshit, even in a post “fake news” world that is rapidly being drowned in AI slop and misinformation. The games being played can still be identified.

A prime example of this is the unhinged “off the cuff” video from the site of the Noma LA pop-up that showed Redzepi making one final rallying speech in front of his tearful brigade.

There was the shaky camera that signified earnest humanity, that this was a shocking, raw moment that called for sudden and heartfelt documentation, immediately undercut of course by the fact that there were multiple camera angles that signalled a multi-person production crew.

It didn’t seem to fool many people, and when watching it it simply leaves you with the sad thought that the Noma workers are still being exploited, this time to drum up sympathy for their failed leader.

All of us have such rapid access to information now, both consuming it and sharing it. I’ve seen a few chefs backtracking due to blowback, and I do feel bad for some of them. Perhaps they did just misspeak. There’s always the option to say nothing. I am trying to remind myself of that more and more these days, to take time to fully digest things before sharing my take.

Or to question my motivations or even the necessity of me saying anything at all. The irony is not lost on me that I say all of this in a piece of writing where I am spouting my unasked for opinion.

There are important conversations taking place right now about an industry that I love deeply however, and I think that that is very important. Much of the discourse has been frustrating, especially when it continues to loop back to the genius of certain chefs and the demands of kitchen life. It feels like justification that does not need to exist. Kitchens can be extremely hard work while having a line that should not be crossed.

I’ve tried to get to the root of this feedback loop, to extend a level of understanding to fellow industry workers with stances that are not aligned with my own.

In conversation with others I’ve heard it pointed out time and time again that people who rush to present apologies for abusive chefs are likely abusive themselves. I don’t think that we can take that as a given.

My theory is that it has more to do with the fragility of identity.

Kitchens have long been a haven for the lost, the eccentric, the passionate and the sensitive. Every one of us is searching for meaning in our lives, for an escape from the certainty of death and for evidence that our time on this earth has meant something.

Cheffing offers purpose, creativity, and the chance to sustain people with unique offerings of art where nature, technology and creativity converge.

I completely get that. The more time I spend turning a dish over in my mind, the less time and energy I will spend dwelling on the darkness of modern life or existential dread or anxiety or depression.

At that stage in proceedings, chefs are already bought in. They have found purpose. The next step, naturally, is to identify strongly with heroes in the field. To look up towards the mountain in awe at those who have reached the summit.

That’s only natural and it can offer healthy goals and objectives. It’s impressive to be named the number one restaurant in the world. It’s impressive to be at the forefront of a new way of cooking, to have excited patrons and food critics alike.

I fear for my fellow chefs who cannot separate themselves and their identity from all that inspires them.

You can absolutely still be in awe of what Noma has achieved while at the same time being appalled by the working conditions that have been exposed. You can still strive for perfection and artistic expression in your own life and career while having standards for what is acceptable and what is unacceptable.

You can still move with urgency through a bustling kitchen that invigorates you, no one is here to take that from you. You still exist.

We’re just saying, maybe people shouldn’t get stabbed at work.

Since all this broke there has been a question that has been turning over and over in my mind.

Just as an experiment, instead of casting them aside, let’s instead fillet and have a look inside some of the red herrings from those that defend the status quo as simply a by-product of the tough working conditions of kitchens.

The question that I kept returning to was this. Is a chef under duress cooking to the best of their ability? Is it possible to taste the stress of a kitchen?

Scientific studies have proven that we can essentially taste when things are made with love. A 2012 paper by The University of Maryland titled, “The Power of Good Intentions: Perceived Benevolence Soothes Pain, Increases Pleasure, and Improves Taste” documents a study that saw participants being placed in two separate groups, a “benevolent group” and an “indifferent group”.

The first group were given candy in a package with a note attached. The note read: “I picked this just for you. Hope it makes you happy. The note for the second group read: “Whatever. I just don’t care. I just picked it randomly.”

The candy not only tasted better to the benevolent group, but it also tasted significantly sweeter. “Perceived benevolence not only improves the experience of pain and pleasure, but can also make things taste better,” the study concludes.

There are a number of other studies, but they all seem to hinge on the participants having knowledge that the food was cooked with love.

Proving the opposite - can we essentially taste the suffering of a chef in a dish - is much trickier however.

I spoke to Dr Miguel Toribio-Mateas a clinical neuroscientist, nutritionist, and applied microbiologist with a doctoral degree in Gut Microbiome & Mental Health.

Rather than telling me that my question is ridiculous, he instead politely offered the following:

“From a neuroscience point of view, I do not think we taste stress as a literal substance or ingredient in food, so it’s not like someone’s cortisol could somehow become a flavour. But I do think we can taste the effects of stress on cooking.

When someone is stressed, especially in a high-pressure or harsh environment, it can affect attention, patience, timing, touch, and sensory judgement. And all of that matters in cooking. It can change seasoning, texture, balance, and consistency.

And another interesting fact is that flavour is not just about the food itself but about how our brain experiences it. The context of where you have your food, the rest of the emotions your body is experiencing at the time, the atmosphere, and the feeling around that meal all play a role in developing taste in very real ways. In short, I would say we probably do not taste stress directly, but we can absolutely taste what stress does. And by the same token, I think food made with care, presence, and love can genuinely feel different too.”

Back to our red herring sashimi, currently stinking up the proverbial chopping board. We’ll continue to play devil’s advocate for one moment, casting aside those soft and silly notions such as empathy, worker’s rights and human decency, looking at the kitchen purely as an efficient pipeline for the implementation and execution of a genius chef’s vision.

Even from this point of view, does it still make sense to mistreat your staff?

Does it makes sense to spend your time plotting and planning your next big menu, trialling recipes, sourcing ingredients, sending foragers out to get the freshest seasonal berries, having them picked over to ensure uniform size, quality and quantity, only to hand them over to a chef who is overworked, underpaid, on edge and terrified of the retribution of making one wrong move?

That’s not a sensible work flow. It’s a waste of energy, it’s a failure in leadership, and it’s as insulting to all that nature provides as it is to those who work with it.

One of the things I’ve seen cited the most when the discussion turns to Redzepi and his genius is the sense of place that he has managed to create. He placed Denmark on a plate, and inspired other chefs to do the same with their own locale. To go out and explore the food on their doorsteps.

Well the kitchen is also a place. And the people that work there are not just a means to an end. They are the wardens of your vision. Treat them as such.

And remember.

Be careful when out foraging.

Leave what is poisonous outside of the kitchen.

Darren Thompson has spent the past 25 years working in the hospitality industry, as a sommelier and wine buyer for some of the most well-established and celebrated wine bars and restaurants across Dublin, including Shanahan’s on the Green, Coppinger Row, Ely and Pichet.

With a friendly and open nature and a deep interest in making wine accessible to everyone, it’s been a career driven by a love of meeting people and facilitating connection.

Last year saw Darren opening Cooper’s, a wine bar and bottle shop in the seaside village of Sutton, while a second location has just opened nearby in Clontarf. Named for his son Cooper, who also works in the business, the shops embody the family ethos, and are warm, inviting, casual and fun. They also build on Darren’s vision of creating spaces that serve local communities.

I caught up with Darren and Cooper to find out more about their journey. I also spoke with Paul and Sinéad of Fíon Eile, a wine bar and shop in Phibsborough. They kindly shared their story and the impact that local support has had on the business and their lives.

The full interview has been published with Image Magazine and is available below.

Read the Article

Back in 2022, ramen aficionados in Ireland were excited to hear of a new offering coming to Dublin. It promised expertly crafted food informed by deep research and skill in a no nonsense fast casual setting. Since then, Nomo Ramen has not only garnered a cult following, it has also established itself as the best bowl of ramen available on the Emerald Isle.

This success can be traced to Head Chef and Owner Kevin Hughes, a man who does nothing by half measures. He had what he describes as a divine culinary awakening after trying a particular bowl of ramen, an occurrence which led to him changing career, moving across the world, learning to cook from scratch, and spending the better half of a decade perfecting his own recipe.

I was delighted to visit Kevin and his staff at the restaurant in Dublin, where I interviewed him and documented his processes through photography.

The full interview has been published with Image Magazine and is available below.

Read the Article

Thank you to everyone who tuned in and to Francesco for inviting me.

You can watch the entire conversation above.

Cooking by Ear

On an unassuming corner of Green Street in Dublin’s north inner city, just across from the small but charmingly Victorian Saint Michan’s Park, stands Bar 1661, currently the most talked about cocktail bar in the country.

Their latest menu, “We Call This Power”, has just been announced as one of the top four in the world at the prestigious Spirited Awards by the Tales of the Cocktail Foundation, and team is set to travel to New Orleans this month for the final. They take steps to highlight the very best of Irish ingredients, with a focus on our infamous and unique spirit poitín.

I recently got to spend the day there, where I took some images, tasted their offerings and caught up with owner Dave Mulligan, who outlined for me why he believes the bar has resonated so strongly with fans at home and abroad.

It was wonderful to see the passion behind what they do.

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Leviathan tells the stories of wild food foragers, artisan makers, organic farmers and other creatives who are deeply connected with the country's heritage and traditions.

The third episode is out now and can be found below.

In it I visit Cork City to meet natural wine importer and distributor Brian O’Connor of Brian's Wines.

Brian approaches his business in a deeply personal way, taking steps to honour the uncompromising commitment made by select winemakers who farm organically and add nothing to their wines.

He has intimate relationships with the wines and the winemakers that he deals with, and advocates for artisan products made with care and consideration. Through his work he hosts wine events, tastings and pop-up dinners with different chefs, bringing his passion and knowledge for natural wine to the table.

He takes me through the fundamentals of understanding and tasting natural wine. We also try a selection of the best local food produce to better understand pairing.

As always, I would be very appreciative if you could watch the video, engage with it on YouTube by liking and subscribing and also share it with anyone that you feel would be interested.

Thank you for the support.

Stay nourished.

James

I was very pleased to get the opportunity to talk to some incredibly hard-working independent business owners across Ireland for this piece.

We discuss their favourite things about serving the public and expressing themselves through food as well as the hardships and struggles that come with the territory in this day and age.

I am happy to get to share their stories.

Our country has so many unique culinary experiences to offer, we need to keep that flame burning bright.

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From mid-summer through to autumn I am always scouring my garden and the surrounding area for windfall and crab apples. While they may not be great for eating, they are a preservers best friend. I usually make huge gluts of jams, jellies and chutneys to see me through the darker months of the year.

Below you will find a recipe video for how I make my apple jelly. It features a variety called Belvedere House, due to it’s provenance - the estate in West Meath that dates back to 1740. Cooking apples can also be used, and you can mix apples and berries to experiment.

If you’d prefer a step-by-step written version you can find it here at my website.

This recipe was inspired by a recent visit to The Irish Seed Savers, an environmental non-profit that does important work preserving the country’s native heirloom seeds, while making them available to the public.

They are also caretakers of Ireland’s heritage apple tree collection, with over 180 rare varieties across their orchards.

Many of these indigenous trees were at serious risk of being lost forever, but through their incredible research and hands-on approach in which they worked directly with the public in communities across the country they have managed to catalogue and save these trees for future generations to benefit from.

They champion biodiversity, organic practices, soil health and regenerative farming, utilising age-old techniques.

The full documentary that I shot with them is available below.

Thank you for the support.

Stay nourished.

James

Leviathan tells the stories of wild food foragers, artisan makers, organic farmers and other creatives who are deeply connected with the country's heritage and traditions.

The second episode is out now and can be found below.

In it I travel to County Clare to meet The Irish Seed Savers, an environmental non-profit that does important work preserving the country’s native heirloom seeds, while making them available to the public.

They are also caretakers of Ireland’s heritage apple tree collection, with over 180 rare varieties across their orchards.

Many of these indigenous trees were at serious risk of being lost forever, but through their incredible research and hands-on approach in which they worked directly with the public in communities across the country they have managed to catalogue and save these trees for future generations to benefit from.

They champion biodiversity, organic practices, soil health and regenerative farming, utilising age-old techniques.

This episode felt very personal to me. I wanted to showcase the passion and knowledge of the people working so closely with our heritage crops.

I would be very appreciative if you could watch the video, engage with it on YouTube by liking and subscribing and also share it with anyone that you feel would be interested.

Thank you for the support.

Stay nourished.

James

In this new piece for Image Magazine I explore some of the cultural and historical elements at play when we consider our attachment to things, as well as the powerful sense of nostalgia that can be evoked.

I also got to speak to a number of fascinating craftspeople to get insight into their own processes and relationships with what they do. Thank you especially to Fermoyle Pottery and Sam Gleeson of This is What I do for their time.

I also interviewed Dr. Sally Augustin of Design with Science, a practicing environmental and design psychologist who specialises in integrating science-based insights to the design of objects, places and services.

Read the Full Article

Leviathan tells the stories of wild food foragers, artisan makers, organic farmers and other creatives who are deeply connected with the country's heritage and traditions.

The first episode is out now and can be found below.

In it I meet the legendary Sally Ferns-Barnes of Woodcock Smokery, a key figure in Ireland's food renaissance of the last forty-plus years, as well as a lifelong campaigner for ocean conservation. She is also the only remaining person in the country who exclusively cures and smokes wild fish in the traditional ways.

With an in-depth interview, Sally shares her knowledge from The Keep, her educational space nestled in the hills of West Cork, showing me how to fillet, prepare and smoke albacore tuna and wild salmon. She shares her insights about the current state of Irish waters and what steps she believes need to be taken to ensure a sustainable future.

I am also joined by Medazza, a group of local singers who share songs about the sea in Irish and English.

It’s been a long road from concept to shooting to release. As an independent production it has not been without its challenges, but the whole process has been extremely rewarding.

I would greatly appreciate any help and support in spreading the word, as I believe that these are stories worth telling.

I would be very appreciative if you could watch the video, engage with it on YouTube by liking and subscribing and also share it with anyone that you feel would be interested.

Thank you for the support.

Stay nourished.

James

I am delighted to share the news that going forward I will be collaborating with Image Magazine as a contributing food writer.

It’s really wonderful to have yet another platform to return to longer form writing, as it has always been something that I find very rewarding.

The first piece has just been published.

Given that it’s Saint Patrick’s weekend, it’s about the ancient storytelling and folklore tradition of Ireland, and how it intersects with cookery and culture in the modern world. In the piece, I discuss a bit about the process of menu development, and how I translate my ideas to a plate.

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FIRST THINGS FIRST, I would like to say a sincere thank you for your interest in this project.

If you are receiving this update then it means you have either signed up to the Substack directly, through the mailing list on the Leviathan website, or you have joined us for one of our bespoke events at The Dining Club at Whitestown House.

I feel a short reintroduction is in order, as well as some details on what you can expect over the coming year.

About Leviathan

My name is James and I am a chef and photojournalist from Ireland.

My life has always revolved around food and travel, and in 2020 I decided to build a dedicated identity and project for developing recipes and writing.

This was done with help from my sister and long-time collaborator Ellen Martin-Friel, a talented designer and art director.

Leviathan was born.

It has been a space for creative cooking, with recipes being trialed, written and documented by me, before Ellen transforms them into beautifully crafted cards, with the designs evoking elements from each dish.

Recipe Archive

The project continues to evolve, and we have spent the past year and a half working on a nine-part documentary series that focuses on food, craft and culture in Ireland.

Led by a spirit of adventure and the desire to share the stories of a host of inspiring characters working across different creative disciplines, we found ourselves learning the ancient practices of salting and smoking wild fish in the hills of West Cork, exploring hallowed orchards that contain a collection of this country’s heritage apple tree varieties, saved from disappearing by The Irish Seed Savers, and meeting an expert forager to find wild food to use for cocktails, teas and a particularly delicious and herbaceous omelette.

I’m delighted to say that the first episode of this series is due for release on 17 April.

It will be released independently, and will be available on YouTube. We wanted to make this project democratic and accessible to everyone.

If you’d like to see each episode as it releases, the best way is to subscribe at the link just below.

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How Can You Support Us?

This newsletter has two tiers.

There is the free version that you are reading right now, which I intend to keep updated with recipes, writing and information on forthcoming events.

There is also a paid tier, which I will utilise for bonus and behind-the-scenes content. There are many things that unfortunately could not make it into episodes due to runtime restrictions.

I will also be sharing pieces of journalism that are more in-depth, allowing me the time to do a deep dive into different topics.

My hope is that with some support, this project can continue to grow in an independent and sustainable way, and we may even be able to fund a second season.

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The Dining Club

Finally, a quick mention of the events that I have coming up so far for the year ahead.

The Dining Club is a project that I run in collaboration with the Keogh Family at Whitestown House, a historic estate in North County Dublin.

Each event is unique and seasonally-focused, with different themes, as well as specially tailored music and curated decor and tablescaping. Guests are greeted with complimentary cocktails upon arrival, while harp music drifts in from the drawing room, before taking their seats at the antique long table to dine together.

The project has grown a lot over the past year, and we have just announced the next round of dates:

• 18 April - Seafood Banquet

• 19 April - Seafood Banquet

• 26 Sep - Autumn Equinox

• 27 Sep - Autumn Equinox

• 24 Oct - Samhain

• 25 Oct - Samhain

• 28 Nov - The Darker Half

• 29 Nov - The Darker Half

Tickets

That’s all for now.

Stay nourished.

And thanks again.

James

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THE WEEK BEFORE MY FATHER DIED I stood hunched over the kitchen sink in the house where I had grown up. I knew what lay ahead. Despite my delays in facing the finality of it.

Life had become surreal in the shadow of steadily worsening disease. Foreign and unfamiliar, while at the same time monotonous and strangely ordinary. Months passed in dreamlike perpetuity. Treatment was done, hope was rallied. Treatment was paused, hope was dashed. Some good days, some bad days. But however subtle, the unsparing decline was ever-present.

I was conscious of all of this, there by the darkening window, as the water flowed out of the cold tap and down through my fingers. And yet I could hear the facts only faintly, as if they spoke to me in muted tones, whispering from a place deep within myself that seemed impossibly remote.

Grief can live like that, hovering on the periphery. Walking behind you like a phantom.

A sense of loss grows, fills you out, like a leaking basement that threatens to flood the entire home. But as I stared into the sink, part of me had clearly chosen to shut the door to that place. Just for the moment.

And besides, there was another matter that desperately required my attention. Something that was taking up more and more mental space by the second. In my hands and in my heart, weighing ever heavy on my mind - was celeriac.

Pickled celeriac, to be exact.

Let me explain.

For as long as I can remember food has brought me a profound sense of comfort. Not just the eating of it, but the meaning and the ritual behind it. How it is enjoyed and who it is shared with. To me it represents not only nourishment, but togetherness and wellbeing. It’s stamped into my memory. This is the case for most people.

I vividly recall the start of each summer being marked by cups of strong tea and slices of freshly baked soda bread that dripped with salty butter and sweet golden syrup, bestowed in earnest by my grandmother upon our arrival at her house in Donegal. Or visiting my dad’s older cousins in Sallynoggin, where we glugged back glasses of possibly expired TK Orange Lemonade and were given free rein over the Jacob’s biscuit tin while the adults talked. Birthday tradition saw each of us in turn picking our favourite meals from the list of my mum’s greatest hits. I always went with the fajitas.

Beyond simple nostalgia though, food brings with it an immediate sense of reassurance. It is a primal, tangible expression of more complex and fleeting ideals. To feed someone is to maintain them. To care for them, to fuel their body and nurture their spirit.

And so, coming back to the celeriac.

My mum had texted to let me know that Dad wasn’t doing well, and that my siblings were on their way to the house. My first response was to ask had everyone eaten, and did she want me to bring anything over.

Looking back, I can now see with a sense of clarity the manoeuvre that I had executed. It was a pivot. A shift in focus. I know I was panicked. Upset. Hurt. It was an attempt at being useful, a grasp for control at a time when I felt utterly helpless. Like so many other times in my life, my need to make sense of the chaos surrounding me was expressed through food.

And this became apparent in what I brought. Upon accepting my offer, I’m sure my mother was probably expecting something along the lines of a quick stir fry or a hastily made curry.

This is not what happened.

I arrived with two large bags of mise en place.

There was a length of black pudding that I had picked up from my local butcher earlier that day. A sourdough crumb that had been toasted in some brown butter. A cauliflower purée. And some burnt grapes for sweetness. Oh yes, and two types of pickled celeriac ribbons of course, that I just so happened to have in the fridge. One had been made with a greater ratio of strong white vinegar while the other was more subtle, a blend of rice wine vinegar and sugar.

On the drive over I was already stressing about which version would pair best with the dish, leading to my dilemma at the sink, where I opened each of the plastic tubs in turn and chewed on the pickles. One was too vinegary, so I tried to rinse it. I told myself that the other would ultimately work better though. My family watched bemused as I fussed around in circles, plating everything as artfully as I could.

Their faces showed a mix of weariness, puzzlement and intrigue. You would swear that I had just burst in dressed as a tuxedoed waiter, rolling a serving cart with a white tablecloth, before lifting a silver cloche to unveil my creation and exclaiming, “Voilà! Et bon appétit!”

Which in reality wasn’t too far removed from what I had actually done. They ate it all the same.

Don’t get me wrong, I hadn’t dreamed all of this up on the spot upon taking the call. I mean, I’m not a lunatic. And I certainly didn’t delay in getting there. The dish was based around a recipe that I had been developing that week, and a lot of the prep work was already done. But that in itself was telling. I had been spending more and more time on intricate recipes as a way to distract myself. And it wasn’t the first time in recent memory either.

A year and a half before my dad’s diagnosis there was another massive stress. The start of the pandemic. I had been abroad for some time and was travelling back through Ireland for work when the first lockdown was announced, and I subsequently found myself temporarily homeless. I lost my job as a travel photojournalist and had no choice but to go back to my family home. My partner was stuck in Spain with international travel seemingly impossible for several months. It was one of the most difficult periods of my life. I had no work, no sense of self and no feeling of personal space. I was terrified for my parents. We were told not to leave the house, except for exercise within a short radius of our homes. We were also allowed go to the supermarket.

I turned to food once again.

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Yes, like everyone else I ended up making lots of banana bread (brown sugar is best by the way, and you should use a mix of oil for moisture and butter for flavour). But it didn’t stop there. I spent my days creating elaborate meals from scratch and documenting the process. I learned how to develop the best versions of recipes through trial and error. The banana bread went through six or seven different iterations. There was also a giddy sense of ceremony in recreating things that were out of reach. If I couldn’t go out to restaurants then I would just have to turn the house into one.

I made steak au poivre, the pepper sauce flambéed in brandy, served with crispy beer battered onion rings. I spent three whole days trying to perfect all of the elements of tonkotsu ramen, from broth through to flavoured oils and marinated eggs. There were Greek gyros, which saw homemade pitta breads and tzatziki being whipped up, and of course the inevitable sourdough experiments. The question every day became, “What will we eat this evening?”

I stuffed my parents with food and fanatically channelled my anxieties into baking, pickling and preserving. I took photos and made notes. The process led to me creating Leviathan Food, a project that now allows me to express myself through cooking and writing.

I bonded with my mum in the kitchen. We leafed through my grandmother’s old recipe cards. My dad took great pride in showing me how his greenhouse was coming along each day. He loved to garden, and had a range of chilli peppers on the go, as well as gherkins that we turned into big jars of relish. Tomatoes were always his pride and joy though. He grew a large variety which we used for pasta sauces, salads and sandwiches. Thinking of what came next, I am grateful that I was able to be there.

Food hasn’t just been my life raft in dark times. It has also been my companion through many joyous experiences too. My first solo travel adventure saw me exploring Japan for a few months. I was fascinated by the culture and obsessed with the dynamic food scene. I loved to eat out by myself and people-watch. I was never lonely.

One evening I was out at a standing bar in Osaka, eyeballing the food of an older man just opposite me. He was eating a plate of perfectly charred yakitori, the juicy chicken nestled between fire-kissed baby leeks. Seeing my mouth watering, without saying a word he pushed it across the bar towards me and motioned for me to try one. I expressed my thanks as best I could and bought him a beer. We passed the evening taking turns ordering plates and sharing them in silence, unable to speak the same language. At the end of the night we settled our bills, bowed to each other and went our separate ways.

Food transcends language, or perhaps more accurately, it is its own language. It’s a common thread and my go-to topic of conversation whenever I meet new people. I creates an instant connection.

The first time I went to Spain I was very nervous. I flew to Andalucía to meet my girlfriend’s parents and two sisters. I had no Spanish and they had no English, but her mother showed me that I was welcome with a gigantic spread of tapas. Tortilla de patatas, grilled sardines, jamón ibérico sliced straight from the leg, manchego cheese, salmorejo, two different types of croquetas. The list goes on. Her father took great delight in having me sample his favourite wines from Ribera del Duero and Rioja. Dining together broke the ice. The food was the focus of our conversation and our energies revolved around it.

When Dad got sick I tried my best to remain calm and to process what was happening. In the middle of everything - the chemotherapy treatments and the doctor’s visits, the constant fears of him catching COVID - I felt a powerful and sudden urge to drive for four hours to an outlet store where I could get a really good deal on a 29-inch enamelled cast iron Le Creuset pot.

Why Le Creuset, and why 29 inches, specifically? My mum had a bright red one in that size that matched her AGA in the house. It is iconic. Countless family dinners have been served from it. I needed one of my own. I would have to cook for my family as we navigated what was happening. Hearty, nourishing food. But what colour would my signature pot be? It would have to make a statement, and I would fill it with memories of meals made with love and care. Maybe that would make things okay.

I spent over an hour browsing through colours at the shop. And there’s not even that many to choose from. The assistant was very helpful as I stood there with imaginary scenarios unfolding in my mind. Sausage casseroles, Irish stews, maybe some chilli. Yes. Perfect.

I settled on light blue.

I wasn’t the only one who helped with food. We were incredibly lucky. There was always a network of friends on hand who showed us what community really is. It’s become easy to lose sight of that in today’s world. But when things finally went from bad to worse and we all had to be on constant standby at the house, we had support, as well as a rotating menu of fresh food.

Annie delivered fish baked in breadcrumbs along with fresh salad and homemade honey mustard dressing. The McKennas had sandwiches delivered. Hampers were left at the doorstep from Gary and Orlaith, full to the brim with all of our favourite food products.

Carmela did a coffee and pastry run every single morning, without fail. She would show up with a tray of flat whites and cappuccinos, and took great pleasure in teasing me for refusing one that had travelled.

“I’m sorry, I just like to have one freshly made so the foam hasn’t been disturbed, I’ll go down to the coffee shop and get one later,” I told her.

“Well excuse me, Your Highness! Next time I’ll bring the barista machine strapped to my back for you,” she replied.

It allowed us to laugh.

One day Paula arrived to the door with a casserole pot of her own along with a handwritten note.

“Here’s your dinner. If you don’t like it please send all complaints to the department of I don’t give a f---“.

You won’t get an “I love you” from Paula. But you will get a steaming pot of lentil dahl with chicken dumplings, garnishes all finely chopped, labelled and stored in individual containers, fish sauce set aside separately so that those who don’t like it can leave it off.

People often speak through food.

More than I care to admit, it’s hard for me to connect with or to express how I’m truly feeling. Love is complicated. Family is complicated. Loss is complicated. These things can be extremely difficult to process, especially in the middle of a crisis.

It’s hard to say, “I’m sorry”, or, “I forgive you”, or, “I wish we had more time”.

It’s easier to say, “I’ve made you some vegetable soup. It’s full of healthy things so eat it all and I’ll check in with you later.”

It’s been some time since everything changed.

When I visit home I walk the garden and see the greenhouse empty. I cut the grass and watch the birds following after me, waiting for the ferocity of the mower to reveal a fresh supply of insects and worms.

I don’t have much of an outside space at my own house, but I bought a micro-planter that can be used inside. It has a fancy futuristic design with white LED lights and a water tray that is supposed to keep everything hydrated around the clock.

It has three slots. I planted wild strawberries, basil and tomatoes.

I have watched the latter grow from stalk to flower, finally the little green bulbs announcing themselves. I have seen them changing to a marvellous golden yellow and finally through to a bright, blushing red.

It’s the first time I have grown my own.

I’ll find something delicious to make with them and think of those I love.

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In Memory of Richard Martin