Restaurant review: Gregan's Castle Hotel, Ballyvaughan

€79 per person for the tasting menu (drinks, wine, etc not included).

Sat, 23 Nov, 2019 - 21:00

Joe McNamee

Gregan’s Castle Hotel, Corkscrew Hill, Gragan East, Ballyvaughan, Co Clare

Tel: 065-7077005; www.gregans.ie

The local Burren Tolkien appreciation society posit an entirely reasonable theory that the late writer, formerly a visitor to the region, based his Lord of the Rings series on local topography and mythology.

Thirty-odd years ago, I went full-bore Bilbo Baggins-under-the-spell, literally losing my mind to the place on very first sight, skipping from rock to rock, across the distinctive pocked limestone landscape as if in a trance before I ‘came to’ half a mile away from my car, abandoned, doors akimbo, in the middle of a road barely wide enough for a single vehicle and I reluctantly turned back.

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My love affair persists to this day and Gregan’s Castle Hotel, a boutique establishment perched above Ballyvaughan and looking out to Galway Bay, is a splendid base. When Simon and Freddie Haden took over the reins from Simon’s parents, in 2003, their emphatic upgrading highlighted dining; my mother recalls a stay prior to that: ‘Lovely room by a rose garden; foul food.’

Mikael Viljanen — recently awarded his second Michelin Star for Dublin’s Greenhouse — established a benchmark his successor, David Hurley, had no problem emulating. Robbie McCauley, Hurley’s erstwhile sous chef, is now at the helm.

On a wild and woeful winter’s eve, abandoning the cosseting intimacy and open log fire of the Corkscrew bar after our apéritifs is akin to being wrenched from the womb but the dining room’s serenity is a suitable balm.

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A ‘mini’ sourdough loaf is impeccable, whipped butter flecked with salt crystals, an emollient lustrous coating for this rugged, rustic loaf.

Three ‘snacks’ are: salty Flaggy Shore oyster countered by sweet porter dashi; micro-taco with minced chicken, sweetcorn and popcorn and, pick of the bunch, a crisp beetroot affair imploding in a creamy deluge of St Tola goat’s cheese curd, lactic acidity interweaving with citric umami of salted orange.

The first course proper is creamy, sweet Jerusalem artichoke velouté, with hazelnuts and the tender elemental chew of chargrilled duck heart.

Next, tender milky scallop sits in sweet, peppery consommé; salty/malty puffed rice and crisp Brussel sprout leaves add texture, sweet mandarin and ginger, a warming citric glow. It is one of my dishes of the year, myriad strands in sublime, singular expression.

A quenelle of foie gras, whipped to a glossy sheen, rests demurely astride a plump, lascivious fig, itself balanced on wine-poached plum segments, wine syrup drizzled over all, and caramel sweetness abounds.

Celeriac tart with salt-cooked egg yolk, black and white truffles and three cornered leek, is another sumptuous assemblage of complex, hefty flavours yet resolves with zen-like clarity.

Turbot is superb, perfectly cooked, baby leeks, a playful contrast: barely blanched, they offer mild resistance and fleeting, ephemeral ‘onion essence’. A swollen and glistening grilled langoustine and creamy vin jaune sauce bolster another fine dish.

Current Wife has fillet of wild Irish halibut, proud on the plate and bearing rolled ‘cones’ of crown prince pumpkin flesh, black truffle, pickled trompettes, savoy cabbage and orzo pasta, while I have breast of dukkah-encrusted Mulberry Shoot duck, tender, scarlet meat, resonating with gamey notes, served with blackberry vinegar-seasoned grilled beetroot, Russian kale and locally foraged chanterelles. I raise the white flag, merely sampling some very accomplished and technically adroit sweet courses and petit fours.

I am extremely wary of certain tropes of classical French cooking, specifically, egregious overuse of the ‘golden’ ingredients — truffles, foie gras et al — their impact too often a shallow veneer of ‘luxury’ masking homogenised, sickly-rich and ultimately bland fare for corpulent old buffers of gouty torpor and vermillion visage.

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Not so, here. McCauley obviously loves them — and they are exceedingly sympathetic grace notes for such hyper-seasonal autumnal fare — but he also employs commendable restraint, delivering dishes shimmering with verve and vibrancy, even the ostensible ‘heavyweights’.

What’s more, he is rather fanatical about his game sports (hunting, shooting, fishing, foraging) and the produce of the local terroir; tonight’s black truffle is part of a 5kg haul unearthed locally by Sophie Fontaine (who also oversees the dining room, superbly; casual, relaxed, friendly, yet always one step ahead of every diner’s next wish).

Bilbo may favour his precious ring but the utterly compelling force that now draws me inexorably westwards is Gregan’s Castle Hotel and the culinary sorcery afoot in its kitchen. Yes, there will be many sequels to this particular tale.