At long last we managed to get a table at Icon at Leopardstown Racecourse, but let me tell you it wasn't worth the wait. Ever since it opened a few months ago we have tried on and off to get a table there, just to see if the place is as kitsch as it sounds. Each time it was booked out, until last week. I asked for 8.30 p.m., but was told that we would have to be there at 8.15 p.m. sharp, because after that the kitchen would be cooking for a large group and there could be delays on the food. Fair enough. We did try to be there on the dot, but it didn't work and at 8.10 p.m. we were only setting out.
I called to explain "Very sorry but we're late, unforseeable circumstances and all that, but we will be there at 8.30 p.m.."
"Mmmm . . ." came a rather uppity tone from the other end of the phone. "We're really pressed for space here. Well, I'll tell you what, I'll give you 'til 8.30 p.m. but if you're not here by then I'll have to give your table away but we can seat you downstairs in the Mill."
What a palaver! And this is supposed to be the biggest pub cum restaurant in town. We did manage to pull up outside with a minute to spare and by dint of sprinting, Anneka Rice style, up the long steps, through the bar and upstairs to the restaurant, arrived nerdishly on time.
"We have a booking" I panted to a totally uninterested waitress. Then I realised that the place was half empty. Where were the enormous groups of people then? What about all those other couples clamouring for our table for two? What had all the fuss been about?
I expected to be seated in some spectacular Irish setting, like Glendalough, or North Great George's Street in front of a hologram of David Norris spouting Joyce, which feature elsewhere in the bar, but our table was in an ordinary low-ceilinged pine type of room that you might find in any pub in Ireland, except for a few odd touches like the range sitting in an archway flanked by high gothic-style candlesticks that kept falling over.
On the walls are old sepia photos showing men pushing cows through ditches - ah, the old Baileys herd, you're supposed to think in the same way that we're to believe that HB stands for Hazel Brook Farm.
Our table was beside the service area which was done up to look like Granny Murphy's kitchen, except for the touchy-feely computer which staff have only to tap with the end of a pen to shoot their order through to the kitchen. A gaggle of waitresses had congregated around it, and looked as though they weren't at all sure what to do next. Through the swing door of the kitchen we could see an army of chefs talking among themselves. The bar downstairs wasn't very full, in fact the whole place seemed three-quarters empty, but there was an overwhelming sense of hassle, with far too many managers in suits bustling around, waving pens and tapping computers.
Over the restaurant there is another dining area that you get to by climbing up a fake stone staircase, and this is where the groups go. A stream of Americans came down the stairs and left the building in single file. After that, there was a tremendous racket overhead as though they were dragging a few coffins in for a wake. When the noise died down, another group filed upstairs.
The whole edifice is quite bizarre. It looks amazing, and you can see that millions have been spent on it, between the towering Waterford crystal chandelier over the bar, the huge mill wheel spinning slowly in and out of a mill pool, murals everywhere and masses of nooks and crannies decorated to look like bits of real Ireland - a traditional snug here, an ancient library there, a currach and a round tower over there, and a space-age platform, all cunningly arranged on different levels to give the impression that it is huge, when actually the feeling is positively cramped. High up in the ceiling, banks of theatre lights bathe everything in different coloured glows. Frankly, it's weird, and to cap it all you can put on headphones and watch Baileys executives on screen telling you what a success Baileys Irish Cream is all over the world, and then watch all their ads going back to the 1970s. Remember the one with the ass and cart and the matchmaker? Probably not.
The big redeeming feature is the food. Not everything was very good, but some of it was positively brilliant.
Bread was offered from a big basket with four or five different types, all fresh-looking and floury. We chose big onion bagels which were fresh and sweet.
I started with the intriguing- sounding Salmon Four Ways with grain mustard mousse, expecting, well, salmon done four ways. What you get is four slices of smoked salmon and gravadlax on a plate with a small spoon of the mousse on the side. Oh, to have a more refined palate. Three of the four bits of salmon tasted almost exactly the same to me, although there was a hint of whiskey somewhere along the line, while the fourth tasted of dill. A few bites were enough. The portions were big, maybe with Americans in mind. David was carried away with his Clonakilty black pudding and boxty which tasted rich and smooth and came with just enough gravy to bind it all together.
Be careful, the plate is very hot, said the waitress setting down his roast lamb tournedos. In fact the plate was stone cold, but the lamb was fantastic. It arrived perfectly rare as he'd requested and it had an unexpectedly smokey flavour which he heartily approved of.
Vegetable tikka sounded as though it might be horrible, as vegetarian dishes have a habit of being, but it would be A Test, I thought. The kitchen came up trumps. Imagine lots of peppers of all hues, carrots, celery, onions, sliced julienne thin, lightly cooked and sitting on a bed of wild rice. - a weightwatchers' delight, you might think, except that they drenched the vegetables in a delicately flavoured cream sauce. It was very good, cost under £8, and I would go back for that alone.
We also got a big bowl of small potatoes coated in parsley and butter and a bowl of shredded cabbage with bacon and courgettes, again too much of them, but everything tasted freshly cooked and not as though it had been standing around waiting for us to arrive.
The desserts, however, were desperate. The Chocolate Maniac had to be tried but it's a big mistake. What you get is four different things - a brandy-snap basket filled with a sludge that tasted like chocolate cake mix before it goes in the oven, ice-cream in a chocolate shell, a sliver of chocolate mousse cake and a blob of whipped cream with three Baileys chocolate truffles popped on top. The truffles were the best thing about it, but really it was a mess from start to finish. The bread-and-butter pudding flavoured with honey and rosemary looked good but was flabby and bland.
The bill for two, including two Ballygowans and a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc at £18 came to £58.95, service not included.
ICON Restaurant, The Baileys Centre, Leopardstown Racecourse, Co Dublin. Tel 01 289 1000. Open seven days.
