Duo’s steak and kidney pud is a squishy delight

Much good chablis and even champagne was consumed. Food was on the hearty side, and lunches were a particular pleasure in an age before Ireland tried to get itself into the record books for having the shortest lunch breaks in Europe. The downstairs dining room seemed always to be flooded with sunlight until late in the afternoon. OK, maybe this is yet another case of distance lending enchantment.

In the post-Douglas era, the eatery always seemed in a permanent state of upheaval as owners, chefs and maîtres d’ came and went like daily commuters. Then, under Sébastian Masi and Kirsten Batt, who already owned Merrion Street’s successful Pearl Brasserie, Locks had a brief spell in the starshine when the lads from the tyre company — encouraged no doubt by some over-eulogistic reviews — gave the restaurant a Michelin award. They promptly whipped it away a year later, perhaps thinking they had made a mistake.

Now, Locks has been taken over by a couple of young chefs of decent pedigree. There is Keelan Higgs, who worked there with Rory Carville when it won the star before moving to The Greenhouse on Dawson Street. The other is Connor O’Dowd, formerly head chef at Dax in Upper Pembroke Street. I am amazed they have kept the name when you consider the restaurant’s recent history has been so tumultuous. I would have thought a rebranding would have been the first item on the new menu.

Since Higgs and O’Dowd have taken over I have been twice and, truth be told, I am now a confirmed fan. I still prefer, of the two dining rooms, the one downstairs where the drapes have long gone and the windows are now furnished with roller blinds. I am of the firm opinion that these should be kept pulled down at night, which would cosy up the room a treat. Any benefit of the view vanishes after dark as the street is ill-lit. This notwithstanding, it is an engaging stretch of canal and I always have the feeling that were this London, the place would be alive with bars and restaurants, and packed with people.

But the decor is not the story here. The merit of Locks Mk “umpteen” lies fair and square on the cooking and presentation, both of which are outstanding. The enthusiasm of the young front-of-house staff, including Roberto, a sommelier of exceptional ability, runs a close second. Rocker O’Murchu and I ate from what was styled as the “market menu”, kicking off with two snacks: kitchen-made potato crisps accompanied by an ethereal garlic mayonnaise, and a plate of home-cured “duck ham” with orange and hazelnuts, plus superior sourdough bread.

Then, for the second time in a week, I ordered sweetcorn soup, which was fragrant and delicate, and a foil for a super-slice of crayfish encased in sea-redolent foam. In contrast the Rocker’s rabbit and smoked ham terrine was an essay in how to do bucolic, robust flavours pointed up by the accompanying tart cornichons and piquant ginger and rapeseed mayo. I know I have given rapeseed something of a kicking — I cannot abide it in oil-and-vinegar dressing — but I’ve come to realise it does work in a mayonnaise.

The Rocker went on to enjoy fillet of pork, salt-baked celeriac and sauerkraut, with a raisin sauce. The chef boosted the dish with a tranche of belly pork of the instantly dissolving variety. It did rather mask the delicacy of the fillet. At the same time, we were glad it was there, proving once more that cheap cuts, cooked for longer, reveal nuances of flavour the more blue-blooded morsels can only hint at.

I had a remarkably “old school” steak and kidney pudding. Lest any of you are tempted to snigger, remember you tread on my dreams. I venerate this dish, a favourite of my mama, Doris the Witch Doctor, before she departed this life to force-feed angels. The coming together of ambrosial meat and nectar-like gravy in a squishy suet shroud was a speciality of hers, one I miss as much as the mischievous grin when she knew she had perpetrated some wickedness.

Roberto, the sommelier, is Portuguese and a devoted advocate of his nation’s wines. He found us a fine bottle of arinto to accompany the starters; also a Palmela Reserva red that combined verve and subtlety to suit both the steak-and-kidney pudding and pork fillet.

To conclude, we shared a dessert, an upscale, witty take on the old cliché peaches-and-cream and a plate of cheese. This turned out to be not the habitual assortment of tiny cubes and triangle but a generous helping of gorgonzola dolcelatte, ripe to the point of perfection; that is, where any minute you expect it to dissolve into squelchy pungency.

Dinner cost €28 for the three courses (plus a €4 supplement for cheese), which to my mind constituted a keen bargain in the rapidly recalculating days of Recovery Dublin.

At a time when so many restaurants are vying to outdo each other in “It’ll do”, here is a restaurant where a young, keen and talented team are striving to provide a superior experience that will not have you raiding the kids’ piggy bank before you go or robbing a cash machine on the way home.

These guys deserve our support. Just get there.