65Bealin and Dingle I have now become
a seasonal mackerel snob.
Of course there are many more ter-
rific restaurants, such as Out of the
Blue, Ashe’s, and the Chart House,
all within a few minutes’ walk of one
another. And if you see crab thumbs
offered any where, don’t pass them up.
Called órdógs in Irish, which trans-
lates as thumbs, these are plump crab claws that arrive shelled,
with the small pincer still intact to serve as a kind of handle with
which to eat these butter-soaked nuggets. Better than any stone
crab I’ve had—better than any crab I’ve had, period. And Din-
gle is a lovely walking town, with a terrific bookstore and Dick
Mack’s, a pub with an extensive selection of both whiskeys and
rain boots, all across from St. Mary’s church and around the cor-
ner from another pub, Foxy John’s, that doubles as a hardware
store. Have a sandwich or some cheese from the Little Cheese
Shop, then stroll down the road to Murphy’s for some butter-
scotch or g in-and-tonic ice cream, made in Dingle from the raw
milk of Kerry cows. It’s fabu lous. But even the Texaco here has
good food. Yet to drive the peninsula is to be reminded that this
is an ancient place as well, with ruins and beehive huts dating
to the sixth century a.d., and the hillsides are visibly ridged
with the former potato rows, now referred to as famine fields.
On one of my final nights, I was invited to a party at the
home of a woman who lives part-time in Dingle, Colleen Gracephire is presented in a bowl made by a local artist using local clay.
Beside it rests a plump, raw, local oyster. Our server instructed us
to slide the oyster into the hot broth. The broth tastes freshly of
the sea, its heat intensifying the sweet-savory flavor of the oys-
ter; the mushrooms counter the sea with their earthiness; and
the scurvy grass, foraged earlier in the day in the sandy under-
growth of a nearby beach, adds a subtle, wasabi-like spice.
On the menu, it’s simply “Foraged broth of land and sea, Glen-
beigh oyster.” In your mouth it’s much, much more.
As is “Brill, whey, coastline”: Crispy-skinned turbot, with
tender potato spheres dusted with a peppery dried seaweed, is
served on a delightfully tart beurre blanc whose base is the whey
left over from the kitchen’s cheesemaking. Sweet mussels and
the salty rock samphire, which Kevin foraged himself, bending
precariously over a 100-foot cliff, added sweetness and spice.
One of the most surprising dishes I ate in Dingle came from
Bealin at his Global Village. When the server set the dish down
and said, “Mackerel three ways,” my toes curled. I am not a fan
of oily, fishy-tasting fish, and mackerel is the king of oily, fishy
fish. Now I had to eat it in three ways—as a thick velouté sauce;
as a pâté; and as a crispy-skinned fillet. I started with the fillet—
and was astonished. It was a delight, rich but fresh and clean.
I’d never tasted mackerel like it.
Bealin explained that mackerel must be prepared within 24
hours of being caught. But equally important was the month: We
were there in summer when warmer waters mean the fish gener-
ate lower concentrations of oil. It was a revelation, and thanks to
Above: Richie Quaid,
a local who can be
found many a night at
Foxy John’s. Opposite:
Seamus O’Ciobháin,
bottom, who raises
lambs for the local
butcher; top, seared
scallops with chorizo
(see pg. 68 for recipe).