The Winding Stair
Ttoday I was thinking about Dublin, remembering the one night we spent across the river, dining at charming restaurant/bookstore accessed by a winding staircase that led up from the street. In the dim light of dusk, we ate lamb with whipped parsnips, drank glasses of wine imported from France (our waiter, dressed in corduroys and Birkenstocks, recommended the pairing) and finished the night with rhubarb and berry crumble with homemade vanilla ice-cream slowly melting on top. Candles flickered on the smooth, wooden tables and we sat, talking, eating and soaking it all in as the Dublin rain spattered the second floor windows with lazy drops. It was one of the longest and most luxurious meals I've ever had. And while these pictures are not my own, I had to share them.
If you are ever in Dublin, make a reservation and eat.
"I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!When such as I cast out remorseSo great a sweetness flows into the breastWe must laugh and we must sing,We are blest by everything,Everything we look upon is blest."
(W.B. Yeats, The Winding Stair)