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WORDS Gerry Godley Dinner is poured Having likely
offended our coddle-eating, sausage-boiling Fenian dead quite enough, I meddled no further. It wasn’t easy – the temptation to pimp the coddle was overwhelming. Cavolo nero, chorizo, pimenton, a slick of chilli oil, even saffron came to mind, anything to relieve it of its anaemic pallor and aura of prison food. Such exotic imports within easy reach for Dubliners today, it’s hard to imagine a time before them, but in the tenement life described so vividly in James Plunkett’s Strumpet City, there isn’t a single mention of kimchi. So for authenticity’s sake, I let the coddle be. While it cooled a little, I thought about the basic principles of coddle and the wider human condition, which goes something like this. You’re poor, the contents of your larder can be counted on both hands, you have a pot and a solitary heat source, a stove if you’re lucky but any fire will suffice, and you’ve a lot of mouths to feed. You are almost always a woman. You have water, some lesser cut of animal protein that needs to go a very long way, and a cheap but plentiful carbohydrate like rice, pasta, noodles, pulses or tubers. On good days there will be vegetables if you can afford them or grow them, and something piquant or aromatic to break the monotony. It is basic, but all cuisines started with the contents of this solitary pot. The knowledge to make it can be handed down orally, the manual skills can be acquired quickly. The pot is big and we can eat from it together, a practice known as commensality that binds us, teaches us, shapes us. It takes on ritual meaning and becomes increasingly expressive, both of the place where it was made and the person who made it. Even when made badly it sustains us, but when made well it becomes a source of anticipation, pleasure and gratitude. And it is everywhere you look. In Morocco they will break the Ramadan fast with Harira, a spicy broth with chickpeas, and in Mexico, Sopa al Tortilla is one among countless variations. On the Iberian Peninsula it’s Fabada Asturiana with beans, chorizo and morcilla or Caldo Verde with Portuguese sausage, potatoes and kale; in France a gratinated Soupe à l’Oignon, Garbure or a more elevated Pot au Feu. Italians will make their Tortellini al Brodo, which Marco Polo must have encountered in China as Wonton Soup. Elsewhere in Asia, there is Pho in Vietnam, Tom Yum in Thailand, Laksa in Malaysia, Soto Ayam in Indonesia, and Ramen in Japan. Miso Soup, with its thrifty reliance on seaweed and fermented soybeans, might be the most resourceful and ingenious of them all. Convinced our cuisine has only ever been bland, we islanders are attracted to these foods with a whiff of the exotic. Some of us will get on airplanes to eat them at source. Now I know what you’re thinking. He’s not seriously suggesting that coddle has a place in this souperhero pantheon? I admit it’s a stretch, but there is no denying that coddle presents itself as an Irish footnote in humankind’s long story of water, carbohydrate and protein rendered into food for life. Being hungry myself, I take a mouthful, a little of everything on the spoon. Potato, onion, bacon, meatball, the broth with its fatty sheen and flecks of parsley and thyme. It’s tasty – brighter than I expected. Nothing amazing, but not penitential either. Not life changing, but in its own modest way, life affirming. Gentle, satiating food for when you might be in need of solace in a bowl. I ladle some out for the girls. ‘Your dinner’s poured out’, says I. We eat together. When they’re finished, they say this coddle is good. I’m pleased by that, and when the evenings draw in later in the year, I will make it again. Traditions can die very quickly, passing into obscurity within a generation. When Dubliners old enough to remember Nelson’s Pillar, Bang Bang and the Swastika Laundry shrug off the mortal coil, coddle may well depart with them. That would be a pity. Me and coddle have gone on a bit of a jaunt around the town, and I have to conclude it’s a tradition worth maintaining. Food is a daily necessity, but it’s also a time traveller along old foodways that can bring our deeper social history to life. If that seems perverse, just be thankful you’re not Swedish, where they summon the ancestors with Surströmming, fermented herring with the dubious honour of being the world’s smelliest food, stored in cans that start to bulge over time and never eaten indoors. Or Hákarl from Iceland, fermented shark that mostly tastes of ammonia and described by Anthony Bourdain as “the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing” he had ever eaten. By the Scandinavian yardstick, charges that coddle is disgusting seem a gross miscarriage of justice. Perhaps its truest analogue is chicken noodle soup, the restorative elixir made by Yiddish grandmothers, and known universally as Jewish penicillin. Coddle might be an equally effective remedy for the Irish household. Just don’t ask me to boil the sausages. I will in me hoop. Gerry Godley runs Bread Man Walking, a microbakery serving sourdough, brioche and pastries to Dublin 8 and nearby every Saturday from 12 to 3pm. Pre-order by DM @bread_man_walking Orwell Road A new local restaurant in Rathgar 8 Orwell Road is the latest restaurant creation by Marc and Conor Bereen. Together with Chef Dan Hannigan, they have created a modern Irish restaurant, offering casual fine dining, with one aim – everything must be delicious. Orwell Road aspires to use as many local, Irish producers and ingredients as possible. Only sourcing from further afield when an Irish alternative is not available. Conor Bereen designed Orwell Road as a contemporary local restaurant. As with sister restaurant Charlotte Quay, the result is a bright, crisp, fresh space with lots of comfort and warmth. The glass panelled frontage inspired various design elements throughout the interior with the sea green Venetian plastered walls adding depth and texture. This is a space that lends itself well to convivial eating, and while stylish and elegant, the focus is on what’s important – the food! Orwell Road 8 Orwell Road, Dublin 6, DO6 H2Y5 www.orwellroad.com • E: info@orwellroad.com +353 1 621 3524 • instagram.com/orwellroad/ Opening Hours: Tuesday 5-10PM Wednesday 5-10PM Thursday 5-10PM Friday 12-3PM/5-10PM Saturday 12-3PM/5-10PM Sunday 4-9PM 35