Chapter One, Dublin

Two years ago Sophie took me to Dublin for my birthday. The plan was civilised enough: land at 9.30, abandon luggage at the hotel, drift about town for an hour and then lunch at Chapter One. A schedule built for adults. I, meanwhile, sat in Cuubo the night before drinking vodka martinis – extra dry, twist, freezing cold – with the kind of determination rarely seen. One became several, several became strategic memory loss, and the evening ended only just ahead of the airport taxi. We achieved that peculiar sort of flight familiar only to the catastrophically hungover: unconscious before take-off, resurrected by landing. And yet that lunch remains one of the best I’ve ever eaten. Not merely delicious – lots of things are delicious now, even McDonalds can produce spicy nuggets – but exacting, poised, almost offensively accomplished. Three hours of immaculate technique and ingredients so cosseted and pampered they probably travelled better than we did. So now, two years later, we are…