A noncommittal referral and blocks of over-appealing options in Galway, Ireland left vacationer Ella Quittner wondering if Daróg should be the first of three dinners. But the boutique wine bar changed her mind.
I have this thing when I travel where I pretend, very convincingly, that I am doing it to relax. This carefully constructed fiction might extend all the way up to my actual arrival if, say, I haven’t made a dinner reservation. But then, on the ground, the moment the clock strikes 5 p.m.—no matter what time I can’t stop telling my travel companions it “feels like” for me—I start freaking out about what to eat. This innate urge to maximize has driven so much of my professional life (I am writing a book about our cultural obsession with “the best”; I can’t stop making biscuits 24 different ways to compare subtle tweaks), so it only makes sense it would spill over into my free time. And arriving in Galway after three hours of sleep beside two blonde preteen boys who only shot me a taciturn glance when I asked if they wanted the free headphones did not abate it.
So when I made the snap decision to take up a friend’s recommendation for a wine bar, Daróg, that looked a bit like the Gaelic version of Wildair, I was momentarily proud of myself. Until we arrived to put in our name and began to wander.
“It’s so nice out,” said my husband as we strolled down Lower Dominick Street. “Shh,” I said, leaning into a quartet of young women who were dressed like painters. “I’m trying to hear where that group is heading to eat.”
There was a minute when, despite the thrill I got when I saw not only affordable Slovenian natural wines by the glass and a hamachi crudo with yuzu and roe and aioli on the menu of our chosen wine bar, I considered a double header.
“We could start here, have a glass and a plate, beg for bar seats at the Michelin starred place across the street for a second course of whatever looks cheapest on the menu, and end at the Uncommon,” I hissed. (At this point he was sipping a mocha from a convenience store and, I strongly believe, was disassociating.)
But the moment we finally sat at Daróg and our server Iseult greeted us with a diatribe on the importance of making obscure bottles accessible by the glass and a description of the fried hasselback potatoes, it was clear they’d have to drag us out.
Even more impressive that the craggy potatoes, which in my opinion were more thrilling than some of the glacial rock formations we saw in the Burren, were the succession of plates like scored and butter-basted king mushrooms with flesh-soft celeriac, and scallops so perfectly cooked that they were served quartered and arranged belly side up, like a brag.
When we didn’t order dessert, it was maybe the only time as a traveler that, given the bounds, I was choosing to exercise restraint—and for a moment there was a beauty in that. It felt, strangely, like maximizing my experience. Like the best possible way to eat was with intention and presence and a discerning curation. Until they sent us home with a to-go order of cheesecake, and we demolished it in bed.
Daróg Wine Bar, 56 Dominick St Lower, Galway, H91 K225, Ireland.