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BreadMan Walking, Rialto, Dublin (2026)

25/05/2026

Tempus Fugit.

My year is a roundy one. I can’t bring myself to utter the number but let’s just say in a matter of years I will be eligible for free bus and rail travel. Well mannered, civic minded youngs to whom I already appear fossilised have started offering their seat. The cheek.

Friends will lie to your face, ‘it’s just a number’, while discreetly assessing it. Your rusting bodywork, your balding tyres, tired paintjob and wobbly chassis. Excessive mileage, barely worth trading in.

You utter something trite about snipers alley and not letting old men in, but everybody knows that this number don’t lie, and the hour grows ever later.

What this has to do with croissants is that you realise there are only a finite number of them left.

I don’t want one everyday, where is the occasion in that, but twice weekly - one at the weekend, one to get you there - seems fair.

I have done the sums. At Ireland’s current male life expectancy of a disappointing 81.1 years, my remaining allowance, assuming I don’t get knocked down by that bus, is about 2000 croissants.

I like to visualise them stacked in a cairn on the kitchen table. Small pile, getting smaller. Every croissant counts and given the gravity of the situation, I have lately taken to making the technical little bastards myself.

Plain ones, mainly. Such a pejorative word, plain. There is nothing plain about a croissant. As with everything fermented, they are a temperamental law unto themselves, but mostly they take a lot of Time, that other shrinking allocation.

There were many days making sh*tty ones before these passable specimens I now set before you. They are a work in progress.

Was it cherished time squandered on their sensuous architecture and Fibonacci geometry, the contrast between lacquered crust and latticed crumb, only to dissolve in a little gust of air, salt, sugar and fat, the moment of caffeinated hedonism already forgotten save the loitering butter on your lips and the shards of collateral damage on your lap.

Larkin surely knew;

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

23/04/2026

Tough crowd in here last Monday morning. Grizzly old specimens, battleweary from too many nights at the pass.

Underpaid, overworked, undernourished, overcaffeinated, by their scarred forearms, back spasms and bloodshot eyes shall ye know them.

Only kidding, mostly. They were 12 lovely chef humans, including a pair of head honchos from bougie joints in the wilds of Connemara and Mayo, a smattering of Dublin heads and some lovely young lads with their instructors from in Darndale.

They were here for a bread clinic organised by the lovely people at . We spent the morning shaping, baking and generally nerding out on sourdough. The fun stuff like keeping the wild yeasts enthusiastic and the lactic acids on a leash, why the grower and the miller matter, and why there is such a thing as too much hydration and no such thing as too much colour.

I made some croissants for the coffee break and nobody uttered a peep about them which I will take as a ringing endorsement. For lunch I made Fabada Asturiana, because after a weekend of reducing sauces, searing scallops and making quenelles, this is the food I think chefs on their one day off WANT TO EAT.

Chorizo, morcilla, panceta, fabe, onions, garlic, pimenton, saffron, chicken stock, big pot, makes itself. Smoky, spicy, fatty, beany, like a Dublin coddle that fell foul of the law and moved to a remote part of Spain, we ate it with bread still warm from the oven.

It was a fun morning of baking, learning, supporting, hanging, chatting and eating, and I hope we’ll do another one before too long.

For my regular full day sourdough class, I have a few places left in May, after which I’m breaking for the summer to work on my book project and my croissant technique. Both are equally torturous, but I find them effective therapy for each other.

If you want to jump on a May slot or get on the booking list for dates from September on, send me your email address in a DM and I will ping you the details.

31/03/2026

I don’t like cake, but that’s a lie.

There was a lot of trim left over from this numerological job so I smushed patchy layers of it into a loaf tin, along with the remaining fruit and buttercream smearage. The dregs of a batch of praline went in too, and a splash of rum for the bit of adult.

Coming out of the tin, it had all the finesse of a kindergarten art class and it was really good and I ate more than is sensible to confirm that it’s true, I don’t like cake.

Having both reached their majority the actual cake was commissioned by and Laoise. They are admirable young women and I have to stay on Anabel’s good side, because she is a ninja behind the counter when we do markets.

She is also one of their royal majesties The Ballsacks to whom I am official baker. That makes her Anaballsack. There are three other ballsacks, among them my daughter, smallsack. You will have to ask them about the naming convention yourself. Come by anytime. They are always here.

Anaballsack was very specific about the inclusion of soft berries, to which I conceded, even though they are out of season and flew here from Spain. It wasn’t the moment for a lecture on the sustainability crisis for horticulture on the Iberian peninsula.

I like the cake making part but the transport gives me cold sweats so Laoise’s folks picked up the big one eight. Her dad surprised me with an exquisite beech bowl he had turned himself.

I was reminded of my own dad who turned wood obsessively, chasing some elusive form over a lifetime of bowls that he didn’t have words for. It brought him deep fulfillment, and the world is generally a better place when men occupy themselves operating lathes or decorating sponges. The chisel and palette knife are mightier than the sword.

My cakes these days are all threshold gifts - birthdays, weddings, christenings. A theatrical spectacle, an outpouring of love in a room, a fleet moment of hedonism and then they are gone.

Why don’t we have grand cakes at funerals, the biggest threshold of them all. As you know, I don’t like cake but I wish there to be one at mine.

I won’t be in a position to make it and will leave instructions.

28/02/2026

Still here till 4pm - perfect for afternoon tea!

24/02/2026

Did you ever carefully stash a precious then forget where you put it, only to be emotionally reunited when you least expect it?

So it was with this marmalade, which recently turned up after four years languishing in a dark recess of the breadman’s larder. Time has only enhanced its charms and now I seek the fair maiden who made it.

Paddington told Knuckles McGinty that a marmalade sandwich provides all the vitamins a bear needs. My late mother marmalised half a jar daily and lived to ninety nine, so the bear could be on to something.

Marmalade plays the long game and only crept up on me in my forties, but I get it now. Jam is for children, but marmalade is very adult, because it takes time to appreciate the bitter sweet in life.

I find it pairs very well with Marmite, a bit like the horseshoe politics of the far left and right bending toward each other. A toasted slice of each, salty Marmite’s yin to astringent marmalade’s yang.

Sometimes it’s just one slice of half and half, which I call a Marmalite. This is a delicate operation - you really want to keep a small demilitarised zone between the two spreads, otherwise it’s a savage assault on the senses.

Do try this bracing start to your day, but make sure you eat them in the right order lest you end up like John Shuttleworth in his cautionary tale ‘I can’t go back to savoury now’.

This home made marmalade is exceptional, give up the day job, god tier stuff. In the first days here, its maker was one of our first customers. She would often bring a jar, coarse cut with big flavours of whiskey and moscavodo.

Was she Eleanor? I think yes. Perhaps you know this marmalade whisperer, or recognise her handwriting on the label. Have you seen her?

It’s Seville season, she could well be stirring a batch in her copper preserving pan as we speak.

She will smell of fragrant oranges.

Eleanor, inestimable lady of the marmalade, if you’re out there, don’t leave me hanging.

The marmalite needs you.

11/02/2026

On Friday my beautiful niece got hitched to dacent fella, pure Cork like, and I made them a Croquembouche.

It’s the French way for weddings and means crunchy in the mouth. Having convinced bride and mother that really, it would be a doddle, I omitted that I’d never actually made a hazardous conoid mosaic of
choux pastry stuck together with molten sugar.

Sure what could go wrong. Working at height, in this instance 60cm, it turns out quite a lot. At this elevation, you need some scaffolding, and yes, that’s a traffic cone in there.

Happily I live on a D8 residential street which must be protected from opportunists flaunting their legitimate right to avail of its free parking by all means necessary, the most popular being vigilante cone deployment.

Being carless and thus coneless, I was tempted to just liberate me a cone under cover of darkness, but I did the right thing and one of the lovely neighbours obliged.

Cone secured, I set about the prep. 100 buns, piped into silicon moulds for spherical uniformity. Nothing gets tired faster than choux so these were baked on the day with little craquelin hats for optimal crunch.

Once cooled, straight into the piped fillings - praline mousseline, whipped chocolate ganache and creme chantilly. A pot of amber caramel, the first of many.

Gave myself two hours for assembly, it took twice that. Time is a thief where pastry is concerned. Couldn’t be arsed with its traditional final flourish of spun sugar. Hands were really over burning sucrose at that point.

Into a taxi, 5mph please so the whole thing doesnt come down like jenko. Running late, enough torrential rain to start a profiterole landslide, gingerly through the venue and finally, touchdown.

It was a faff, but good things usually are, and this pair are adorable. Also a sociable delight to eat, a cake to bring out the child in all of us.

I left the cone in situ for some young buck to take home as souvenir of a great night with your mates, because I remember that being a thing.

Probably in Cork now.

27/01/2026

Here’s a few suppers for no one but lil ol’ me on my recent dog sitting retreat in a central Rome apartment. Most of the produce came from Trionfale, see previous posts, but occasionally I just went down in slippers to the little express supermarket on the corner which had
everything from courgette flowers to fresh yeast, but shockingly no chicken fillet rolls.

This is my indelible impression after three weeks - no friction. Markets, butchers, bakeries, fishmongers, greengrocers, everything within walking distance. Sometimes even closer if you couldn’t be arsed. Pizza from 1 of 4 holes in the wall within a block, likewise
pasta from a fantastic pastificio up the street.

Mostly small independent businesses, everyone getting a little taste of the neighbourhood economy, which equally applied to barbershops, coffee bars, newspaper kiosks, laundrettes, pharmacies. It all felt
quite sustainable for traders and easy for customers. Humane opening hours too.

In Feb the Michelin awards for the two islands are being handed out in Dublin, so get ready for much industry blather and media hyperbole about Ireland’s ‘incredible’ food culture, yada yada.

It bothers me not that I rarely frequent starred restaurants but I do buy groceries every other day. I’m not eulogising Italy, and have no doubt that their food system has its challenges like everywhere else, but access to delicious, healthy, affordable fresh food isn’t one of them.

Fierce hard to have a thriving food culture without that.

Having largely handed over our retail system to the supermarket oligopoly, such meaningful choice and agency for Irish consumers is illusory.

Only codding ourselves if we think otherwise.

1. Spaghetti alle Vongole
2. Quail, artichokes
3. Bucatoni, tomato, wild boar sausage, artichoke
4. Local pizza
5. Shrimp, zucchini, mozzarella
6. Artichoke ravioli, grilled artichoke, basil
7. Calves liver, sage, radicchio rossa di Treviso
8. Swordfish, parsley, capers, radicchio castelfranco
10. Salsicce, puntarelle
11. Polpette, tomato, sage, zucchini
12. Veal chops, puntarelle
13. Zucchini agnalotti, fresh peas
14. courgette flower, ricotta, tempura
15. Stella the best dog in Rome

21/01/2026

Alive, Alive Oh

Further to the previous post on its wondrous veggies, more from Rome’s Trionfale Market. In no particular order, sea urchins, octopus crudo, fresh anchovies, wagyu, salt cod, chestnuts, quail, salsiccie,
radicchio castelfranco, guanciale, various molluscs and offal, the egg lady and the tortellini guy.

Also 3 of Rome’s many nuns buying a bit of fish and a few photobombing randomers. They sized me up, recognized one of their own. Men being men, enchanted by porchetta, though I assume the nuns are also partial.

Other handy things you can do in Trionfale like visit the cobbler, get your slacks taken up, pick up dry cleaning, get a trolley bag, restock the jax roll and buy underpants.

This last item is critical. Great markets have something for everyone from fresh lobster to fresh knickers, which brings me to the redevelopment of the old fruit market in Smithfield.

I know it will open in 2028 at a cost to €44 million, a mixed development with lots of good stuff including a market but beyond that, not a lot.

I have questions. What can Dubliners expect from this long awaited investment in the food life of our city? Who will it serve, what hours will it trade, who will operate it, who is advising them, what will the fresh produce offer be,where will it come from, who will provide it? I see very very few independent greengrocers or butchers left in the city, and even less fishmongers. Cupcakes and crepes will not cut it.

What is the core concept - a local market like Trionfale, replicated in 130 municipal locations across Rome, smalls and all, or a shiny thing tailored to Bord Failte’s new culinary tourism strategy with
its ‘foodie destination’ hustle, whatever that is. It is hard to be both.

Food systems thinking is a huge blindspot generally here, and this is not a dig at . I’m just not sure they understand this ecosystem. I want them to succeed and get wildly enthusiastic about operating food markets, as is the case with local authorities throughout Europe and The UK. All our boroughs need one.

This thing will be open soon, and it’s time we saw the workings.

17/01/2026

Mercato Trionfale

If it’s feel for a place I’m after, I’ll take a market over a museum every time, though it’s always frustrating, all those perishables for which you have no room anyway in your poxy cabin bag.

The last three weeks have been very different, trying to eat my way through Trionfale, one of the world’s great food markets. I have hardly eaten out with so much larder to discover, especially vegetables.

We know pizza and pasta as emblems of Italy, but my tiny mind is blown with the leafyness of it all. So many chards, kales, spinach and radicchio of various persuasions including puntarelle, the tender
shoots of cicoria di catalogna which is local to Rome. Traditionally it’s dressed with garlic, anchovy and the good oil, and it is a crunchy January delight.

Ditto artichokes, bang in season - big, fleshy, tender, great centrepieces at every vendor, dude in the corner doing the worst of the prep for you. I have scarfed them every which way and wont ruin your weekend by telling you how very reasonable they are.

If this is winter eating, it doesn’t feel like it. Italy’s unique geography keeps the good times rolling all year round and there is no apparent dearth, unlike the seasonality we are saddled with in Ireland.

It’s a stone’s throw from the Vatican, but quite free of the hordes. This morning a small cranky nonna was hurling prolonged operatic dog’s abuse at
the mozzarella guy, the thrust of her position being dont fob me off with your tourist sh*te.

Speaking of dogs, having Stella in tow has been a great way to pass off as a local, but she still served up some wicked side-eye. Nor was it easy to get these crappy shots with me few market bits in one hand and her pulling like an actual dog in an olfactory wonderland on the other.

Trionfale is Rome destination material but by no means unique. Rome has 130 municipal markets, Dublin currently has 0.

So I have a bit more to say on Trionfale within the wider experience of how Rome feeds itself and what that says about the development plans for Smithfield. Another screed incoming

13/01/2026

Night Doors of Prati.

Buon Anno! January is an excellent time to get out of Dodge, and I have been here in Rome since NYE, another week to go. I thought Halloween in Dolphins Barn couldn’t be bet for fireworks, but this town really goes for it.

From every rooftop came a sustained fusillade of rocket fire, each neighbourhood outlaunching the other, from The Vatican all the way out to the seven hills.

Even the pope let off a few dodgy bangers. It is some racket and poor Stella, the hound who I am here to mind while also working on a book, was completely mithered.

For the week thereafter it felt like we had Prati to ourselves, me and Stella roaming the neighbourhood, reminiscent of I Am Legend. It’s only this week, well after the national holiday for the Feast of The
Epiphany on Jan 6th, that the city has regained its characteristic bustle.

Prati is an elegant neighbourhood close to The Vatican, laid out in the late 19th century with art nouveau apartment buildings. On our solitary evening walks, I became quite taken with the drama of their
handsome doors, the beautiful hardwoods, brass handles, ironwork and other detail.

Graffiti defaces nearly everything here but never these doors, clearly an aesthetic step too far for Rome’s belligerent political factions.

By day these doors are often open, revealing leafy internal courtyards or atriums in terrazzo with ornate cage lifts, but I prefer them by night, shrouded in mystery.

One of them is the door to the building I’m staying in. I could get used to this metropolitan life with everything on your doorstep like the incredible market in Trionfale, which I am slowly eating my way through. Everybody knows the food in Italy is amazing, but after ten
days what I am feeling is how easy it is to access it.

A healthy food culture is not just what you eat, but how and where you get your hands on it. Our system in Ireland has too much friction and not enough choice. More on that anon.

Ciao Ciao Ciao.

BreadMan Walking

25/05/2026

23/04/2026

31/03/2026

28/02/2026

24/02/2026

11/02/2026

27/01/2026

21/01/2026

17/01/2026

13/01/2026

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