Our indigenous food culture, at least in the way it’s presented to tourists, is all mythic history and tradition: Finn McCool eating soda bread along with some locally-sourced seasonal vegetables. It implies that we had a degree of choice about what we ate, while the truth is a bit more functional. Ireland was a country of peasants. We ate whatever food we could find or grow or catch, and we tried to make it last as long as possible, usually by putting it in a big pot and boiling the crap out of it.
Nowadays, we have to wear sunglasses there are so many Michelin stars lying about the place. But that’s a relatively recent development. Your average baby boomer, if they grew up outside Dublin or Cork, may well have never been to a restaurant when they were young because there simply weren’t any nearby. Their first experience of “eating out” was having a bag of Tayto and a bottle of Fanta in the pub with their parents after Sunday mass. (Tayto actually sold Pub Crisps until wokery destroyed our fun.) And later on, when the boomers were old enough (or old-enough looking), they got to experience the mouth-watering indulgence that was the pub toastie sandwich. (It could also be mouth-burning or mouth-gluing, depending on the cheese used.) This is probably misty-eyed reminiscence, but nothing else ever went so well with a pint of Guinness.
God, I’d love one now.
None of this is to have a go at Irish restaurants: they are mostly fabulous. But what is distinctly Irish about them? My point being that the modern restaurant is more of an international phenomenon, with some regional variations. Even for countries with a distinct food culture – France, Italy, India – it’s arguable that they belong as much to the world rather than the places they came from. There are far more Italian restaurants outside Italy than within it.
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Yet, there is an eating experience you can have in this country that does feel peculiarly Irish: the carvery. Yes, I know. We didn’t invent it. The British were offering cooked food in pubs since the middle of the last century, while Irish boozers were distinctly sniffy towards the idea. Possibly because of returned emigrants, we only got on board a few decades back.
Perhaps once a year, I get to eat in a carvery, and it always strikes me that this imported idea feels like it was invented here. Now, I don’t mean gastropubs: that (theoretically) means posh dining in a pub setting (though you will find pubs using that title while selling chicken nuggets and damp burgers).
Your classic carvery in a pub or hotel has a distinct atmosphere. They are noisy and slightly chaotic, and they welcome families. You will hear babies crying. A toddler may waddle up to your table and give you that slightly psychotic stare only toddlers can get away with.
[ Michelin-star restaurants in Ireland: The complete 2026 guideOpens in new window ]
As contradictory as it may sound, everything is comfortingly mid-range. Not excellent and not terrible. You don’t get a wine list. If people consume alcohol, it’s a pint. The food menu is kept short and veers clear of any dramatic innovations. You won’t encounter terms like Ballotine or En Papillote and be too embarrassed to ask what they mean. Nothing is deconstructed. You won’t even get a jus.
Instead, it’ll be gravy. There will be mashed potatoes, a bowl of veg on the side and a meat variant. (Admittedly, the vegetarian options are still terrible.)
Most Irish of all, the portion sizes are gigantic: as if we’ll need all that food when we go back out to work the fields. Or it’s best to fill up with grub. Just in case.
Nowadays, most people just go home, sit down, loosen their belts, fall asleep on the couch and wake up just in time for Fair City. You can’t get more Irish than that.
