IT'S 3.30 a.m. and the chef in Dublin's Billboard Cafe ("Good Food at Keen Prices") moves seamlessly from night to morning. In fact, he moves seamlessly no matter what the time, for the most popular thing on the menu is Irish breakfast served at any time during the cafe's weekend 24 hour opening. Outside, the night is black, the stars swing through the sky and taxis come three at a time. The windows of the Billboard, bright and welcoming, beckon homegoers, club doormen, late night bar staff, revellers, people with no homes to go to. It's Saturday night/Sunday morning and all 70 seats are occupied.
In one corner, the head of a solitary somnambulant droops perilously close to his plate. The waitress gently shakes his shoulder. "If he's dead can I have his breakfast?" asks a wit at the next table. The waitress squats down to speak to the sleeper and finally succeeds in waking him to the joys of mushrooms, eggs, sausages and brownies.
In a nearby corner, a man with shaved head, ear ring and steel capped boots deals with a cup of coffee: an off duty doorman. Two tables up, Madison Fox is still bopping. She and her partner Gag Ward come here most weekends, on their way home from whatever: "It's the brightness and "the music," she says, head and shoulders jiggling to the jukebox. At the next table, Denise O'Connor and two friends are also regulars. "We work in a bar and we were there clearing up till late. Then we went to a friend's and we I didn't feel like going home. It was only 3 a.m., so we came here. It's friendly and they know us now.
It's 5.30 a.m. Two taxi drivers are having a quiet chat over breakfast. "There's a few places to go to, that are open all night, but this is the best," says Noel O'Connor. It's bright and clean and there's no hassle. Some of the all night places are small and dark and it's whiskey coming out of the teapot, you know what I mean?"
He and Ray Ivers swap taxi man stories: people fighting over the same taxi and you have to play Solomon. The prostitute trying to get into a smart hotel "She had her trick with her but of course they were turned away." It's safer here than London. Here, you're lost and people tell you the way. Walk down London and they look at you.
At 6 a.m., Noel is on his feet. He shares his taxi with another driver who's just about to start a shift. Like the Billboard, taxi cabs work around the clock.
It's 6.30 a.m., and the waitresses replace the plastic condiment sets with china ones. A subtle transformation is taking place. Weekday mornings, the workers start coming in for breakfast. People sitting in the window seats, reading their newspapers, having a cigarette - a quiet time before the bustle of the office or the mobile starts ringing. The upstairs is full of gardai, some in uniform. Harcourt Square is only around the corner. You know when the traffic cops are there by the motorbikes outside. There's a bus driver who sometimes drops in, nonchalantly parking his empty double decker behind the motorbikes. Only for a minute, just to collect a takeaway coffee (though he detaches his cash dispenser and brings it in with him, bust in case).
Some days, the place is full of builders. "Now, lads," says the waitress, "How's it go in? Three breakfasts?"
Lunchtime ("Pizza, cottage pie, steak with rich gravy") is hectic. Afternoons it's quiet, and the waitresses have time to chat. They're young, bouncy busy and look great in the Billboard's black T shirts. Geralym Early is a supervisor, as is her sister Marianne. Geralym did a food science course at Cahal Brugha Street.
The Billboard's owner is Pat Crowe, a genial, one time taximan, who runs the place with his girlfriend, Carol Finlay, formerly of the corporation. They job share: "Carol works at the back, seeing to things generally and I walk round talking to people."
They opened originally, in 1995, as a breakfast bar - wooden floors, pine tables, menu on a blackboard, newspapers and courtesy mints on the counter. Then it took off. "The thing is," says Pat, "there are a few all night places but some of them, you don't know if they're going to be open or not. We're always open. Plus there's never any hassle here." Too many guards and doormen around for that. The worst that's ever happened was the waitress with the bad aim who emptied a plate of spaghetti into someone's lap. Oh and the week a year ago when they found themselves without both chefs. They managed somehow. Pat can turn his hand to most things, except the chef's job. "Couldn't boil an egg," he boasts, though he's a dab hand on the door.
Teatime ("three eggs vegetarian omelette") is busy again with people going home from work, winding down. Waitresses change shift, gearing up for the night ahead. Remaining cheerful, giving as good as they get. Someone's always trying to pick them up. The doorman manages the queue outside on the street. A raw young male, bow tie undone, does a display dance on the pavement. A punter leaves the cafe, gets into a car with shutters on its headlamps and purrs away into the dawn.
The day menu is put on the table, the condiment sets changed. The light outside is changing too, getting brighter, losing its magic. Ordinary people are out and about in the streets. Time to go home.