It's not every day the Diary has lunch with a prima ballerina, so the protocol manual is silent on what if anything such people eat. Our money is on rice cakes and reduced-fat lettuce. But where to go for that kind of thing? We're still pondering the issue when our guest interrupts and nominates an Italian restaurant in Drumcondra. "A restaurant in Dumcondra?" inquires the Diary, relieved yet sceptical. "Are you sure?", writes Frank McNally
Over a plate of ravioli in a place called Il Corvo, Monica Loughman takes stock of her life. Ballerinas are like football players and, at 27, the Santry-born dancer is in her prime. She could go on for another decade if she minds herself and avoids serious injury. But recent experiences have convinced her that she wants to teach, at least part-time. So this autumn she will open the doors on a new venture: the Monica Loughman School of Russian Ballet.
Loughman's career reached a cross-roads three years ago when she returned to Ireland with the touring Perm State company to learn the news kept from her while she was away: that her mother was dying.
The following night, she was on stage at Dublin's Point, dancing the lead role in Giselle - one of ballet's toughest - to glowing reviews. It was her second or maybe third Christmas at home in 10 years. And when her mother died barely a fortnight later, it forced Loughman to question the "obsession" that had driven her since the age of 14, when she first took the plane to Moscow and the 24-hour train journey to Perm: a city just this side of the Ural mountains.
For one thing, there was the question of money. Despite rising to prima ballerina status - almost unheard of for a foreigner in Russia - she was not well off, and shows at The Point did little to help. She's not precious ("There's a perception sometimes that: oh, your woman's a ballerina, she must have her head stuck up her ass. I'm not like that"), but she could have been better treated by some promoters. "My dream was to bring my parents out to dinner, just once. But I couldn't. That's how poor I was."
In retrospect, 1993 was not the best time for committing to a career in Russian ballet. Communism had been swept away and with it the protected status once enjoyed by those who excelled in the state-approved arts. In a world upside down, Irish dancing was about to become the hot ticket. Who knew? But to a girl obsessed with ballet, Perm offered glamour and the highest standards. Since the second World War, when the famous Kirov company went into temporary exile there from besieged Leningrad, Perm had held its own with Russia's best.
A mediocre student at home, she excelled enough in auditions to be one of 11 Irish students chosen to try out at Perm and, once arrived, excelled so much that she was the only one who stayed. She didn't know herself how good she had suddenly become. But a few years ago, for the first time, she watched a video her father made back then, and could see in it why her parents let her stay.
These days, she divides herself between shorter trips to Perm and work in Ireland with the Cork City Ballet. It was in Cork she first got to "set" a show: the second act of Giselle. "I had danced every role in that - every bloody role. But I don't think I'd ever have been allowed to set it in Russia." And since her Cork rehearsals sometimes attract a student audience, the experience also sold her on teaching. That and the fact that she needs more outlets for her energy: "After all, for years I was used to dancing 10 hours a day, every day."
Her school promises to be something different from the traditional Irish ballet scene, which tends to take its standards from Britain. Loughman is not excited by the English style, a point she makes by doing a brief snoring impression. "The Russians are much more flamboyant and dramatic. They show off. It's a more feminine style too." On this last point, she is resigned to the likelihood that, although she will teach anyone from four to 18, few of her students will be male. On the other hand, the Ireland she returned to is full of east Europeans, who are much more relaxed about the whole men-in-tights thing. So you never know.
Used to dancing with "very heterosexual" Russian men, she is frustrated by ballet's image problem here. "In many ways, it's an ideal activity for straight men. You get to fling around lots of young, fit women who want to have relations with you." At 5ft 9ins and "about eight stone", Loughman is certainly fit herself. But not at all wasted. On an imaginary scale where Ireland is clinically obese and Siberia is emaciated, she would be just this side of the Urals.
Although she fails to finish the ravioli, she says a resounding "yes!" when the waiter suggests dessert, and subsequently does her profiteroles. "Potato waffles are my big weakness, though, especially covered in butter and melted cheese," she declares. "Waffles and beer."