There are places in Dublin that wear their age the way the Irish wear their sorrows, openly and without apology, as though time itself is just another ingredient in the recipe. The Old Mill, tucked into the cobbled heart of Temple Bar, is one of them.
The Old Mill was first licensed in the 1750s as a coaching inn on the horse-and-carriage paths to Wicklow. In 1997, Louis Fitzgerald moved the old venue 112 miles north from County Tipperary, transporting the mill in its totality and meticulously reconstructing the venue, quite a feat on its own.
As a result, when you step inside, you’re greeted by the particular groan of sagging wood floors that have memorized the weight of ten thousand meals. Somewhere overhead, an 80s soundtrack drifts through the room, incongruous and oddly endearing, like a jukebox that got stuck in another era and never quite found its way out. The room holds perhaps sixty seats, packed close in the way the Irish understand instinctively, that proximity to strangers is not an inconvenience but a feature.
The staff have perfected a delicate choreography of hospitality, seating tables of eight and two-tops with the fluid efficiency of people who have done this so many times it has become a kind of dance. Don’t mistake the pace for indifference. This is a kitchen that takes its food seriously, and at impressive speed.
A word of caution about the two-course menu: don’t underestimate it. We expected something modest, a cup of chowder, a sensible portion of stew. Instead, they served what can only be described as abundance made manifest. The seafood chowder arrived within moments in a vessel that could reasonably be called a vat, thick and steaming, bursting with seafood. The beef and Guinness stew followed in kind: silky and dark, the broth deep with the brooding richness of a good pint, yielding enormous chunks of beef, carrot, and potato.
We ate with the conviction of people determined to do justice to it all. We largely failed, and left the table looking as though we’d barely started. I even clandestinely pulled hunks of carrots and potato to set them on the side to make it look as if I’d made more of an effort.
We walked afterward for hours, heavily, slowly, weaving our way through Trinity College, back across the Ha’penny Bridge, into the National Museum’s cool, quiet rooms. Fortunately, the afternoon asked nothing of us but to wander until we got weary and slid into the wood pews of yet another pub for even more Guinness.
The Old Mill will not win awards for a precious dining experience, but if you’re in Dublin and hungry, I definitely recommend it. But just order one item, unless you’re part of the competitive eating set. For the The Old Mill asks nothing in return but your appetite and a little patience as you wait on the stairs for a table. And, as you do, ponder this: someone cared enough about this place to pick it apart, bone by bone, piece by virgin timber piece, and reconstruct it somewhere it could be appreciated by crowds of hungry future generations. Quite the legacy.
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