IT’S VERY EASY to forget that there was a time – not all that long ago – when restaurants were something of a rare species in Ireland.

If you can remember back to when interest rates were truly excruciating, in the 1980s, you may also recall that Dublin had two premier-league restaurants, Restaurant Patrick Guilbaud and White’s on the Green, and a handful of good, sound deuxième cru joints. Outside Dublin, you could have numbered the proper restaurants, such as the Arbutus Lodge in Cork, on the fingers of both hands and still had a few digits left over.

Some cynics would argue that not a lot has changed: we have plenty of restaurants but few really good ones, and the unfortunate times in which we live will cull a lot of the rubbish ones.

I don’t think it’s that simple. Truly awful restaurants have a remarkable ability to survive while some of the best fail. We now have an awful lot of restaurants, but there’s a great deal of playing safe at the moment, even in some establishments that have a kitchen capable of producing exciting things. It looks like menu planning is all about banging out the old reliables. It is always tempting to give the question, “Would you like to see the menu?” the simple reply: “No thank you, I’ll just guess.” Because, most of the time, you can.

Anyway, the collective wisdom of the restaurateurs seems to dictate pretty predictable stuff, and maybe this is a risky time to be doing anything quirky. But, my goodness, quirkiness makes such a refreshing change.

An Crúibín, in the heart of Cork, is a very cool pub and does a steady trade in tapas (both Iberian and Hibernian). Upstairs, from Thursday to Saturday, they have a restaurant called The Silk Purse (which, when you think about it, is quite a brave name). It’s a lovely old room with a couple of Wyatt windows and one very elegant curved one, which look out on the river, and there’s mismatched crockery and a general air of funkiness.

Under the heading “the plates that some people call tapas” (but are really modest starters) you will find phrases such as “tortilla de spuds” and “Hegarty emotionally mature cheddar avec carrot, apple, celery and mustard (aka Salad 1977)”. The slightly mad theme is underlined by the fact that the menu and the wine list are both done on an old-fashioned typewriter.

We started with a plate of very good boquerones (white anchovies marinated in olive oil and vinegar), with fried green peppers, and one of seared tuna with sauteed red pepper and romesco sauce. This also came with slices of boiled egg with a runny yolk, something that sets my teeth on edge. But my companion pronounced them fine.

Then came goat stew with okra, carrot, pumpkin and pistachios, a fine dish with tender meat, not overpowering as goat can sometimes be, the cooking liqueur lightly seasoned with warm spices. Crumbled Rosscarbery black pudding with chickpeas, sultanas and pine nuts, named on the menu in honour of the Boqueria market in Barcelona, was rich and varyingly textured, a very attractive combination of smooth blood pudding – not a million miles away from morcilla – sweetness and chewiness.

We finished with a dense, dark chocolate cake containing finely chopped plums that had been marinated in some form of strong booze. And very good it was too.

I like the mad menu descriptions. The cheeseboard (which looked very good from a distance) appears as “Curdled milk of shepps, goats and cows, accompanied by dry oaty biscuits and relevant fruits”. I also quite like, but I’m not sure why, the fact that the menu concludes with the words: “A Final Thought – Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes.” With a jug of Cork tap water (bottled would be better, to be honest), four glasses of wine and a passable espresso, our bill came to €87.70. Okay, so it isn’t cheap, but nor are they playing safe. tdoorley@irishtimes.com

THE SMART MONEY

One of the lighter main courses, a glass of Merlot and an espresso will cost you about €20.

Read Megabites, Tom Doorley’s blog, at irishtimes.com/blogs/megabites

WINE CHOICE

The wine list is very short and everything bar one is available by the glass or the bottle, kicking off with an un-named Prosecco for €8 a glass, or €30 a bottle. Blanco Nieva Verdejo from Rueda (€6.75/€27) is fresh, vibrant and lovely, and Broglia Gavi di Gavi is good stuff at €8/32. Bidoli Merlot (€6.75/€27) from Friuli is bigger and brawnier than you might expect, while Remelluri Rioja Reserva (€40) is seductively lovely.

One bull’s testicles.

Peeled. Floured. Seasoned. Pounded. Fried.

Sweet Criadillas!

One tends to lust after a decent tin of sardines of a morning, or a late afternoon as it were. Considering the invigorating nature of the previous evenings (haw haw haw!!) activities, I deemed nothing less than crucial that I had the little devils. As they could not be located in the kitchen lard, whereupon said fishies were last sighted, well I firstly fixed myself a gill or thereabouts of sherry, and prepared to search the remainder of the house, certain that the little blighters couldn’t have gotten far. In order to fully appreciate the worldview of your average sholette of sardines whom inhabit a can, I deftly made my way onto a pantry shelf. From there I thought thoughts fishy as you can imagine until I found myself swimming as best as one can in the confines of a tin, to the kitchen door. My fish gut then led me to the direction of the stairs and eventually up said said stairs, and toward the bedroom, outside of which and in spite of my newfound fishy senses, I could detect all manner of odours, from the curious to the depraved, but none smell of Portugal’s finest, wriggled into the door and opened with fins and there she was a young vixen of whom I had the previous evening entertained, upright on the bed, gorging on the final sardine and naked but for the spicy tomato sauce and fish oil that adorned her blossoming young body like a wound, “I should have known it would be you, you insatiable minx” I tried to boom authoritatively from my belly on the floor. Nothing came from my gill but a bubble. Bubble and wiggle