Michael Ruhlman returns to Ireland not merely as a tourist, but as an observer of a culinary landscape in quiet retreat. The piece's most striking claim is that the vibrant food renaissance he documented a decade ago has fractured under the weight of post-pandemic labor shortages, turning a "land of culinary plenty" into a region where even beloved B&Bs can no longer serve a full breakfast. For the busy reader seeking more than a travelogue, this offers a sobering look at how global supply chains and workforce crises are reshaping local cultures.
The Erosion of a Scene
Ruhlman opens with a nostalgic contrast between his 2014 reporting for Saveur magazine and his recent return to Dingle. He notes that where the menu once rotated through variations of boiled beef, cabbage, and potatoes, Ireland now seemed "a land of culinary plenty." Yet, upon returning almost every year since, he finds a different reality: "Regrettably, while it remains a fertile land with good food, its culinary status has fallen a considerable degree."
The evidence is specific and heartbreaking. Ruhlman details how two major chefs he once profiled have abandoned their businesses entirely. Martin Baelin closed his restaurant, Global Village, because he "couldn't find the staff for the kitchen after Covid," while Kevin Murphy left Dingle for Dublin because he "couldn't support his very fine cuisine." Even the infrastructure of hospitality is crumbling; Ruhlman observes that Bambury's Guesthouse, a staple of his visits, no longer offers a full Irish breakfast simply because the proprietor cannot find cooks.
This narrative arc effectively highlights a structural shift rather than a temporary dip. The argument lands with force because it moves beyond generic complaints about "hard times" to cite specific closures and the disappearance of foundational services like the traditional breakfast. Critics might note that Ruhlman focuses heavily on high-end or established venues, potentially overlooking grassroots pop-ups or new immigrant-led businesses that are filling gaps in the market. However, his focus on the loss of institutional memory—chefs who built reputations over decades—is a valid metric for cultural decline.
Where once the weekly menu consisted mainly of boiled beef and cabbage... Ireland now seemed a land of culinary plenty.
The Geography of Resilience
Despite the closures in Dingle, Ruhlman refuses to declare the region dead. He pivots to Kinsale in County Cork as the current epicenter of Irish gastronomy, describing it as "the best food scene, and best by quite a bit." Here, he finds continuity: Kennedy's butcher shop, now run by an American couple, still sells "some of the finest lamb in the county," and new establishments like 505 are emerging.
The author also weaves in a broader critique of Irish infrastructure. Traveling from Donegal to Cork is described as a logistical nightmare requiring a ten-hour journey involving multiple modes of transport: "Hour drive to Donegal airport. Short flight to Dublin. Taxi to Heuston station. Train to Cork. A bus to Kinsale." This detail underscores the isolation that makes retaining talent and supply chains so difficult for remote towns.
Yet, Ruhlman finds refuge in the boutique hospitality sector. Breac House in Dunfanaghy serves as a counter-example to the labor crisis, praised for its "Scandanavian" design and thoughtful service where breakfast is delivered to the room to avoid disturbing guests. This suggests that while mass-market dining struggles with staffing, high-touch, low-volume luxury experiences may be more resilient.
The Craft of Cooking and Storytelling
The piece shifts from observation to instruction as Ruhlman prepares racks of lamb for a writers' workshop. He emphasizes the importance of technique over complexity: "Leaving the lamb at room temperature for about four hours so that it's well tempered before cooking." He argues that the two most critical factors are this tempering and allowing the meat to rest for ten minutes after roasting so temperatures equalize.
This culinary interlude is not just a recipe; it is a metaphor for patience in an era of rapid change. The author connects his cooking to the literary community, mentioning the presence of Luis Urrea and Mary Norris, famed as The New Yorker's "Comma Queen." The inclusion of Norris, who wore a shirt reading "Let's eat kids" versus "Let's eat, kids," grounds the piece in a love for language and precision that mirrors his approach to food.
Ruhlman also reflects on the enduring power of Irish storytelling, noting how writers like Sebastian Barry possess a "deep perception and sheer storytelling [that] are astonishing." This connects the culinary decline to a cultural persistence; while restaurants close, the narrative tradition remains robust. The author's admiration for the "impromptu" nature of traditional music sessions in pubs further reinforces this theme of organic community survival.
The best food scene, and best by quite a bit, can be found south of Dingle in the coastal town of Kinsale, County Cork.
Cultural Echoes and Reading Lists
Beyond Ireland, Ruhlman reflects on his consumption of culture, specifically the upcoming end of Slate's Culture Gabfest. He describes the podcast's hosts as "actual characters in my life," with Stephen Metcalf appearing as a figure who always carries a volume of Kant alongside the London Review of Books. The loss of this long-running show is framed as the disappearance of a trusted intellectual compass.
He also highlights his discovery of Ray Carver's posthumous collection, No Heroics, Please, in a Kinsale bookstore. Ruhlman notes that "His words on revision are worth the price of the book," drawing a parallel between the meticulous work of editing prose and the careful preparation of food. This section serves to broaden the piece's scope, suggesting that the search for quality—whether in a meal, a story, or a podcast—is a universal human endeavor that persists even as local institutions falter.
Bottom Line
Ruhlman's most compelling argument is that Ireland's culinary renaissance has hit a hard wall of labor scarcity, transforming thriving towns into places where the basics of hospitality are becoming luxuries. While his focus on high-profile closures offers a clear picture of the crisis, it leaves open the question of how new, smaller-scale ventures might eventually rebuild the ecosystem. The piece succeeds not just as travel advice, but as a poignant record of a specific moment in time when the world's appetite for local culture outpaced its ability to sustain the people who serve it.