The Temple

Just what Dublin needed - another pub with a grandiose name like The Temple. Because clearly, what this city lacks is places to grab a pint. I approached this Dorset Street establishment with the weary resignation of someone who's seen too many "authentic Irish pubs" that are about as authentic as leprechaun breakfast cereal.

The Temple Dublin sits there, neither ostentatiously awful nor immediately impressive, like that friend who shows up to every party but never quite makes an impression. Until, that is, you actually spend some time with them and realize they might be the most genuine person you know. Damn it.

I'll admit, grudgingly, that the first crack in my cynical armor appeared when I noticed the staff actually seemed to enjoy their jobs - a concept so foreign in most Dublin pubs that I initially suspected they were all method actors. The bartender's wit was sharper than the average gastropub's overpriced steak knife, and somehow managed to make me smile despite my professional commitment to jaded criticism.

The pints here - and I say this with great reluctance - are actually proper. Clean, well-poured, and served at the correct temperature, which shouldn't be noteworthy but somehow is in our current era of craft beer pretension and bartenders who think they're conducting a chemistry experiment rather than pulling a pint of plain.

Let's talk about the food, because apparently The Temple Dublin isn't content with just being a decent pub - it has to go and serve portions that make you question whether they've accidentally mixed up their plates with those meant for a giant's wedding feast. The curry (yes, I ordered curry in a pub, judge away) arrived looking like it could feed a small village, and worse still, it was actually good. The kind of good that makes you forget your reviewing duties and just... eat.

The roast of the day performs a similar assault on both expectations and portion control. It's the sort of meal your grandmother would serve if she were simultaneously trying to fatten you up and win a Michelin star. The fact that the prices don't require a second mortgage makes it all the more irritating - how dare they offer value for money in today's economy?

The interior manages to be bright and welcoming without falling into the trap of Instagram-bait design that plagues so many modern establishments. It's as if someone decided to create a space where people might actually want to spend time, rather than just photograph their drinks for social media. The audacity.

For sports enthusiasts (I use the term loosely), its proximity to Croke Park makes it an obvious pre- or post-match destination. And unlike many venue's cynical attempts to capitalize on match day crowds, The Temple actually maintains its standards when packed with jersey-clad patrons arguing about referee decisions.

The payment system has dragged itself into the 21st century, accepting everything from cash to contactless, which means you won't have to perform the traditional Irish pub dance of "Sorry, the card machine is down" followed by an emergency cash point expedition. They even manage to maintain reasonable service times during peak hours, which in Dublin is about as common as a bargain property listing.

Look, I didn't want to like The Temple Dublin. It would have been easier to dismiss it as just another mediocre pub in a city drowning in them. But like finding out your ex has actually become a decent person, it's annoyingly difficult to maintain that position in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

If you must insist on visiting (and at this point, I grudgingly suggest you do), you'll find The Temple on Dorset Street, serving up what I'm irritated to report is some of the most satisfying pub fare in the area. Just don't blame me when you find yourself becoming a regular, defending its honor to other cynical food writers, and wondering when exactly you became the type of person who has a "local." Some battles aren't worth fighting, and The Temple Dublin has won this one fair and square.