Beautiful Affair. Mike Hanrahan

garlic in, not a clove … oh, Holy Mother … I’m going to Johnny Griffin’s for chips.’

      Years later, my poor mum made the same mistake after I suggested she try a little garlic in her stew. Her friends threatened to throw her from the bingo bus and leave her at the side of the road, miles from Ennis. My poor dad suffered with stomach ulcers, so he put down a tough few days for it too. He claimed the garlic was seeping through his pores. Needless to say, he was very wary of the clove after that. Poor Mum, only trying to spice up their life.

      A CLAREMAN’S RAGÙ

      I am not a fan of complicated menus. Why on earth would you want to cook pork fifteen ways in an apple and cider reduction, with a chargrilled peach salsa, served with honeyed baby carrots in a macadamia nut pesto, wasabi-soaked roasted cauliflower, kimchi-coated thrice-fried sweet potato chips with an essence of artichoke velouté, nasturtium leaves and a port jus? Honest to goodness.

      Because I like to keep things simple, I love to cook Italian food; it’s the simplicity that’s the key, and the greatest challenge in cooking is to keep it simple – and seasonal. A few years ago, my brother-in-law married his Italian-Irish girlfriend, Rosa, in a beautiful castle at the foot of Castellabate on the Amalfi Coast. We spent the two weeks feasting on local food, including their famous mozzarella, produced at many local buffalo farms. In a small family-run restaurant up in the mountains we tasted the best ragù ever. It was delicious, rich and so full of flavour.

      Rosa was born in Ireland, but her family maintains a very strong connection to her parents’ homeland. Over the years, she has been my go-to Italian foodie, particularly for clarity on Azzurri cooking, and she didn’t lick it off the ground, as her mum is never out of the kitchen. Naturally, each region of Italy boasts the best ragù, but they all seem agreed on one aspect – the pasta is hardly ever spaghetti, preferring instead wider, flatter pappardelle or tagliatelle, which is a better vehicle for the sauce. Ragù freezes really well, so if you have a little left over, save it for another day. It also works really well on a barbecued or roast potato, although I’m not sure Rosa would appreciate me suggesting the humble spud, she might just disown me for that idea alone. Some recipes use tomato paste but I find it far too intense a flavour.

      A Clareman’s ragù

      Serves 6 to 8

      1kg good-quality beef mince with about 10 per cent fat content

      2 tbsp rapeseed oil

      1 medium onion, peeled and diced

      1 celery stick, trimmed and finely diced

      1 medium carrot, cleaned and diced

      1 large clove of garlic, crushed

      2 glasses of good red wine

      400g tinned tomatoes, passata or homemade tomato sauce

      200ml beef or chicken stock

      1 dsp finely chopped fresh marjoram, sage, rosemary and a bay leaf

      Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

      1 Break up the mince with your fingers and season with salt. Leave aside at room temperature.

      2 In a wide-bottomed sauté pan, heat the oil and add the onion and celery. Slow-cook on a low heat for 3 minutes, then add the carrot and garlic. Cook for a further minute – do not burn.

      3 Cover the veg entirely with a layer of mince, and leave it to cook for 6 minutes on a low heat. The underside should be browned but not burned, so a low heat is essential. Use a heat diffuser below your pan, if required. You may need to add a little extra oil.

      4 Mix well and cook for 10 minutes, stirring constantly.

      5 When the meat is cooked through, add the wine and reduce until it is almost dry. Be brave.

      6 Add the tomatoes, stock and herbs. Cook at a low heat for 1 to 1½ hours, stirring often. Add a little water if it seems to be drying out.

      JOE GALLIGAN’S FOLK CLUB

      We had a very active and vibrant folk club outside Ennis in the little village of Crusheen, called the Highway Inn, owned and run by a wispy-bearded Cavan man called Joe Galligan, whose accent certainly softened from the few years in the Clare air. No PA system, no frills, just a small stage in a house full of listeners. Joe usually sat at the back of the room guarding the silence vigilantly, ready to pounce at the mere hint of a whisper.

      He had the foresight to help set up a national grid of folk clubs, which allowed artists to pull together a series of gigs around the country. Folk clubs on the circuit usually met in January to discuss regular touring artists, listen to recommendations or requests from new acts, and set out a tour plan for the year ahead. Clubs from Clonmel, Limerick, Carrick-on-Shannon, Carrick-on-Suir, Roscrea, Dublin, Waterford, Kerry and several others were linked into a rolling schedule from Tuesday to Saturday, which meant relatively little travel time between shows. In that little room in Crusheen we heard a very young Barry Moore (aka Luka Bloom), Henry McCullough, Hobo Junction, Dolores Keane and so many more wonderful Irish and international artists. Such was the high standard set by the grid that emerging or new talents were always assured of a reasonably full house of dedicated club members who loved their music and embraced the opportunity to hear new tunes.

      Joe gave myself and Maura our first gig, and we were so excited – but we had no name, and for some reason back then you had to have a band name. While flipping through our album collection, we came across a Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks song called ‘The Tumbling Tumbleweeds’. ‘Tumbleweed’ it was to be. I still remember that first gig, as both of us, extremely nervous, stumbled through our first song, but the audience cheered us loud and long – not a tumbleweed in sight. Such a great feeling. Joe invited us back many times, all the while encouraging us to spread our wings and get out on to the club circuit. We spent weeks writing and learning new material, and soon were playing at the National Institute for Higher Education in Limerick with a very young Stockton’s Wing, who were beginning to cause quite a musical stir around Ireland.

      PJ CURTIS

      As a young boy in Kilshanny on the edge of the Burren, PJ Curtis went twiddling the knobs of the wireless radio and found AFN, the Armed Forces Network radio station broadcasting from Stuttgart. There he heard the sounds of the Grand Ole Opry, rock and roll and the Mississippi blues. His family was steeped in traditional music; his mother played fiddle and was part of the great Lynch family, who were, and still are, at the core of the Kilfenora Céilí Band. But when the likes of Muddy Waters and Sonny Boy Williamson came seeping through the walls of the Old Forge cottage, PJ’s world changed forever. His mother eventually found a guitar for him in Limerick, and PJ was on his way.

      At sixteen he found his way to Belfast, joined the RAF and was stationed outside Bath. In 1962 he was playing with beat group Rod Starr and the Stereos, gigging regularly around the area. The Beatles were coming to Bath and the Stereos were booked to play support. A few days before the gig, their slot was given to another band, and to compensate the promoter put them on with Jerry Lee Lewis. PJ was delighted, as he was a fan of the great man. He got to see the Beatles play and be on the same stage the following week with Jerry Lee.

      He was sent to Borneo to work as a radio technician. On his return to Ireland he met with a young Bothy Band, who were creating innovative Irish music, with guitarist Mícheál Ó Domhnaill, Paddy Keenan on pipes, Tríona Ní Dhomhnaill on clavinet, Matt Molloy on flute, Donal Lunny and Tommy Peoples on fiddle. Tommy was soon replaced by Kevin Burke. PJ worked as a driver and roadie for the Bothy Band while producing albums for Mulligan Records in Dublin.

      When we met PJ Curtis, he had recently finished touring with the Bothy Band and was back living at his Old Forge cottage