Séamas O’Reilly’s fantasy dinner: a tragicomic fiasco unfurls at Enya’s Dublin castle

For a long time I thought “dinner parties” were a convenient plot device for plays and movies, like when someone gives themselves a pep talk in a mirror. Arranging for a group of “interesting” people to meet so that you can sit back, steeple your fingers and chug wine while the intellectual sparks fly has always seemed a ludicrous contrivance.

In an attempt to understand the appeal of the format, I’ve decided to go big. As one of 11 kids I value my personal space, so my first wish is to host my banquet in a castle, and there is only one castle- dwelling person on Earth I’d like to have dinner with. Born and raised a half-hour’s drive from my own family home on the Derry/Donegal border, Enya now lives in a castellated mansion in Killiney, Dublin. Once a punchline in cool circles, her music is now getting the respect it deserves. She’s famously reclusive, a fact I try to remain cognisant of as I politely insist she takes us all on a candle-lit tour before we sit down for our first course, a bream ceviche with sorrel, nasturtium and dill cooked by our chef for the evening, Killian Walsh.

Now head chef at Clanbrassil House in Dublin, Killian was my flatmate for five years, during which time I often tricked him into making me food by buying nice ingredients and doing an ostentatiously terrible job until he stepped in. We also share a love of electro and acid techno, which we will play all night in the hopes of discovering the limits of Enya’s taste.

Former president Mary McAleese enters, nodding her head to Aphex Twin’s ‘Windowlicker’

Former president of Ireland Mary McAleese enters, nodding her head to Aphex Twin’s “Windowlicker”. A few years ago I wrote a 40-tweet thread about a teenage job I had which involved me serving drinks to McAleese. A scheduling mix-up meant I did this while under the influence of ketamine. The thread proved so bafflingly widely read that I was able to quit my job and begin writing full time. I’m happy to have the opportunity to explain the mix-up in person and thank her for my career. She smiles warmly and says, “I hope you won’t repeat the same trick tonight!” With great reluctance, I resolve to cancel a large part of the evening’s planned entertainment.

Before I begin feeling altogether too sober I ready the drinks, namely the bottles of 1878 Lafitte bordeaux bought for $400,000 by billionaire Bill Koch on the understanding they once belonged to Thomas Jefferson. These are all but confirmed to be fakes, but my hatred of billionaires makes me eager to taste them. I hope they’ll pair well with our main, Killian’s barbecued short rib with runner beans, roasted shallot and bone marrow.

The tipple might help loosen the tongues of Samuel Beckett and James Joyce, two intellectual titans whose work and lives I find fascinating. I do, however, have an ulterior motive in seeking them out, namely the provision of dessert, the legendary “Assassination Custard” that Joyce and his wife Nora concocted for Beckett while he was convalescing from stab wounds he received from a Parisian pimp in 1939. A complete recipe does not survive, but it is believed to be a crème brûlée-style affair, slathered with brandy. In order to engineer its appearance, I shall need a stabbing.

Thankfully, my final guest is Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. Caravaggio drew swords at the smallest provocation, dashed rocks at his landlady’s windows and once threw a plate of food in a waiter’s face for his having mishandled some ­artichokes. In tribute, I serve him — with great care — a dish of artichokes, orange blossom and tarragon that I first tasted at another of Dublin’s top restaurants, the aptly named Assassination Custard.

Both Italian speakers, Beckett and Joyce muddle through the linguistic drift that has accrued in 300 years with just enough fluency to offend Caravaggio. Five years after painting “The Taking of Christ”, he stabbed and killed a Roman pimp. I have taken the gamble that the stabber of a pimp will be willing to stab another pimp’s stabbee. As the shadows lengthen, I am proved correct. Caravaggio makes a lunge for Beckett with his fish knife, prompting a spurt of claret and a dash to the kitchen from Joyce.

A velvet sleeve and candle from Enya staunch and cauterise Beckett’s wound. McAleese’s legal acumen ensures I escape prosecution for engineering the fracas, not to mention the counterfeit wine, and Joyce emerges from his labours just as the blood has been cleaned up. I savour the Assassination Custard, which is better than I had ever dreamt. I sip my fine fake wine and steeple my fingers, for I am glad.

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