Feasting in the land of megabytes

Dobbins owner John O'Byrne was quick to see the potential in our very own silicone valley - Leixlip, Co Kildare. A couple of years ago he snapped up Cooldrinagh House, which had once been owned by Samuel Beckett's family and is now on the edge of a golf course, just a few minutes drive from the Intel and Hewlett Packard plants. The house was in poor condition, judging by a drawing of it - pre-renovation - displayed just inside the door. The picture shows a crumbling, villa-style house with creeper growing everywhere and windows hanging out of their frames. Actually the place looks worse now, stranded in the middle of a car park and all dickied up with PVC windows everywhere and conservatories jutting out at ground floor level like the docking bays of some space ship. Hideous and tasteless on the outside, but very warm and cosy inside.

Samuel Beckett's dark eyes peer out from nooks and crannies and his face is stamped on the menu above a signature made to look as though it might be the author's. Nothing so far to make you reach for the telephone and make that reservation, but Becketts does have plenty of redeeming features. The food is excellent, the service fast and friendly - as you would expect from the Dobbins stable - and then, there is something very invigorating about being surrounded by so many young, intense-looking computer people who may or may not be millionaires. Most are male: a party of women could have a great night here. It was packed the night we visited and everyone did look young and sort of bristling with intelligence.

David surveyed the scene rather ruefully. "If only we were a few years younger we could be doing what they're doing - creating something new instead of just filling holes in an old business."

He loves computers and spent most of the evening trying to eavesdrop on the table next to us where eight beady-eyed men were talking shop in various different accents. His own beady eye was able to tell the Americans from the Irish. "They're sharper, they're in better shape and people are listening to them more carefully. You can see who the bosses are," he said, enjoying the armchair analysis.

Like all the best nights out, it had started unpromisingly with heavy rain and bumper-to-bumper traffic and horn-honking. Becketts is down a pot-holed lane off the slip road into Leixlip, past a row of pretty cottages. The car-park was almost full and there were more rain-filled pot holes to be negotiated before getting to the door. Inside, there's a large bar, where a scattering of people sat waiting for tables. The restaurant staff seemed ultra efficient in their prison-blue shirts and jaunty ties, and were ushering big groups into the room at a great rate. It looks like a friendly, bistro-type restaurant with exposed brick walls and those conservatories leading off it tented in cotton drapes to take the hard look off them. At first glance, it's the sort of place where you might expect to get a decent steak, banoffi pie and a couple of tooth-cracking mints with the bill. So it was a shock to see starters on the menu at £8.95. In fact, it's an expensive menu overall. You spend about £40 a head with wine and service, but then maybe it doesn't seem so pricey if you are in computers.

We were seated in one of the conservatories which, thankfully, was wind- and waterproof. Good old PVC. Samuel Beckett's father, who was a builder, would have approved of the insulation level. The manager followed us in to give me a heap of money I had left by mistake at our table in the bar, and I took this as a good omen. Soft, white rolls and fresh, brown bread and butter were put on the table along with mineral water and the bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc we had ordered.

The wine list is arranged by grape-type instead of by country, so if you like chardonnay, there you have seven to choose from at a glance, starting with my least favourite one, boring Louis Latour Macon Lugny that's no bargain at £18.

There's champagne at £35 a bottle and a small list of "great and historical wines" from the 1970s and 1980s, most of them French and priced from £50 to £80.

As to the menu, there are six starters and some didn't appeal at all. Seared fillet of beef or spiced Cajun chicken sounded too much like main courses, while surely trio of farmhouse cheese would be better at the end of a meal rather than at the beginning?

The waitress recommended the least expensive dish, a curried parsnip soup and I had that, while David had the most expensive - terrine of foie gras, guineau fowl and black pudding with shallot confit and chutney. The soup was thick and warming, just the thing for a rotten, wet night and nicely served in a shallow soup plate so there wasn't too much of it. The terrine looked impressive with its black and white chunks held together by what tasted like pure butter. Like a lot of terrines, though, it looked better than it tasted, being so chilled the tastes were difficult to distinguish from each other.

We had to wait a bit for the main courses but just long enough to make us feel things were being started from scratch in the kitchen. All around us people were demolishing plates of succulent-looking meats and quantities of sauteed potatoes and at last it was our turn. My fillet of beef with horseradish crust was a high tower of meat, more rare than the medium I'd asked for but so tender that I wasn't complaining. There was every chance to send it back, since the minute I started poking at it, the waitress was back, asking if it was alright and whether I would like it cooked some more. It came with a rich, horseradish crust and something called Cafe de Paris butter for extra taste and calories. Fantastic was the only word for it.

David's rack of lamb was equally good but it too was a little less cooked than he had bargained for. No matter. Both were excellent chunks of meat, simply cooked and served with good, old-fashioned companions - the crispest of sauteed potatoes, green beans and spinach with a dash of nutmeg.

We didn't need any dessert after that and the dessert menu wasn't gripping or mouthwatering. In the end, to do the job thoroughly, we rose to a slice of lemon tart between us. It was OK but not sharp-tasting enough - and why did it have to come with squiggles of yucky mango coulis?

The tables began to empty at about 10.30 p.m. and by 11 p.m. there was only a couple of groups left. After a wishy washy cappuccino - lots of froth but wretched, weak coffee - we paid and left, waiting our turn to get out of the car park behind a convoy of sporty black cars - all 98 and 99 regs, of course.

We enjoyed everything about this restaurant, except the appalling facade. The bill, including one bottle of wine, mineral water and coffee came to £79.

Becketts Restaurant, Cooldrinagh House, Leixlip, Co Kildare, 01-6247040