Chongqing Hotpot

What’s the story with Chongqing Hotpot?

Restaurateurs Ryon Wen and Ian Keegan’s well-established knack for landing Chinese concepts on the Dublin dining scene is best summed up as plugging gaps in the market—ing. They may not be the first to do it, but you can bet they’ll be the sleekest.

So where pastel pink Hakkahan gave Sichuan spice a Stoneybatter lease of life, and an impending rebrand of the genuinely novel Nan’s Huaiyang cuisine in Hong Kong café-style looks set to poach poky Hong Kong Wonton’s customers from down the road, now here’s Chongqing Hotpot’s bubbling broth to fill your feed – and no doubt their seats too.

The cutesy panda mascot and “how to eat like a local” branding speak to the drive, key to this group’s ongoing success, to broaden the appeal from a nostalgic diaspora market to a wider public with minds and wallets equally open. Hotpot is nothing new here - as ever with Chinese cuisine in the city, Parnell Street’s been at it for years - but this bright, branded take is a clear effort to free it from IYKYK turf.

Should we order anything other than hotpot?

That’d be like stopping by a steakhouse for the salad. There’s really no need, especially knowing most appetisers are transplants from the group’s other outlets, including new arrival Chuna Hunan next door. Not having been yet we were tempted by the century egg but let down to hear it wasn’t on that night (a few years still to go maybe). Typhoon shelter squid (€12) was no consolation, with none of the distinctive dish’s garlic or crunch present half as much as the sodden sensation of under-drained oil. Just get straight into the action.

Alright, how do we do this?

Start with the broth (€11.90 - €14.90). Sichuan-style spice with beef tallow is traditional, and it’s hard to beat the sights, scents and eventual savour of a chunk of fat dissolving amongst dried chillies and peppercorns. Most will be okay going straight down the middle on medium spicy - level up and lean hard on the cooling sesame oil side bowls if you’re feeling braver.

The traditional nine-grid shape grew out of a culture of communal hotpots and individual items zealously guarded – there’s no faux pas fouler than nicking a nugget of someone else's good stuff. If you’re not here to share they can do it for you, but then what are you doing here at all? Another advantage is less chance for ingredients to go AWOL, but then you forfeit the fun of dragging each other’s dire chopstick skillz.

As well as an S-shape that leaves more room for fishing fun, double- and triple-pot options give the chance to try pork bone, mushroom, or tomato broths alongside the classic. We’re all for the inclusivity on half-veggie crowds, but we reccomend pork if you’re doubling down on seafood or more delicate vegetables – the mild, rich, sweetness is a welcome balm to benumbed lips.

Be warned - the handy menu card you might have studied in advance only partly matches the bilingual listings on the tabletop tablet you order from. Friendly staff are on hand to aid navigation, and to send the order through (oddly you’re asked for a table number when none are in sight).

Versus this group’s usual focus on provenance (next door they proudly tout Buckley’s meat, Silverhill Duck and Andarl Farm pork), the “premium” and “organic” labels here go unattested (and our questions about them unanswered). In terms of meat, it’s more cut than provider they mean - premium beef slices (€8.90) are wafer-thin rolls, only needing the barest broth-blanching to bring out their best. The quick-cook effect is a great first intro to the alchemy ahead.

Ultimately, the shared joy of hotpot is in the sense of a communal cooking lesson – trial and error as much as anything else. Wouldn’t spicy beef (€8.90) flavours get lost in an already-spicy broth, you might rightly wonder. On the surface, sure, less so the marinated depths of these thicker cuts. In the back-and-forth fishing for every possible permutation, in the wide-eyed and full-mouthed signs of a winning combination, there is the contagious fun of shared discovery.

That’s truer and truer the more adventurous you are – ample offal is where you can really take the plunge. Hotpot has its roots in cash-strapped fishermen looking for flavourful ways to spice up cheap cuts. Cast yourself in their boat and go all-in on iron-rich pork liver (€6.90), or slices of duck blood (€6.90), amplified or overrode to taste by the endless combinations you can make up at the dipping sauce station (€1.98pp, go big on black vinegar). Queasier customers can dip their toes with a thousand-layer tripe (€6.90). Free of the metallic tang, its crunchy layers come alive with a short swim in the tallow. There wasn’t a plate we finished faster.

The mushroom averse may erupt in hives at the sight of black fungus (€3.50), but they're a non-negotiable where hotpot’s concerned. Also known as wood ear, they plump up in the furious heat of the broth and yield to the bite with an elastic snap so satisfying it might tempt some braver fungiphobes to give it a go. Save such spongier stuff for the final stretch, when the broth has bubbled down to a concentrated sauce. That’s where the likes of Chongqing dry potato (€3.50) step to the fore, sun-dried slices that survive a simmering with delicious bite.

Few options better showcase the tableside theatre than sweet potato noodles (€5.80), whose pale palor on the way into the broth couldn’t be further from the glassy glory that emerges after – expect oohing and aahing all round. Tofu puffs (€3.50) are marvels of spongy structure ripe for lapping it all up as greedily as we’d like to – just let them cool a little before spraying it all out again. Stodgier still are glutinous rice noodles (€4.90), very much the final boss of the meal with an elusive form to put even the most chopstick-cocky among us right back in our place.

Should we save room for dessert?

Everyone but curious completists and nostalgists need not. Appealing as the price point of the classic ice jelly (€2) is, its simple soft and subtle sweet sensations are solely there to soothe tongues numbed by all that málà mouthfeel – if you’re not suffering, no need. Only the chalky candy consistency of haw flakes sprinkled over gives this anything of note.

It’s a similar story for the glutinous cake (€6.90), little fingers of rice flour that cool to a gentle chew. Roasted pear (€6.90), another Chinese classic, lacks any hint of either word in its insistently aquatic flavour – this is one sad spoonful, and one only. The efforts of floating goji berries and red dates to add a hint of intrigue are valiant but in vain, leaving this sorry syrup akin to the dregs of a tin can, and not half as tasty.

What’s good to drink?

Cocktails, like appetisers, are available from next door, and in the same vein they aren’t quite the right fit. On any other day, the sour-sweet sharpness of a passionfruit saketini (€14.50) is something we’d sip with just about anything, but when you’re talking hotpot it’s beer or bust. Stick to a Tsingtao (€5.50) to cool the taste buds.

How was the service?

By definition you’re on your own here. Save a helping hand on the initial order and intermittent offers of a hot drop (say no unless you’re running low; concentrating the flavour is part of the fun), staff stay out of your way unless you flag one down to add to the order. Given the size of the place, that rarely proves a challenge.

What should we budget?

True to hotpot’s humble roots, you’re in for a cheap night out. Our underwhelming appetiser and desserts still landed us at less than €30 a head before drinks - cut that faff and keep to fewer rice or noodle items and you’d easily come in at €20. Ribeye, scallops, prawns and the likes will swing things the other way if you’re so inclined.

What’s the verdict on Chongqing Hotpot?

Some restaurants rely on the prowess of kitchen craft to offer a two in one deal - dinner and a show. At Chonqing Hotpot, the only show is the one you'll make of yourself, fishing stray chunks from bubbling broth like a blind angler. Bring some friends and be brave with what you order – it’s a lot of fun.