Yibu by Janet

What’s the story with Yibu by Janet?

The spacious but strangely split space that houses Yibu can no more contain Jianan “Janet” Liu than can the word “hostess”. That term’s genial hospitality lands about eight levels below what she’s going for in this new double-concept kitchen spun off in dream-come-true style from her eponymous Eatyard dumpling truck.

Most restaurants are happy enough to make you feel welcome; here, it’s more like she’s determined you’ll never leave. We wind up wondering if we ever will as she swoops in for a second round of hugs and thrusts jars of siphoned sauces and spices into our arms. “Do you want to take a seat at the bar?” one of the staff asks knowingly as she darts back to the kitchen for more, “she always does this.”

Wait, what’s with the dual frontage?

You’re not the first to wonder. Parked the opposite side of Cusack’s Corner, where tucked behind the bustle of Stephen’s Green the quieter York and Mercer Streets meet, we watch the silent movie-style spectacle of several parties tugging desperately at the yellow Mercer door unaware of the purple York entrance ‘round the corner cast wide to welcome them (signage has smartly been stuck up since). The Arthaus hotel that houses Yibu is built wrapped round a Q Park, the awkward L-shaped ground floor with a kitchen on the corner and no public passage between – the result is two restaurants, really, but a shared sensibility they’re pitching as “two entrances, two vibes, one Yibu”.

What’s behind door number one?

The sunny yellow “by day” door we watched someone practically pull off the hinges in a demented dumpling lust on that first evening visit reveals what was once the breakfast bar space of Laszló’s (no, us neither). It’s still the breakfast bar space of the Arthaus, we realised as we passed the continental counter and saw several American visitors eyeballing our Yibu breakfasts from behind their distinctly sadder plates.

Save for a Yibu collage against the kitchen wall, all furniture and décor in here is unchanged from the previous tenant, an odd upcycled wall mural joining the slow stream of yawning Yanks to give this half of the place a decidedly divided identity – two vibes indeed.

Still, it’s worth weathering the weird split for the Shanghai stack (€16). These stuffed scallion pancakes have all the chewy cheese crisp of a quesadilla and the flaky pastry layers of a paratha – a cross-continental answer to the buffet behind us. Dual textures of melted mozzarella – crisply caramelised oozed-out edges and silky, stringy innards – make for mouthfuls of full-fat excess to fill you through to dinner, cut through only by the sweet, sharp shock of a bacon jam’s cooked-down complexity – we wondered if a little chilli oil wouldn’t kick it up another gear. Only the sad side salad let this one down, limp and lonely rocket crying out for a dressing.

Zheng steamed egg (€16) carried more appeal on page than plate, less the silky chawanmushi-style custard we expected than a soggy scramble whose loose ridges saw chilli oil unpalatably pooled. With a stir it gives the one-note eggs a necessary lift, but not one that left us any better able to finish the lot, spoon soon deployed to carve off chunks of pancake instead. We’re not shocked to see it seems to have been dropped from the menu since.

Any better in the evening?

It’s night and day, let’s say. Between the dedicated space siloed from the hotel lobby and much more focused service led by the namesake lady herself, the much busier, buzzier York street side proves the “two vibes” theme – it really feels like a separate thing over here. Shanghai stack or no, we’d stick to dinner.

“Irish spicy or Asian spicy?” Janet, eyebrows cheekily cocked, asks as we order, before one of her team pops a jar of chilli oil in the latter-style down like a tester paint pot, carefully watching on lest our faces rush with blood. The good-cop-bad-cop style is a smart way to scope out over-ambitious local palates without making overt assumptions – the smoke-forward spice here sits squarely within our tolerance, but keep things Irish-style if you’re unsure. Even without any at all these prawn crackers, less sprinkled than sprayed with big flavour seasoning, would keep you happy while you wait for the rest.

As at the truck, service is speedy, leaving our first plates landing almost as fast as our cocktails. Repeat appearances across the assorted dumplings, bao and specials make it easy to get a good variety across a few shared small plates even with two - with a gang you’ll happily taste the lot. A switch-up to single bao servings at €8.50 for one or any four for €32 since our visit makes mix-and matching easier, though we had no complaints about having to ensure a second Hong Shao pork belly. The slow-simmered, sticky-sweet streaked meat spills out of the soft bun barely able to contain itself. One bite in and we could relate.

It’s all about the sauces in here. We can’t begrudge anyone doing a spice bag (€15) these days (look to Little Canton’s takeaway-only option for evidence they bring in the bucks), but it’s rare one sounds interesting enough to tempt us. Trust Janet. A yangnyum-style sauce is her novel evolution of Ireland’s national dish, and it’s inspired in texture as much as taste. Tossed tight over the chips, the sauce cools to a crisp coating that spares them the soft stodge fate that usually demands indigestive wolfing to enjoy it. Salt and chilli seasoning can skew bland at times but boosted here by fermented gochujang kick it works wonders – this is a very clever twist.

It’s not the only Korean foray of the chiefly Chinese menu. Kimchi brings more fermented flair paired with pork in the dumplings (six for €13, or mix two styles for €2 extra), moreishly moist from rendered fat and tangy brine – it’s in the ballpark of soup dumpling. Tearing through the hand-rolled wrappers, steamed soft with a pan-contact crunch below, we couldn’t but wonder if the mapo tofu had been done Irish spice style after all, minimal Sichuan tingling left in their wake. The extra chilli oil came in handy here.

With a name like that, the Taipei fire wings (€13) could stand to bring more heat too, though there’s no fault in the flavour. Salt and chilli dry-rub does wonders for crisp, crackling skin that keeps the fatty flesh beneath sealed in and ready to spill out.

If you’re the tingling-lip thrill-seeker type like us, it’s the firecracker edamame (€6.50) to make for, plump pods coated in sea salt flakes and chili, all ready to wrinkle your lips to the point of parched – you’ll lick them clean.

Self-assembly on the Peking duck pancakes (€15) is another thing that’s out since we visited – socials since show them landing pre-rolled, a prettier plating for sure and one that saves any awkward excess of veg-to-wrap ratio for the last one to dig in. For all its solid spicing and soaked succulent fat, the meat’s sorely lacking any of the classic crisp we expect on seeing the P-word, a let-down leaving only julienned various veg to add any crunch to the package.

What about drinks?

We side-eyed the standard-issue Japanese slipper slotted into the signature cocktail menu, but after one sip of these terrific creations our minds are newly open. The folks behind Barebone are among the backers here, and they’re parachuted bar manager Daire Smullen in to assemble the Asian-influenced drinks list. The Golden Hour (€14) pairs Toki whiskey and Stillgarden Glas 55 for a passion fruit-forward herbal highball that’s smooth and subtly sweet. Cosmo fans should make right for the Lucky Cat (€15), with guava and tonka bringing fruity, nutty notes to elevate the Absolut. You’d while away a helluva night in here.

How’s the service?

There isn’t a room out there we can imagine Janet not filling, and as she darts around the place practically demanding a good time all round, you get a clear sense why the Arthaus handed her the keys. Still, it’s a tight ship she runs, with smart pairing of more and less experienced staff in play across our visits – it’s quick, casual, and competent to the last.

What should we budget?

A pared-back quick dinner to sample shared bao, dumplings and spice bag would take you to €25 a head, not bad value at all if you choose wisely. You’ll tilt toward €60 if you arrive with an appetite and dig in to the cocktail menu while you’re at it – money well spent.

What’s the verdict?

Janet’s ecstatic embraces on our way out the door were in answer to our asking about ingredients, as were those takeaway extras so we could recreate the flavours ourselves (have a hash brown spice bag for brunch and thank us later). It’s that giddy generosity and goodness of spirit that enlivens the space and the experience as much as the food, and exactly what a foot traffic-free area like this will need to pull in the crowds – just maybe not for breakfast. Come share in a dream made reality – it’s contagious.