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Sat 03 Mar 2007Table, Cork CityEscape routes for restaurant critics are more important than you might think. When you have had a disastrous meal the last thing you want is to be interrogated by the chef, hence the dash for the last bus or, on occasion, an apparent outbreak of bladder constriction necessitating a brisk trot to the loo.The latest escape, however, came to me in a dream. The route was via the back door, up past the vegetable garden, into the woods, up a farm track, skirting a big field of barley and over the border into Waterford. You see, I had explained to Marian Finucane, on air, that Cork has far fewer good restaurants than it should have, and my subconscious must have been of the opinion that flight would be necessary. You mess with the collective Corkonian ego at your peril and there I was, in my dream, gazing down at Ballyduff like a Colditz escapee contemplating the sanctuary of Switzerland.