The Glorious Story of Dublin Coddle

If there was ever a dish that could be described as a warm jumper for your insides, it’s coddle. This stalwart of Dublin kitchens has long been whispered about in pub corners, murmured with nostalgia by emigrants sipping their pints oceans away, and raised high on forks by those who appreciate the kind of food that doesn’t mess about. Coddle is not glamorous. It won’t win any plating competitions or Instagram hearts. But my word, it’s comforting. It’s the culinary version of being tucked in by your nan with a hot water bottle and a bedtime story. And it has stories to tell, soaked into every slow-cooked spud and sausage.

Coddle came to life in Dublin, sometime in the 18th century, when frugality wasn’t just admirable—it was the only game in town. The city was bustling and crammed, overrun with poor families trying to stretch every penny and every potato to feed their broods. Waste not, want not wasn’t a slogan pinned to a Pinterest board; it was the beating heart of working-class survival. And so this peculiar pot of leftovers was born. Bits of bacon rashers, sausages that were two days past their prime, last night’s spuds, onions that had started sprouting—whatever was hanging about in the kitchen got flung into a pot, covered with water or stock, seasoned with salt, pepper, and maybe a prayer, and left to stew.

The name itself, “coddle,” probably comes from the French term “caudle,” a warm, soothing drink given to the unwell. Which, frankly, feels spiritually accurate. Eat coddle and you’ll feel cured of at least three existential crises, one seasonal flu, and possibly a hangover strong enough to knock a priest sideways.

Unlike the aristocratic airs of French bouillabaisse or the perfumed notes of Moroccan tagine, coddle isn’t designed to impress. It’s not delicate. It’s not elegant. It’s the food equivalent of your uncle’s ancient armchair: a bit saggy, stained with mystery, but absolutely perfect in its function. And like any proper dish rooted in the life of a working-class city, it’s a chameleon, adapting constantly based on whatever was knocking about in the pantry.

The most canonical version involves pork sausages—thick, white, meaty Irish numbers, none of your cocktail sausage nonsense—sliced bacon or ham, potatoes (boiled if you’re in a rush, raw if you’re after that slow-cooked magic), onions, and a bit of stock or, if you’re feeling minimalist, just water. Some households swear by the addition of carrots, though purists will clench their pearls at the thought. Others throw in pearl barley, parsnips, even tinned beans or lentils. There’s no rulebook. If it fits in the pot and won’t bite back, it’s probably fair game.

One of the more enduring and entertaining myths around coddle is that Jonathan Swift—yes, he of modest proposals and merciless satire—was partial to a bowl of the stuff. Whether he actually slurped down sausage stew is beside the point; he seems like the sort who’d appreciate a dish that’s half-soup, half-stew, and entirely unpretentious.

Regionally, coddle remains a fiercely Dublin affair. It never really emigrated in the way Irish stew or soda bread did. Cork has its tripe and drisheen, Kerry has its buttered eggs and boxty, and up north they cling to their soda farls and pasties. But coddle? That belongs to the capital. That said, modern riffs on coddle have started to sneak their way into trendy gastropubs and curated hipster brunch menus, sometimes appearing in ironic little ceramic ramekins with sprigs of micro-coriander. Borderline sacrilege, yes, but at least it’s keeping the name alive.

What makes coddle special, truly, is the emotional tapestry it weaves into your day. This is the food your nana might’ve made when payday was a week away and the electricity was threatening to be cut. It’s what you eat on a rainy November night after a wake, or on the sofa when your heart’s been flung against life’s brick wall. It’s not cool. It’s not trying to be anything other than what it is—a hug in edible form. And in a world obsessed with appearances, there’s something radical about that.

Pairing drinks with coddle is where the fun begins. A good Irish stout—Guinness, obviously—anchors it perfectly. The deep roasted maltiness dances nicely with the salt and porkiness. If beer isn’t your thing, a mug of aggressively strong black tea, preferably Barry’s or Lyons (depending on which Irish household you’re offending), does the trick. For the slightly rebellious, a chilled dry cider cuts through the heaviness with a splash of fruit and fizz. Or go full misfit and try a glass of red wine, though be warned: the dish may not thank you.

And the bread. Oh, the bread. You cannot, under any circumstance, eat coddle without bread. Preferably something robust and able to withstand a good dunk—thick-crusted soda bread or a pillowy batch loaf are ideal. Buttered, of course. Generously. The aim is not to accompany the stew but to honour it by sopping up every last drop until the bowl is cleaner than when it came out of the cupboard.

From a nutritional point of view, coddle walks a wobbly line. It’s high in protein, potassium, iron, and good intentions. It’s warming, filling, and exactly what your bones crave on a damp winter day. But it’s not winning any awards for low sodium or low fat. When sausages and bacon are your headline acts, cholesterol is invited to the party. Still, for a once-a-week heart-hug, you could do far worse.

There are vegetarian versions, naturally. Veggie sausages have come a long way, and when paired with caramelised onions, root vegetables, a good veggie stock, and lashings of fresh herbs, they offer a lighter, greener take that still counts—provided, of course, you call it coddle with affection.

As for where to find the real deal, look no further than Dublin’s older pubs—the ones that still smell faintly of wood polish and generations of laughter. Mulligan’s on Poolbeg Street is a classic haunt, known for pouring a proper pint and serving a proper bowl. The Gravediggers by Glasnevin Cemetery is another, where silence falls when the stew is served, and conversation resumes only once the bowls are scraped clean. You’ll also spot coddle making cameo appearances at Irish food festivals, where heritage dishes are dusted off and celebrated like folk heroes.

But truthfully, making it at home is where the magic lives. Like all great peasant fare, it’s endlessly forgiving and gets better the more you make it. It thrives on improvisation and shines with leftovers. Each pot is a little different, and that’s exactly how it should be.

Dublin Coddle Recipe:

Get yourself a pack of good-quality pork sausages—6 to 8 should do, more if you’re feeding a crowd or just greedy. Grill or lightly fry them until golden, or chuck them in raw if you like your stew with a touch of danger and extra flavour. Slice into thirds.

Chop 4-6 rashers of back bacon or streaky bacon into hearty chunks. Again, fry them first if you want that lovely caramelisation, or let them release their savoury sorcery straight into the pot.

Peel and thickly slice 4-5 floury potatoes. You want solid, stewy chunks, not mashed potato surprise.

Slice 2 large onions into generous rings. Let them melt into the mix.

Optional—but deeply encouraged—extras: a couple of carrots chopped like you mean it, a handful of parsley, a bay leaf or two, and a splash of cider in the stock if you’re in a mischievous mood.

Layer everything in a deep pot: onions first, then bacon, sausages, and potatoes. Repeat if you’ve more to add. Season with salt and pepper. Pour in enough chicken or vegetable stock (or water if you’re skint) to just cover the lot.

Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce to a low simmer. Cover and let it coddle—yes, coddle—quietly for at least an hour, though two hours makes saints of sausages and turns potatoes into edible clouds. The broth should be cloudy, rich, and borderline holy.

Serve in big bowls. With bread. And butter. And a drink of choice. Eat slowly. Sigh often. Repeat as necessary.

Coddle won’t transform your life. It won’t win Michelin stars. But it will wrap you in warmth, remind you that simple things are often the best things, and carry you gently through the gloomiest days. And sometimes, that is everything.