Mr Farrell
Google
You know you’re in for something either great or ridiculous when you round the corner on Francis Street and see a queue spilling out of a café like they’re giving away free iPhones. That café is Two Pups — where brunch is a lifestyle and queueing is part of the ceremony.
We turned up as four men with one clear objective: to eat. Properly. No grazing, no nibbles, just a full-on brunch mission. Sausages, toast, coffee — the works. We weren’t hungover, we weren’t browsing. We were there to feast.
First came the outdoor wait. Not terrible, just long enough to build an appetite. Then, once seated, the twist: you don’t order at the table. You queue again. Off we went, back into the melee, dodging puffer jackets and tote bags, trying to hold on to the menu and our patience while someone behind us debated whether their dog prefers sourdough or rye.
Inside, it’s exactly what you'd expect. Cramped, cheerful, loud, and full of dogs with better coats than most people. No bar. No forced decor. Just a busy, brilliant little spot powered by caffeine and organised chaos.
Then the food arrived — and we stopped talking.
The avo toast was exactly what you hope for and rarely get. Thick sourdough with two fried eggs sitting squarely on top, a heavy-handed scoop of avocado sprinkled with sesame, and dabs of hot sauce around the plate like punctuation. Crunch, richness, heat — proper balance on a blue plate you’d probably pay €40 for in a design shop.
Then came the moment.
The Italian scanned the menu and lit up: “Oh — they do shakshuka.” Like he’d discovered fire. And of course, he had to be different. While the rest of us locked in sausage orders without drama, he went straight for it.
It arrived in a white enamel bowl: rich tomato and pepper stew, slow-cooked onions, feta crumbled across the top, a swirl of green yoghurt, black sesame, and two poached eggs sitting perfectly in the middle like it had all been arranged in reverence. He didn’t say a word. Just ate, slowly and silently, with the calm satisfaction of a man who knew he’d chosen right. Again.
The rest of us got on with our sausages — browned, juicy, and exactly what we came for. No nonsense, no regrets. Just solid food made by people who care.
The coffee was excellent too. Strong, smooth, and served with a perfectly swirled leaf in the foam. We said nothing. We noticed. And then we quietly enjoyed it.
There’s only one toilet — tucked out the back like a secret — so a second flat white becomes more of a strategic decision than a craving.
But once the food lands, all of that noise fades. No gimmicks, no pretence. Just real cooking, done well, in a place that’s packed because it deserves to be. The staff were flat-out but still friendly, and somehow the whole thing works.
Would I go back? Absolutely. Would I complain the whole way through the queue? Without doubt. But I’d still get the sausages. And I’d still sit there watching the Italian win brunch — simply because he had to be different.
Come hungry. Queue hard. And never ignore the man who says “oh — they do shakshuka.” He knows exactly what he’s doing.
