A couple of months ago I was absorbed in what I thought was a witty and urbane conversation, peppering it with amusing anecdotes, deft epigrams and sophisticated bons mots - in short, I believed I was being rather entertaining. The lady whose attention I thought I was engaging eventually spoke. 'You're a dreadful name-dropper,' she said. I don't think that's true - after all if a good story happens to involve a person whose name is known, it seems pointless to miss it out. Anyway, I mention this because what follows will give ammunition to anyone who thinks that the accusation is accurate.

Unless you've been living in another solar system lately, you'll know that Michael Colgan is staging all 19 Becket plays at The Barbican in London. One of them is 'Krapp's Last Tape' and it stars John Hurt. When John left to rehearse in London, Sarah Owens - his partner - stayed on for a day or two before leaving. She phoned me of a Wednesday morning when I was feeling a little fragile from a late night. 'Now that John's away I've got a spare ticket for the Irish Music Industry's award to Van Morrison. He's the first to be inducted into the Music Hall of Fame. Why don't you come with me?' I groaned quietly, rubbing my temples. 'Uhhhnngh,' I replied. 'Right then,' she said, 'I'll meet you at eight in the Shelbourne.' I put the phone down and groaned quietly once more.

Time, of course, is a great healer and by evening I was feeling very nearly perky. When we met eventually, it was a bit of a Wicklow reunion. Gareth Browne, the Boormans, Paul McGuinness, Sarah and I squeezed into my car and drove down to HQ in Abbey Street where the award was to take place. Passing by arrays of photographers who snapped my more celebrated companions, we took our seats where we found ourselves surrounded by still more illustrious people, like Bono and Edge, Sir Bob Geldof and Brendan Kennelly. These last two made speeches eulogising Van after Niall Stokes had officially made the award, and then Van sang. After the formalities and the music were over, a free bar ensured that most of the guests were in no hurry to leave, and that included us. By quarter to four I was ready to go and all I needed to do was persuade Sarah that her Wicklow lift was now about to depart. When we did finally leave, the party was still in full swing.

Once we got to the car a realisation dawned on us both. It was past four in the morning, we were tired and emotional, far from home, and above all very, very hungry. One of the advantages to being in a city is that most market niches are catered for, and we were at this moment in a particular niche of hunger. 'I have to eat,' said Sarah, 'or I'll faint.' I thought for a moment and then inspiration struck. 'I know,' I said, let's go to the Manhattan.'

The Manhattan is one of those Dublin institutions that has been in existence forever - well since the fifties, anyway. It's only open at night and is host to various denizens of the after dark demi-monde. Late party-goers, night-club workers on their way home, occasional taxi drivers and the odd lost soul like ourselves. We parked outside and went up to the closed door. It's not designed to be welcoming from the street: the door is locked, there are no windows to look through to the inside, but you can just make out that there are lights on. The faint hearted might possibly turn and leave when confronted with what appears to be a closed shop, but we knocked and the door opened. 'You can only have breakfast now,' said the man at the door. That's a bit like telling a man dying of thirst that he can only have chilled Champagne. Breakfast sounded to us like the nearest thing to paradise on earth at that moment.

Just inside the door there's a counter with stools on the right and there's a couple of tables against the other wall. Another room lies beyond and both rooms are furnished fairly Spartanly. There's a nice friendly feeling to the place, and I've no doubt that there are plenty of people who treat it as a kind of club for those who choose to spend their nights awake. It looks pretty much the way I remembered it from long ago - an example of the old adage 'if it works don't fix it'. We sat on stools at the counter listening to the FM radio and looked at the blackboard menu. Three breakfasts, all around £5 are on offer, all of them various combinations of egg, bacon, sausage, beans and chips, and they all come with toast and a mug of tea or coffee. They're flexible when it comes to different combinations that aren't specifically listed, and Sarah was able to get the exact combination of her choice.

Sausage, egg, bacon and chips is not a complicated dish to prepare, but it's as easy to make it badly as it is to make it well. Here in the Manhattan they make it well: great chips and nicely cooked other bits. While we munched on hot, buttered toast and drank our coffees we were both struck by how clean and shiny everything was behind the counter. Any visions you may have had of greasy diners would be instantly dispelled. Sarah is an immensely sociable person and was soon chatting to our host. Not many Dublin eateries can boast that the fourth generation of the family is now working in it. That alone should tell you that the Manhattan must be doing something right - if you're still open after nearly fifty years you've clearly cornered your market niche to perfection. I'm sure that there's a physiological explanation for why a fried breakfast and carbohydrates in the shape of chips should answer some deep-seated need of the body after a late night, but whatever reason there is, it certainly rejuvenated us. Even the coffee tasted good to me, and I'm a fussy bugger when it comes to coffee. Walking out into the warm night air after our fried feast, the idea of driving back to the Wicklow hills didn't seem like so much of a hardship. £11 didn't seem like a lot to spend for a fresh start to a new dawn.