To Hell With Brand Narratives: Eat Trout

Kay and I and the Machatunim were staying at the Carton House in Maynooth, Ireland. Wikipedia describes it better than I could:

Carton House is a country house and surrounding demesne that was the ancestral seat of the Earls of Kildare and Dukes of Leinster for over 700 years. Located 23 km west of Dublin, in Maynooth, County Kildare, the Carton Demesne is a 1,100-acre estate, from an original estate of 70,000 acres. In the 2000s, much of the demesne was redeveloped into two golf courses and the house into a hotel complex.

It was very luxurious without being pretentious, although a few times I felt like a serf who had stumbled in by accident and was trying to fit in. They have numerous dining rooms, from wildly luxurious to casual. Jon and Jos opted for the high end, but it wasn’t clear that Kay and I could get reservations at any of the dining venues. Under the circumstances, I decided to run into Maynooth to pick up some bread, cheese, and delicacies in case we opted to picnic on the 10,000 acres of the estate or just hang out in the room.

The Tesco was huge; think Walmart Supercenter times two. I grabbed a loaf of bread, some Irish cheddar cheese, a few beers, and a chocolate bar for dessert. Then I spotted this.

In a world of “artisan flavor journeys” and “curated taste experiences,” this felt almost subversive. No adjectives, no story about the river or the terroir, no Himalayan pink salt, no foraged seaweed, no “ethereal mouthfeel” or “artisanal flavor journey”—just direct instruction.

The thing is, they do have all the usual notes on the package—respectful Irish trout, cream cheese, lemon, the whole works. But what you remember is the header barking its two-word assignment.

So I started imagining the meeting where that line was born.

They’re in a small room in Kilkenny, the kind with a flip chart in the corner and a plate of biscuits nobody’s touched. The marketing consultant clears her throat. “Right so, we’re here to talk brand identity,” she begins. “We want something that speaks to heritage, sustainability, the whole Irish food story.”

Pens are poised. Nods all around. A young fellow at the end of the table offers, “How about ‘Goatsbridge: Where Tradition Meets Taste’?” Respectful murmur. Someone writes it on the board.

Another voice: “Maybe ‘From Irish Waters to Your Table’?” More nods. More writing.
A third, getting ambitious: “What about ‘Experience the Ethereal Elegance of Irish Trout’?”

Someone else, clearly hungry, tries “Goatsbridge: Curating a Flavor Journey From Spring to Spoon.”

The flip chart is starting to look crowded.

After an hour of this, there’s a silence. Everyone’s a little glazed. At last, the man who’s been farming trout longer than there’s been a word for ‘branding,’ in his muddy boots and ancient jumper, leans back and clears his throat.

“To hell with your brand narratives and your artisan this and that,” he says. “Ah now, what is it we’re at at all? We’re selling trout, aren’t we?”

They look at him. “We are,” says the consultant carefully.

“Well then,” he shrugs, “put the truth on the box there now. Tell them what you want them to do. Eat trout. If they don’t understand that, they’re beyond help and better off with a bag of crisps.”

There’s a pause. Then the consultant lowers her pen and says, “That’s it.” Nods of relief all around.

And that’s how I like to imagine it ended up on the box in big, blue letters: not as a failure of imagination, but as a rare moment of clarity in the history of marketing. No fuss, no nonsense—just a polite but firm instruction from County Kilkenny to my plate: eat trout.