The Irish can’t stand it when you stereotype them. They know
the world expects them to be Guinness-drenched, overly hospitable chatterboxes.
It’s not that they take offense; they just humbly prefer you refrain from
pointing out their best qualities and join in.
It doesn’t take much to feel at home in Dublin. That may be due to my Irish heritage,
but more than likely not. It may be amplified a little, but certainly not
exclusive. You know that annoying thing people say on March 17 every year,
whether you’re in an Irish pub, a beach-side tiki bar or a techno-thumping night
club: “Everyone’s Irish on St. Patty’s Day!”
That statement has much more credibility and truth to it no
matter what day it is, when you’re actually in
Ireland. The people there will encourage
you to welcome others with open arms and chat the night away over too many
pints of Guinness draught. And suddenly you’re one of them, feeling right at
home embracing the Irish way.
The best way to do it? Just pick a pub. Any pub in Dublin is better than every bar in America, so
you won’t go wrong with any one you choose. Or, if you’re like me, any eight you
choose.
My Sunday in Dublin began
quietly enough, meeting some friends for coffee and strolling around the
grounds of the magnificent Trinity
College. When we saw the
line to see the Book of Kells stretching around the entire courtyard, our plans
had to be changed. As much as I wanted to see the old library inside, I was not
wasting a Dublin
day in a two hour line.
Our group found itself at The Duke, a typical Irish pub
serving typical food and typical beer. But typical is a compliment here because
anything less or anything more would be unauthentic and out of place. In terms
of time spent at pubs in
Dublin,
I tended to measure hours or minutes in pints. But there really can be no
quantitative value assigned to a pint. The consumption rate depends on equal
parts of the quality of the conversation and the heaviness of what’s inside
that pint glass.
Our group - myself, my wife Danielle, our friends from
London Katie and John, my college friend B.J. and a few of his family friends
from home in the States – slipped into easy conversation barside at The Duke,
asking the bartender about the rules for the upcoming Irish Football match and
if he ever watched the NFL (no). Three pints later, Katie and John departed for
the airport and the rest of us sauntered into the sunny Irish afternoon in
search of a pub we’d all heard of, O’Neill’s.
After obtaining bad directions from a local (and yes, I
believe this is required of every tourist in Ireland because we had been
forewarned by several people, including a bus driver, that the Irish will never
say they don’t know and just tell you regardless of accuracy), we spent a half
hour walking in the wrong direction before turning around, retracing our steps
and landing at O’Neill’s about 5 minutes from where we started.
If you can only visit one Irish pub in Dublin, snag a seat at O’Neill’s. It is not
located in the famous Temple Bar area but it is on a back corner near an old
church and a side street where tour buses pick up day passengers. One of
O’Neill’s draws is the building itself. It is a pile of old, wooden rooms
scattered on top, next to and around corners and crannies. On one trip to the
bathroom we found an outside roofdeck and a set of stairs that led to a whole
other hidden side of the pub. O’Neill’s seemingly just keeps going.
On this particular Sunday, the crowd was more locals than
tourists due to the Irish Football semi-final championship playoff match
between Dublin
and Mayo. If you’ve never seen an Irish Football match, and I never had, think
of a mix between soccer, rugby and felony assault. It was easy to see why the
patrons at O’Neill’s clad in blue/white (Dublin)
or green/red (Mayo) had more energy than a Red Sox v. Yankees playoff game. Despite being in Dublin, we
found ourselves rooting for the underdog, Mayo. Dublin, we were told, is the equivalent of
the New York Yankees, a powerhouse who won the championship last year but in
this match was way behind early. Equal parts astounding athleticism and savage
head shots, the match required several pints and caused quite a few oohs and ahs. As we left O’Neill’s, undeservingly satisfied with Mayo’s
victory, I felt I could get into a sport like this.
From there we strolled through the famous and infamous
Temple Bar area of the city. It is an area full of pubs and restaurants, a
neighborhood for nightlife and revelry. We picked through the decorated and
hopping Oliver St. John Gogarty’s, named after one of the city’s influential
writers and difference-makers, before turning up to a pub called Buskars for a
pint.
At this point we knew the road we were on and were willing
to walk it. The only logical destination was the neighborhood’s namesake, the
Temple Bar.
If O’Neill’s was a classic pub, serving classic food while
cheering on a classic Irish sport, Temple Bar was its crazy, drunk uncle. The
pub was jammed with people, both locals who watched the game and a deluge of
tourists crammed around the musicians rattling off traditional Irish songs.
We found a tiny square of floor one layer removed from the
bar and stood our ground. In a situation like this, when spillage and bumping
is inevitable, the best thing to do is make friends with your neighbors. They
did so for us. The two older gentlemen sitting on stools in front of us started
chatting with BJ and we quickly engaged in conversation about Dublin v. Mayo (see, it helps to know what’s
going on in the city you’re visiting) and anything else that came to mind. At
one point my wife tried to take a picture of the massive array of bottles
behind the bar, prompting the ribbing from one of the men that she was actually
trying to snap a keepsake of the attractive male bartender. She assured me that
wasn’t the case.
A few pints and few sing-alongs later, we left Temple Bar
and a few friends behind us on our way to Finnegan’s nearby. At Finnegan’s we
encountered a priest, a lawyer, a cop and a firefighter – no this is not the
start to a joke. They were related, from
America and of Irish heritage, of
course. And coincidentally, one of them went to school with one of my wife’s
best friends – Katie, who had left us a few hours before to fly home to
London. The connection
prompted a few pints, as it typically does, and the pints prompted a few comedic
encounters with the bartender, as they typically do (we would see this group of
Americans the next day on our day tour to the Cliffs of Moher, realizing the
“small world” theory to its fullest).
Finnegan’s thinned the herd. Myself, my wife and B.J. were
the only soldiers left standing. But the night was far from over. We decided to
take an unknown route home and in doing so, stumbled, literally, on a bar B.J.
had been looking for since his arrival on the Emerald Isle. The Stag’s Head,
with its comedy club in the basement, made for the perfect last stop to our
evening. We grabbed three seats at the bar, chatted up our bartender Neal and
settled in for a few pints of Guinness. Neal convinced my wife, who had said
she was done for the night, to have just one more, “wee pint.” Just cursed him,
as she took the half glass from him.
“This is all your fault, Neal,” she said, along with a few
choice and inappropriate curse words.
All Neal could do was laugh and say that she was not the
first woman to say that to him, so he was alright with it.
We left Neal and the Stag’s Head out the door we entered,
onto the cobbled back street intersection that acted more like a courtyard than
traffic stop. As we departed the pub, we passed through a large crowd
immediately outside the door. They were locals, some were sitting, some
standing, all were singing, yelling, chatting and all were around the age of
60. I knew that because of the birthday cake on the overturned wooden barrel in
the middle of the street.
“Happy birthday!” I yelled and got a raucous cheer in
return.
“Want some cake?” And suddenly we were part of the family. I
spent an hour talking to a man named Paul, or Peter, I’m not sure. It was late
and as good as Guinness is, I don’t think it helps increase your memory. He
lives in France, from Ireland of course, but sent seven years living
in Somerville, Massachusetts. When he told me what street,
I knew exactly where his house was. This small world thing was starting to
scare me.
Regrettably, we departed from our newfound friends. With
pubs shuttering their windows, it became apparent the night had finally come to
an end. I had drank, hugged and chatted my way across greater Dublin, in a fashion some people would
consider wasteful or crass. I consider it getting to know the city, the people,
the culture and their delicious birthday cakes.
If you were counting, I referenced only seven pubs. There
was an eighth somewhere in there. I’m sure of it. We counted on the walk home
that night, wrote down “8” and fell asleep. But for the life of me, my wife or
our friends, we cannot remember the name of the eighth pub. Quite frankly, it
doesn’t matter. It simply reaffirms my belief that any pub in Ireland is
better than any bar anywhere else.
