Geoff's of John St.

Stories, it seems to me, are the rivers of the human consciousness, and it is the rainfall of everyday experience that feeds them.  Through their telling and retelling they carve channels that first guide, then come to define how we understand the world around us.  They flow from one into another, a network of tributaries conjoining to form the surging torrents of the great stories – star-crossed lovers, the lazy son come good – that drain great swathes of our mass subconscious.

Places too can draw tale-telling unto themselves, massing age to adage.  Waterford is a deeply storied city, drawing the rills and rivulets of people’s lives into a stream of history that has flowed for over a thousand years; the Vikings who were raiders, then traders, then settlers, a betrayal and an invasion sealed with a bride price before tower gates, a city loyal against a pretender king.  The city lies gripped now in drought, but as a proud Déise man, I pray for rain.

But there are places in the city where one can hear the echoes of the thriving port town that once was, not the backwater it has lately become.  Geoff’s of John Street is one such place.  Determining that a daily dose of Yakult doesn't really fulfil a person’s culture requirements, the missus had dragged me to some music in the Medieval Museum (the finest piece of architecture in the city since the bould John Roberts himself put quill to parchment).  And so it was we found ourselves wandering around within the Norman city walls, both famished and one of us nursing a slightly dirty head.  Geoff’s beckoned; we entered.

Echoes of the Past, with hope for the future

Back in the day, people would queue down the street to get into Geoff’s on a weekend night before spilling again out onto the street to disperse to Flowmotion, the Roxy, or the Four a.m., all now faded or gone.  It was a Gastropub before anyone had coined the phrase.  It is said that Stanley Kubric was in Geoff’s the day the coffee machine was first installed, and modelled the opening scenes of 2001 – A Space Odyssey on the reaction of locals to the potent brew.  Nowadays, there are quiet resonances of those times; it remains busy, but pleasantly so, and this Sunday afternoon there was a gentle hum of activity despite the rare beach weather out of doors.

For the introverts....

....and for the extroverts.

Geoff’s manages the rare alchemy of making a cavernous space seem warm and intimate.  Pendant lighting in the otherwise Stygian gloom create cosy pools of light around tabletops, creating the sense of privacy in an open space, making it the perfect spot either for a quiet pint and a chat of a weekday evening or the casting about of the glad eye on a weekend night.  The extroverts can people-watch from the window seats, the introverts huddle amidships and the smokers, as ever, have been ceded the prime real estate of the beer garden out back.  Geoff’s (however it manages it) seems to attract bar staff who view their profession as a trade to be practised and perfected, who almost always successfully tread the tightrope between friendliness, helpfulness and the necessary measure of ‘go-way-and-feck-off-for-yourself, -wouldja’-ness requisite of the Irish public house.  The confluence of these many happy traits creates what I consider to be Waterford City’s best pub.  It ails me that the review must continue further…

The Sandwich:

Firstly here, an admission.  I did not order a toasted special.  I could not:  the toasted special is on the weekday lunch menu, not the Sunday menu.  However, have already drawn blanks this weekend in Mooney’s (where ne’er a sandwich was to be had) and the Vic (where I narrowly missed the kitchen’s close), I resolved to press on, reasoning that the BLT offering would be a close enough approximation to serve a purpose.  At €8.25, I'm afraid that was a costly error*.  For €8.25, the pub-goer can be forgiven for expecting quite a lot of sandwich.  And maybe an Indian head massage thrown in.  Neither was forthcoming.  The bread had, I think, been toasted on a griddle pan, which left it dry and crumbly and on the point of staleness.  The rashers were of a good quality, but with that kind of thick rind that made it difficult to eat and difficult to remove without disassembling the entire sandwich.  The romaine lettuce and the tomato were good, but the mayonnaise had been dolloped unevenly; a glut in one mouthful, dry in the next.  The shoestring potatoes (and the shoestring potatoes in Geoff’s have rightly garnered praise for elevating the humble spud to the most effective lard and sodium delivery device known to man) were their usual delicious selves, but very few in number for the price, and the salad too was below the standard I have come to expect from this fine establishment.  It was not a sandwich, I regret to say, to float a man’s boat.

All a little sad looking...

On Tap:

Having damaged myself ever so slightly the night before, I confined myself to the caffeine.  However, as well as all the standards, Geoff’s have a good range of less commonplace beers.  Noteworthy is the presence of Paulaner, a very fine Weissbier, on tap, and I recognised some of my erstwhile friends from the night before also:  local beers Metalman and the eminently quaffable Metalman Windjammer.  If the very good Guinness isn’t good enough for the Cork-person in your life, you’ll also find the best pint of Murphy’s I've come across outside the southern capital (just check that someone has had a few from the line before you).

On the Stereo:

Anything from Bon Iver to Bombay Bicycle Club -  if that doesn't sound like a long trip, you can be sure that the staff make it feel like the scenic route.  On the speakers this afternoon were Local Natives, as the very friendly bar lady confirmed for me.

The Verdict:

Hmm.  On this occasion, or past experience?  If I had been a tourist and had this sandwich, I would not be making a recommendation.  But I know Geoff’s of old, and I’m biased.  Whether this was an off day or a slip in standards, I couldn't say, but this is a regular haunt for me, and I’m usually a satisfied punter.  However, it can’t be avoided that €8.25 is stiff for a sandwich I wouldn't have enjoyed for a fiver, and if Gastropub prices are being charged, it’s fair to expect a Gastropub product.  Yet, I have to feel that Geoff’s is the heartbeat of whatever pub-life still exists in this ancient city – that alone has to merit the drift up John’s St. after a quick game of Poohsticks on St. John’s River.  Betcha mine gets to the Suir first….

*The toastie is advertised at €5.25, which is still a fair whack for an aul' sanger.