Sure Thing or Beaten Docket?
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| The Exterior |
It is said that all gambling addicts have something in common, an ill-timed stroke of good luck that turned out to be ill-fortune - their first bet won. They hit the jackpot, their horse came in, they were dealt a winning hand: in whatever fashion, fate decreed that in their minds, the association would ever be made between the adrenaline rush of the wager and the endorphin payload of the winner. Ever after, the gambler will seek to recreate that moment, to feel their stars once more align, certain each time that this is the winner to pay all, the start of that hot streak when Fortune will once again smile on her favourite. I had my first toasted special in the Long Valley.
Don't get me wrong - I'd eaten toasted sandwiches before. The eldest in our house would regularly pull out the toasted sandwich maker at home and fire all manner of leftovers between slices of bread buttered on both sides. His imagination was limitless and undiscerning, his appetites voracious. Coleslaw hotter than the surface of the sun would spew forth from the crimped and browbeaten slices, hiding an inferno of mustard, lasagne and God-knows what else within. Inflicting third degree burns on your tongue and tastebuds with the first bite was often a blessing in disguise. It was many years ago, against this backdrop of dismal experience that I was led, with low expectations and three sheets to the wind, through the doors of the Long Valley. My friend, a proud son of the Southern capital, had a cunning plan to add some structure to our day's drinking with a toastie in the snug before decamping across the street to the Hi-Bi to begin the serious business of the night ahead. I watched spellbound through the serving hatch as the behemoth Breville worked a marvellous alchemy on bread and ham at the other end of the bar. The die had been cast for me, the Rubicon crossed - there was to be no turning back.
But memory is such a fickle mistress; could it be trusted here? Was it brave or foolish to retrace the steps taken by my former self so many years before? Could the half-dreamed, half-remembered fabric of recollection withstand the hard realism and rigour of review? It was with these thoughts in my head that I wandered the streets of Cork, heart in mouth and rumble in stomach. The geography of the city seemed to mirror my thoughts; Cork's jumble of streets are not to be navigated by logic or reason, but by hunch and intuition. Each turn of a street corner is a remembered revelation, a familiar surprise. I am convinced that there is no fixed number of streets that link Patrick St. and Oliver Plunkett St., but that these thoroughfares are in a constant state of flux governed by forces unknowable. Though the warm, humid sigh that the marsh beneath the city heaves up on such summers' days I made my way, only accepting that I must have wandered too far when I reached the English Market and must retrace my steps. Until at last I arrived, ready to measure memory against reality.
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| Marble and Wood |
The Long Valley, as perhaps the name would suggest, is a long, dark cave of a pub penetrating deep into the interior of one of the irregular blocks of buildings that delineates the city's geography. The floor is a mix of ancient marble and parquet flooring, and the faint smell of furniture polish thickens the air and the sense of wood in the place. A long leather bench runs the length of the wall down one side facing the bar. The bar itself is long, and peopled with barstools that have every look of use rather than ornament to them. In the mid-afternoon, a smattering of people had taken refuge from the day's sticky glare; some tea-drinkers like myself, some others making concerted headway though doubles and mixers. The snug was occupied, but no further information could I hope to offer on its occupants. The snug in the Long Valley has doors you could defend from an army, that could withstand bomb-blasts. Once in situ, no earthly power other than that wielded by the skilled barman could hope to displace anyone resident within its confines. In the corner of the main body of the bar, the television silently flickered out a doubles match from Wimbledon, the type of inconsequential first-week game that would only hold your attention if you had a long summer of doing nothing stretching before you. Which, as it happens....
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| The Snug even repels cameras... |
The Sandwich:
I approached the bar with trepidation. First, I noticed the price chalked upon the menu board - €5.80. My heart sank; could a humble toastie justify such a price-tag? But then my eye settled upon the impossible - could it be true? Could it still be here some fifteen years later? Hunched in the corner like some ancient warrior from a Nordic saga, wisened and battle-hardened, sat the self-same Breville of years before. My heart exulted, and I took my seat with the flutter of expectation in my chest.
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| The Beast - not since Knossos... |
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| Branded delph - c'est trés fancy, mon frere! |
My first question was answered in fairly short order. How do you justify €5.80 for a toasted special? By putting about €8.00 worth of ham into it! A thick wedge of pig had been sandwiched between the bread, and ham of a quality that would legitimately drive a beardy fella from Ros na Run out into the middle of a field to declaim its merits. And that was only the starting point. The bread too was of superior quality, and a thicker than average slice. This meant that the harsh heat of the Breville had seared the outer side to a pleasant crunch without drying the bread out completely. Inside that, two thin layers of cheese had melted either side of the ham to the optimal gooey, stringy consistency. In the background lingered just the right amount of red onion, and the bite of the English mustard supplied on the side which I slathered on two of the quarters gave a nice extra dimension for them as might want it. The tomatoes deserve a special mention: these were properly ripe, the type of ripe you can't usually find on shop shelves in Irish supermarkets, and delicious. They had, I strongly suspect, like myself wandered down from the English Market earlier that day. A Toasted Special of this quality is not accidental - it can't come about as an afterthought or as a product of happenstance. Each ingredient here was of a considered excellence, and their proportion and combination a legacy of long years of trial and error, of tweaks and refinements. It is little wonder that the young man I was all that time ago fell under its spell. Here I am years later, world-weary and a confirmed cynic, and I am again bewitched.
On the Stereo:
Can it be co-incidence that after my long wander through the streets that 'Destination Anywhere' was on the stereo when I walked through the doors? The Commitments soundtrack saw the beginning and the end of my visit, which was as good an accompaniment for a trip into the past as any.
On Tap:
Unfortunately, I was not free to partake of any alcoholic beverage, reliant as I was on the trusty Astra to ferry me away to East Cork afterwards. Grand cup of tay, mind you. All the usuals were on draft, with the worthy addition of Peroni and that Canadian beer that has yet to come under the glare of my reviewing faculties. I do speak from a position of knowledge when I tell you that the pint of Murphy's in the Long Valley is about as good as you'll get anywhere. And however good the first one is, by the third pint it's absolute nectar!
The Verdict:
The Long Valley's Toasted Sandwich is a thoroughbred. It's Arkle, Dawn Run and Desert Orchid all rolled into one, the impossible made possible - a sure thing. When one thinks about how many lives that Breville must have saved over its long and storied existence, it's enough to humble any man. It's a pub where one can place the fickle unit of memory against the harsh yardstick of reality and find that it measures up. And, heavens forbid, should the Zombie Apocalypse come to pass, the snug of the Long Valley would be the place to meet one's fate. Even if those doors fail, at least one could die a happy man!
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| Speak 'friend' and enter. |
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