The Roundy

Castle St. , Cork City.

Travel, they say, broadens the mind – it certainly broadens one’s vocabulary, and a person doesn't have to travel far in this fair island to encounter many’s the mind-expanding aphorism.  For instance, popular is the Southwest, though by no means confined to this region – hoor.  In a literal sense, used to denote a lady who plies one of the oldest trades, generally at night, hoor is pressed into service in any number of colourful contexts (confusingly, a lady of that venerable though not often venerated profession is far more likely to be referred to as a ‘quare wan’).  For example, Cork is a hoor to drive in.  You have to cross that hoor of a river umpteen times, driving past the quare wans outside City Hall with cute Cork hoors cutting in and out of lanes in front of you.  It was a boiling hot day and I'm a hungry hoor at the best of times, so I was sweating like a hoor and in a hoor of a humour by the time I reached my destination on Castle St. in the city centre.

'Twas a hoor to drive in, even then!

My mental geography of Cork (though not quite so old as the maps pictured) extends far enough back to remember the Roundy in its previous incarnation as the Roundy House, the haunt of many’s the ancient beardy Fenian, the type of fella who might have fond memories of a good day out hunting in Béal na Bláth.  It is now an achingly cool Cork institution*, where you'd need to be wearing organic denims hand-stitched by Gauloise-smoking French-Canadian monkeys and a record bag stuffed with rare 12-inch recordings of Albanian trip-hop folk music to fit in.  Luckily, I had packed both for the expedition, and managed to slip in without raising suspicions.

The pub itself, both inside and out, is beautifully appointed.  The stonework of the curved interior wall is painted a crisp white, framing four enormous windows, each offering a different vista of the street beyond - an ideal people-watching venue.  A long green leather bench curves beneath, allowing for smaller, private gatherings or larger affairs alike.  The lush patterned wallpaper on the small area beside the bar sets off brass rails overhead of the bar-workers holding any conceivable configuration of cocktail glass.  Hanging glass balloons to house nightlights, wicker baskets holding trailing ivy plants hanging in every window, lovely map detail inset into every table, polished copper light fittings throughout - all these speak to a careful and judicious eye behind every detail in the pub.  During the Celtic Tiger, many pubs were guilty of throwing money at their walls in the hope that some of it stuck; in the Roundy, money was spent with class and discretion.

A Room with a View

Ou é mon tailor-monkey?

The Sandwich:

Now, a quandary.  If there is a Toasted Special on the menu, but the day's special is also a toasted sandwich, which special is the most special?  I could have lost half the day to existential angst, but for the fact that they were out of Toasted Specials, it being three in the afternoon by the time I'd rocked up.  "The toasted sandwich that's on special, so," quoth I.

Now, I have begun to develop an understanding, as I research for this blog, that the standard ingredients of the traditional Toasted Special didn't come about by chance.  There is something about the interplay of those ingredients - the combination of the melted mellowness of cheese with the salt of the ham, the note of attitude added by the onion, the juxtaposition of textures and colours - that elevates a toastie, makes it, indeed, special.  But, like a folk song worn threadbare by too many late-night hackneyed pub renditions, we have become inured to it, our ears deaf, our eyes blind.  The great practitioners - the Luke Kellys, the Christie Moores (or the Long Valleys, the Lady Belles) - strip away previous incarnations; open our eyes to look afresh at what made this thing special in the first place.

The toasted sandwich that was on special contained chicken, peppers, sun-dried tomatoes, cheese and red onion.  It was not a special sandwich.  Chicken doesn't respond well to toasting, and had become dried out and flavourless.  The cheese was a white cheddar variety, and quite plasticy in taste.  The bread was on the thin side, and flat toasted - no pleasing griddle-marks to tantalise the eye.  The inclusion of peppers helped things along a little, but the sun-dried toms were little more than a rumour.  I took to slathering the thing in mustard, and that improved the sandwich a little.  If that all sounds obnoxious, that wasn't actually the impression the sandwich actually created.  In fact, such a sandwich would never inflame that level of passion.  No; this sandwich, in appearance, in taste, was beige.

On the Stereo:

I was very surprised to actually recognise Jack Johnson on the stereo.  I would rarely be able to name the artists that would customarily grace the speakers of the Roundy.  It is usually unerringly cool, however, and well judged to suit the atmosphere in the pub.

On Tap:

A wide range of the weird and the wonderful here.  Meriting special mention are the bottles of Estrella, a gluten-free beer I was lately introduced to by a knave with a wheat intolerance.  Very quaffable, and no bloated "I've been drinking a rake of beer" feeling, though I'm not sure if gluten-free makes it coeliac friendly.  On draft there were a number of standouts:  Paulaner, Hoegaarden, Peroni, Fischer's and Pilsner Urquell lined up beside all the usual standards.  That's a fine selection, but as a minor grouse, I would like to see them take a punt on a local craft beer as well.  Nevertheless, in addition to a fine range of cocktails for lipsticked types, there's definitely ample scope for a pleasant night's hop hopping.

Also worth a mention (and they seem to be making a deal of it, judging by the promotional stuff at each table) is the range of teas offered via Gurman's.  So you can join the Taoiseach in his favourite tipple of Red Rooibos, or maybe join him in a more biblical sense by partaking of the Red Honeybush (ahem).

People-watching nirvana

The Verdict:

Let's face it - the Toasted Sandwich aficionado is not the market targeted by the Roundy.  Thence, the toasted sandwich is not something they do particularly well - it's adequate, but not excellent.  I guess it's more a ciabatta kind of crowd.  But what the Roundy does, it does exceedingly well.  It's a brilliant location for an afternoon people-watch over a couple of well-chosen beverages, and it is seriously cool in the evenings - in fact, a little bit too much work for an auld fella like me, more likely to put his hip out than to be hip going out.  Although your Fenian grandfather mightn't be happy - shure, 'twas far from gluten-free beers the Roundy was reared, and ne'er a bottle of porter to be had off the shelf no more, the hoors!

*Incidentally, I think great credit is due to both the Roundy and its sister institution further down Cornmarket St., the Bodega for the improvement and development of this quarter of Cork City.