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| Yes, that Pat Shortt |
Satire can be a fickle beast. It's a House of Mirrors, a series of warped reflections of ourselves. In these distortions and refractions, we find our hidden faults magnified, our supposed virtues diminished. These darkly comic likenesses subvert and suspend our own everyday self-image, and we often find in them some uncomfortable truth. All too often the "prophet is not without honour, save in his own country, and his own house" (Matthew 13:57!) - one thinks of RTE turning down Father Ted, Dermot Morgan's coruscating wit on Scrap Saturday having earned him many fans but some few powerful enemies. But then at times, the gentler satirist finds his most loyal audience among the very community he lampoons. The D4 set may find themselves the butt of Ross O'Carroll Kelly's joke, but it sends them snickering into their Chianti Reservas rather than into paroxysms of rage - he's in the Irish Times Magazine, for fock's sake! Pat Shortt has long been our rural equivalent, and throughout his career, from d'Unbelievables to the Jumbo Breakfast Roll Man to Killinaskully, he has held up heightened versions of ourselves for inspection, to show us all how ridiculous it is that we take ourselves so seriously. If the words "Ye'll know all about it next year when you're under six, lads" mean nothing to you, you've not played nearly enough Junior B Grade hurling. Something for which to be grateful, perhaps....
Turns out that satire is not all the esteemed Mr. Shortt does well.
East Cork is a part of the world which, if it does blow its own trumpet, is thoroughly drowned out by the cacophony of brass sounded by the west of the county. It is, in fact, replete with understated gems, from the hidden medieval architecture of Youghal Town to the gentle and fertile coastline from Shanagarry to Inch and on to Aghada and Fota beyond. I've often ground to a halt in the village of Castlemartyr, one of the few remaining bottlenecks on the Waterford to Cork road, but not before stopped out of choice. However, the Sprog awoke ravenous in the car-seat (we'd had no time for the fancy breakfasht), and as we had at least two more hours driving to do before giving an ear to the West Cork Coast Brass Band, we pulled in off the main street and made our way back towards the bridge and the traffic lights, and in with us to Pat Shortt's.
Straight away, we knew we were in good hands. Many pubs are owned by people who don't really know their trade - maybe they inherited and perpetuated mistakes a generation old, not having worked somewhere it was done right. Maybe they bought on a figary, a Celtic Tiger investment, and threw money at the walls hoping something would stick. Maybe the owner just isn't talented, doesn't have the eye for it, doesn't think clearly about the functions his space should be designed to discharge. None of these apply here - whoever set out this pub knows his trade and has a talent for it.
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| The Snug - a cordial area indeed |
The interior of Pat Shortt's is divided into three main areas; a nice snug-like nook to the front, the main body off to one side, separated from the bar area by a partition wall, and additional seating to the rear. It was at the back we found ourselves, all the other seating being occupied at half two of a Sunday afternoon - a sure sign of a good trade. A dark and well-aged floorboard was mirrored onto a half-timbered wall up to about 4 feet, with a crisp, pale blue painted finish above. The space is low-ceilinged and small windowed, but the light levels are very well judged to create an atmosphere that is somehow both cosy and airy rather than oppressive. The walls are adorned with some superior pub-type bric-a-brac, but also some very pleasant and well curated artwork. Here and there are nods to the career of the great man himself; the quadruple platinum discs for the Jumbo Breakfast Roll, an old black-and-white from the early days of d'Unbelievables and (interestingly, the largest piece of memorabilia) the cinema poster from Garage - but these self-references are restrained, an acknowledgement rather than an assertion. And astonishingly (honestly, I had to check twice), nestled unobtrusively around a corner is the rather unflattering portrait of a former Taoiseach that was once surreptitiously placed, to some considerable controversy, on the walls of the National Gallery. Gracenotes abound, embellishments added by a master to adorn a well established theme - simple leather place settings, the quality brass plates and lettering on the toilet doors, even the quirky coathooks towards the front of the bar. Elsewhere these might be dissipated efforts in a pub better advised to focus on the basics; here they are final finishing flourishes on a well-ordered, fully considered and supremely functional space. You may have gathered - I liked it.
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| The Way to Win any Argument |
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| Biffo avec Bogroll |
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| Gracenotes |
The Sandwich:
The Toasted Special was not a listed item on the menu (assortment of sandwiches given), but when ordered as such was recognised at once and duly delivered (it was also heard to be ordered with confidence in a more local accent, so clearly is a staple of the kitchen). For €4.80, somewhat pricey for a humble toastie, it arrived with pretty much a full packet of Hunky Dorys on the side. Everything here was in good order without anything being outstanding - good bread, decent hint of onion, Ireland's ubiquitous under-ripe tomatoes, nicely melted cheese and a superior, though still from a packet, I suspect, sliced ham. If I were to be picky (and it's a review, so why wouldn't I be), the sandwich had spent about 30 seconds too long under the heat, with the result that the outer crust was a little too hard and crunchy. It was an effective and workmanlike outing, but nothing stellar, the attentions of the kitchen staff being more focused on turning out some other very appetising looking pub-grub. My eyes (and indeed fingers) were heretically drawn to the missus' plate, whereon lay some of the finest homemade chicken goujons a man ever thieved from his wife's dinner. It was fare that would fare well under the eye of a critic, but we'll leave that task to some other reviewer with a broader and more prosaic mandate.
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| Bird Attempts Flight on Half Wing... |
On the Stereo:
Superior quality diddlie-ie was the soundtrack to our sandwich on this occasion - not the swill trotted out for the tourists, the real stuff that we keep for ourselves to enjoy in dark spaces with the weather at the window and a fire in the grate. A good trad female voice gave us a version of Rainy Night in Soho that made my day, despite the fact that I've never actually stepped out of a shower and fell into someone's arms. Or been in Soho, for that matter. The glowing hearth in the corner of the main space gave the impression that it wasn't only over the speakers that a man might hear a decent blast of the vernacular musical tradition.
On Tap:
Nothing out of the ordinary to report here. Being as we were in the People's Republic, one could expect Murphy's to be available, and indeed a pleasant glass of the same was enjoyed with the sandwich. A few bottles from the 8 Degrees brewery were spotted in the fridge, but otherwise it was the usual fare. But this is a pub that knows its customers well, and knows its customers to be discerning in these basics, so you can bet that the standards were done to the highest of standards. I certainly would be happy to return to more comprehensively access the pint were I to be afforded the opportunity to do so.
The Verdict:
It's hardly in doubt. I was seriously impressed by Pat Shortt's - not the finest toastie reviewed to date, but one of the best pub experiences. It would have been easy for the Great One to simply trade on his name and rest on his laurels. But then again, in a small rural community such as Castlemartyr, that would have cut the ice for only so long before wearing thin. Mr. Shortt knows that constituency well - he has been their dark mirror for decades. And it would seem that comedy is not the only trade that Pat Shortt knows inside and out - pubs that understand and serve their function and custom as well as this one are rare indeed. Further evidence, were it needed, was to be found in the simplest and most direct feedback: the pub was full when we entered, and our seats had no chance to grow cold when we left. When I say it is not the last time I'll stop in Castlemartyr, I'm not only referring to the traffic.
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