Peter's Pub

1 Johnson Place, Dublin 2

Did you ever feel like you'd just missed out on your time in the sun?

Six years ago, when I left Dublin to move down to the sticks, Ireland was just beginning to shake off a half decade's trance, rubbing bleary and blinking eyes as the tiger stalked away and wonder - Can all of this have been just a dream?*  All was still labelled and shiny, groomed and new and telling tales of money magicked from the air.  I was a big, bushy-headed, ofttimes beardy bastard, journal and pen stuffed into an old gas-mask manbag, trucking around on an old steel-framed racer.  My mates, all bebrogued and sharp-shirted, regarded me with mild mirth and faint pity.  Money would change hands whenever I locked the bike outside whatever shiny and soulless fleshmart was the latest watering hole based on the cardigan I'd showed up wearing - "Damn it all, he went for the elbow patches!  Next round on me, goys...."

Now, in Dublin, the hairy head is king.  An old Reynold's tubing racer, fixed gear with some sneaky 105 brake calipers stuck on is delectable, not derisory.  Were I to live in Dublin now, I might stand some slim chance of being cool.  Meanwhile, down in the sticks, banging around on the auld bike, I'm still a feckin' eejit.  Plus ça change....

Picture may or may not be an accurate representation of the author....

Thankfully, not everything in Dublin was swept up in the shiny nastiness of the boom.  Peter's Pub has been a staunch bastion of proper boozers through boom and bust.  In fact, it is the birthplace of this blog, if not its spiritual home, the second most sacred site, the Medina of Toasted Specials.  It was here, nearly a decade ago, that the Silent Partner and I found ourselves a little too worse for the wear a little to early in the evening and ordered two toasties that may well have saved our lives.  Wouldn't it be great, we ruminated (as all things seem great in the right company with the right number of pints on board), if someone wrote a guide to pubs serving toasted specials?

A Pint and the Paper - A Solid Plan

Peter's, just like any decent bushy biker, has not bowed to the vagaries of fashion and has to its own self been true.  Thus, it stands still as it did in memory, a bright, convivial open space, more akin to a living room than your traditional tavern.  It's an Irish version of Hemingway's clean, well-lighted space, the white timbered ceilings and white walls bouncing about the light from eight large windows on two sides.  If that all sounds a little too blinding for boozing, it has been cleverly muted with the dark timber sweep of the bar and the dark blues of the benched seating along the walls.  It's an area designed both for cosy, private conversations and more sociable chats:  go there with two buddies and come home with eight.  Mind you, it being the rarest of rare things - a grand warm day - the Yank and I decided to forgo these charms in order to sit and people-watch at the outdoor tables and suck a few pints before the Silent Partner arrived.  Can there be a better way to while away an idle hour?

The Sandwich: 

No Mucking About

And so, to business.  And this sandwich clearly meant business as it arrived, with no airs and graces.  Like a new recruit garda approaching a student nurse in Copper Faced Jacks, this sandwich knew the job it had to do and wasn't about to take any prisoners in getting it done.  Halved, served flat on the side-plate, knife anchoring a covering napkin against any errant gust of wind, this was a triumph of function over form.  The only concession to daintiness, if it were even that, were the two condiment pots that arrived in tandem; mellowing mayonnaise and blow-your-head-off English mustard.  "You do not eat with your eyes," this sandwich stated stridently, "you eat with your gob.  Now get on with it."

Laid Bare in all its Glory

This was a drinking man's sandwich, perfectly evolved to fit its evolutionary niche, to help a body walk the razor's edge between sobriety and debauch, to bring a man back from the brink.  All the basics were present and correct - a thin slice of brown (slightly controversial to make that decision unilaterally), but well toasted to have crunch yield to softness, ham and tomatoes in fine order if unremarkable, a sliced cheese leaving the slightest hint of margarine on the palate.  But an unlikely hero arose to elevate this sandwich from the mundane, distinguishing it from others of its ilk that yearn to be something else, that never embrace their destiny as a Toasted Special.  Onion.  Punchy, white onion, just about onside of raw, piercing through stout-fur of the tongue, sending its vapours up the nasal passages to lend acuity to the beer-befuddled brain.  Do or do not (go home), it says, there is no try.  In case I'd missed the message, I slathered mustard on the second half (well, it was there) and properly lifted the scalp off myself.

On Tap:
I was commemorating the birth of the idea with the Silent Partner, the co-founder.  It had to be Guinness.  And, as ever, a smashing pint of the stuff.  Amusingly, the barman thought I might enjoy a shamrock on top - a mistake, to his credit, he only made once.  The Yank went for a pint of O'Hara's Stout which they have on tap here, along with an impressive range of draught beers, including Galway Hooker, Pilsner Urquell, Paulaner, Rowers Red Ale, Carrig Irish Lager, Grolsch and Peroni.  There's a few here that have yet to be subjected to the rigours of review, a situation I'll strive to rectify.
To sound a rare negative note:  €5.20 for a pint of stout!  I loved living in Dublin, but some things I don't miss.  You could have bought me dinner first....

On the Stereo:
Nothing.  Well, we were outside, so our soundscape was of fair voice and footfall, the best of soundtracks to a few afternoon scoops.  But Peter's is a conversation-driven establishment, and no music, however well chosen, should be loud enough to distract from a good chat.

The Verdict:
Peter's Pub.  I like that it's a first name.  It makes sense.  This is supposed to feel like your local, no matter how long you've been living down the country.  You're supposed to feel like you could walk in, strike up a conversation with the barman and feel like you've never been away at all.  And not in a cynical way - it's not a manufactured sense of welcome, a bonhomie designed to open your wallet.  This is a genuine public house, as articulated by someone passionately believes in that function and wants, indeed, to make it a public living room.  It's what all pubs could be if they ignored the vagaries of fashion and embraced the role they were designed to fulfill.

By the way - the stumbling block; skinny jeans.  Still wouldn't have made the grade.  Can't be doing with skinny jeans.  Never mind:  cool looks like so much effort anyway....

*Gratuitous Shakespeare quote:  "and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d / I cried to dream again."  (The Tempest, 3.2.101 - 104)

Roche's Bar

Duncannon, Co. Wexford

Hindsight, as my father is apt to say, is a pain in the arse.

The pitfalls, the wrong turns taken, all obscure when first treading the paths, are laid mercilessly bare in the rear view mirror.  And a fat lot of good it does us to see them in retrospect because, of course, the only thing we learn from history is that we don't learn from history.

Asking the toughest boy on the yard to kind your lunch money is a great idea.  Right up to the point he realises that there's very little to prevent it becoming his lunch money.  School boy error?  Yet it's found repeated over and over down through history.  For example, the withdrawal of Roman power from Britain left a massive power vacuum.  The native Briton, fearing attack from the Scoti up North and us mad shower across the sea, invited in bands of Angles and Saxons, the playground bullies of the Northern continent, as protection.  Not a great idea, it turns out.  They liked it, they stayed, and the Celtic Britons didn't get much of a look in thereafter.

But why learn from history when we could just repeat it.  When Diarmuid Mac Murrough lost his Leinster kingship, he cast about for a mercenary military force that might be interested in retribution and a bit of recreational violence.  'Sure what harm?' he might have asked himself as he watched Richard Le Gros land his Norman troops in Bannow Bay.  'Sure what could go wrong?'

Hook Lighthouse - it's quite lovely, you know

The Hook Penisula, bounded by Bannow Bay on one side and the broad estuary of the River Suir on the other, has a history inextricably entwined with these invasions.  From Le Gros' march on Waterford from Bannow to Richard II's landing at Passage to the departures of a defeated James and the victorious William from Duncannon Fort following the Battle of the Boyne, Hook Lighthouse (the oldest operational lighthouse in the world) has looked down upon the comings and goings of conquest and beamed out its steady pulse of warning.  Its proximity to our nearest neighbour and the Suir's utility in accessing Waterford City as well as the Nore and Barrow river systems, made this prime real estate in the early years of Norman annexation.  In 1172, Henry II granted large tranches of the peninsula to the Knights Templar, they beloved of Dan Browne fans and Illuminati conspiracy theorists the world over and, not incidentally, founded on that basic flawed premise of asking the tough kid to mind your lunch money.  There remains little physical trace of their stewardship, a lichened gravestone in Templetown bearing their sigil of sword and Agnes Dei, but the whole peninsula remains suffused in a feeling of otherwhere, of not quite Ireland.  The area has a quiet beauty, a still timelessness than belies the ceaseless sweep of weather in the skies above from yonder to elsewhere.

We were making a day of it - the ferry from Passage elevating day-trip to adventure - ducking the weather to dig for treasure at Dollar Bay, finding shelter and scones at Hook Lighthouse, and were thoroughly famished by the time we were driving back through Duncannon.  Finding a parking spot right at the beach, we chanced up around the corner to see what grub might be on the go of a Sunday evening.

Duncannon Strand - looking out by Hook or by Crooke

Roche's Bar is not 50 paces from the strand, and with the weather closing in, we were delighted to get Sprog Mór and Sprog Óg before the heavens opened.  It's a sprawling complex, the bar stretching over four mini-levels as the building climbs to follow the contour of the road outside, with a dedicated restaurant , Sqigl, under the same ownership also attached.  Areas have clearly been knocked through and built on as the business extended.  Crucially, however, great intelligence and sympathy has been brought to those expansions,  and what could have been a vast, open-spaced superpub has been designed and divided to make small, intimate pockets of space allowing a range of proper pub functions to be discharged.  The lowest section, clearly the original bar, is a top quality local watering hole - concrete floor, well worn bar stools and a really fantastic set of old pub shelves behind the bar still being put to full use.  It was well populated this Sunday evening by a good crew of heads who'd watched the hurling (feckin' Cats again...) and were planning the excuses they'd tell their wives for staying out to watch McIlroy win the golf.  Beyond that, a small alcove with a big telly - much coveted for the rugby and soccer, I'd say - and above again, the space opened generously to give a more airy and welcoming feel for the healthy flow of customers coming in for a bite to eat.  Wander a bit more widely and you'll find a well laid-out smoking area if you're fond of the old death-sticks and a nicely contained games area with dartboard and pool table.  More unusually, and as it played out, more usefully, there's a baby changing unit in the Ladies' jax (oh, you may not care now....).  In a trade where all too often people throw money at the walls in the hope that something will stick, it's great to see thought and taste brought to bear in the design of a pub.

There are more questions than answers here....

The Sandwich:

It's fair to say that the staff started racking up the brownie points early doors.  Not every pub is accommodating of a harassed-looking couple dragging a two-year-old and a toddler out of the rain.  The staff at Roche's got us seated, Wi-fi password supplied to unleash Peppa Pig on the eldest and a glass of cordial in his facehole before ever he hit upon the idea of kicking off.  But they were only getting warmed up.  On perusing the menu, I noticed to my chagrin that the toasted special didn't feature, even though I'd copped it advertised outside.  "Oh, it's not on the Sunday menu," quoth the waitress, "but don't worry - I'm sure we can sort you out."  Well played, young lady, well played!

Behold the Ham!

A toasted special duly arrived, and I wasn't to be disappointed.  There were turns of phrase here that mark out the 'pure daycent' (as they'd say in Cork) from the 'quare bad' (as the locals below in the bar would have it).  The ham was real ham, thick slices, hand carved and I suspect cooked in house.  The tomatoes had been upgraded to plum tomatoes (sourced locally), pleasantly ripe and sweet, the onions a fine chop of red onion, a personal preference.  The toasting was very nicely pitched; nicely griddled exterior, good element of compression to the sandwich, the crunch of the exterior giving way to the silky liquid finish of the interior.  This is a well considered, well executed outing, ably supported by a nicely dressed salad and a big portion of very more-ish chips.

But I'm afraid there's a but.  The sandwich was priced at €8.50, which makes it the most expensive toasted special I've road-tested to date.  And we're not on Grafton St. here - this is a small, rural Irish village.  I just can't see the input costs that can justify that price-tag for a toasted sandwich.  Which is a pity:  were I to have paid €6 for this sandwich, I'd be raving about it.

On Tap:

Roche's have it well advertised that they're a member of beoir.org, so a good range of Irish craft beers was to be expected, and indeed there was a great selection of bottled beer to be had.  I was a little disappointed to find there was only one draught option, Whyte Gypsy Blonde Weiss Beer [sic], a very serviceable Hefeweissen from Tipperary, not overly gassy and with a very agreeable citrus finish.  All the regulars were here as well, and I'd be confident that a pub as professional as this will present them all in fairly good order.

On the Stereo:

We're talking middle-of-the-road indie jangliness here - Snow Patrol, Paolo Nuitini, et al.  It's like wearing clean Converse:  you're just about in with the cool gang, but you're not going offend anyone either.  To be fair, the music was only pitched as background noise as it was a pretty big sporting weekend, and that's what most of the punters were in for.

The Verdict:

There's a difference between passion and acumen.  Passion is rule of the heart, decisions made with strong feeling, flashes of genius walking the tightrope of catastrophe.  The results can be wonderful or awful.  Acumen is more cold-blooded and hard-headed.  It makes consistently good decisions, delivers consistently good results.  Acumen can often be excellent, but never inspiring.

Roche's is a very well run pub.  Its staff are friendly and efficient, the design is well thought out and well executed, the food is of a very high standard and very well presented.  There's nothing here to set the heart aflame, but there's a consistently well delivered product that caters very well to the markets it's serving.  And perhaps when you're escaping the rain with your famished family, it's best to let the head rule the heart.

Hackett's of Schull

Main St., Schull, West Cork.

A simple idea, well executed.

Is there anything better than a good idea, well executed?

Opposable thumbs, for example.  Oh, the dolphins and the elephants may be ferocious intelligent creatures, but when it comes to chucking a spear or grasping a fork, you can't beat d'auld opposable thumbs.  I'm sure after another long day of more bloody sushi, Fungi must gaze wistfully in at the tourists in the boats thinking, "If only I had the hands to hold it, I'd murdher a bag of crisps!"

The Toasted Special is, at its heart, a good idea, well executed - a simple sandwich, four humble ingredients, but when well sourced, combined with skill and toasted to sensuous perfection, a thing of beauty.  It's a source of grief to me that such a fine indigenous foodstuff has found itself supplanted on so many pub menus by foreign fare we can't even get grammatically correct (panini is already plural, there's no such thing as 'paninis').

The people of Schull (and specifically a Canadian lady by the name of Camille, if my pub earwigging is to be trusted) had a simple idea not so long ago.  The October Bank Holiday weekend would see an influx of monied classes from the city, down to spend the school break in their holiday homes.  But without street lights and out in the wilds of West Cork, the business of trick or treating would occasion long, lonely walks on narrow, unlit roads.  Hardly ideal.  And so the local dramatic society had the simple idea of staging 'Fright Night' in the town on the night of Samhain.  It can't hurt that even the town's name sounds spooky!

And if this seems a simple idea, good lord have they executed it well.  The entire town turns itself over to a ghoulish cast of characters that prowl the main street, turning local businesses and buildings into houses of horror.  Caged schoolchildren await their grisly fate, deranged cartmen call for the dead of the houses to be brought out and piled high.  In my opinion, when terrified and tearful eight-year-olds have to be consoled by bemused but concerned parents, you've pitched the horror levels just right.  The fear and loathing is subsequently assuaged by plunder in any case  - the local shops hand out all sorts of loot to by now mollified trick-and-treaters.  It is, quite simply, a wonderful celebration of a very ancient festival - it is recommended most highly.


Hackett's is another good idea, executed here with panache.  The face it shows to Main St. is traditional, but crisply painted; a brisk, vibrant red facade set off by a cool, clean cream above.  It's a public statement of intent - what we do here, we do well - and it's telling no lies.  Within is wonderfully stygian, as all good pubs should be; a cool cave in the heights of summer, a cosy nook on a winter's eve.  The roughly flagged floor gives onto a black half-timbered wall topped with ruggedly rendered and whitewashed plaster above.  The wall facing the bar area is dominated by a work-in-progress mural of some skill, depicting a clearly recognisable cast of characters and regulars, some of whose heads could be matched with a few of those floating around during my visit.  The remaining wall decorations comprised of superior quality artwork with a strong emphasis on portraiture, including extensive publicity material for a German photographic exhibition (which left me pondering 'the why?').  And beyond the bar, left through the archway, the most wonderful snug.

Not Quite Hemmingway's Clean, Well-Lighted Place

One of these pictures serves pints....

View from the Snug

The Sandwich:

Hackett's does pub grub, and does it extremely well, I suspect, but didn't have a straight up toasted special on offer.  It was ordered as such, for the barman to clarify that it would be an open sandwich and with Gubbeen cheese - the author had no issue with these modifications, and settled back contentedly with his Irish Times.

A Very Good-Looking Bar Menu

The sandwich made an excellent first impression on arrival, attractively presented with a very appetising salad on the side.  The base of the sandwich was a single but good, thick slice of white artisan loaf.  It hadn't been pre-toasted, so while the underside was crispy and warm, the filling side, and consequently the centre of the sandwich, was somewhat liquid in character - not necessarily a criticism; I was reminded, for some reason, of the silky centre of a very good onion ring.  The tomatoes were better that the usual offenders, the onions a little unusual - a very loose chop which gave long sections of a very mild white onion.  The ham was a little lost to the Gubbeen (of which more anon), and I think the more robust saltiness of bacon, also an option on the menu, would have stood up to the strength of the cheese a little better.  For the cheese was the star of the show, centre stage and bubbling as the sandwich arrived.  Having made the one mile journey from the Gubbeen farm out the road, it had been elevated and celebrated by the kitchen staff, its powerful and slightly acrid flavour dovetailing beautifully with my beer, forcing me to consider how well it would go with another one, suggesting to me how little of a hurry I was in to actually be anywhere else.  Powerful stuff!  The other (rather surprising) star of the show was the salad - a real mixed salad of lambs leaf, cress, rocket and others I couldn't identify (locally grown, or I'm a simian's mum's brother) bulked out by a crisp iceberg base, and brought together with a pleasantly sharp wholegrain mustard dressing.  The entire meal is a great example of what West Cork does so well, delivering locally produced artisan produce with minimum fuss, as if to say "Maybe we should be eating this well all the time."

A Small Slice of Heaven

On Tap:
Only four taps on the bar, which is something I approve of.  Making one of them Becks is a decision I'd question, the others being Murphy's, Guinness and Heineken.  Exhaustive research had been conducted the evening previous into the quality of the Murphy's - not being convinced of the standard of the first pint, I had three more before concluding it was absolutely excellent.  Moreover, it was found to pair very nicely with a wee drop of Bushmills Black - who'd have thought it?  The starring draught beers were very ably supported by a diverse cast of characters in the fridge, and to accompany my toastie and newspaper, I chose a bottle of Howling Gale ale from the Eight Degrees Brewery based out of Ballyhoura.  I was disappointed to find it quite gassy from the bottle, with the hops notes a bit harsh and overpowering at the finish - I'd like to try it from cask at some stage to give it a fair shake.

On the Stereo:
Sometimes the well-worn route is the best way to travel - Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, the Doors provided the aural backdrop for my visits.  The volume level was perfectly judged, no impediment to conversation, but not background noise either.  A genuine filler of gaps in conversation, and in many cases a conversation stopper and starter as well.  How often do you get the time to just sit down and listen to some of these tracks that have shaped our soundscape for decades?  Very pleased to find Alabama 3 popping up on occasion as well - 'twas like an old friend had walked in for a drink.

The Verdict:
Dare I say it?  Were I to be back in Hackett's again (and I very much hope I will be), 'twouldn't be the Toasted Special I'd be having.  Not that the sandwich was unpleasant, though it was a little cheffy for my tastes (in toasties, in any case) and a little pricey at €7.  It's more that the rest of the menu looked very inviting, and Hackett's is a good example of something West Cork does extremely well, showcasing top quality local artisan produce in a non-flashy, everyday way.  A nice bowl of hot soup, a daycent pint, a good book and a bit of weather against the windowpane in Hackett's of an afternoon would very much be my idea of a good time.  There's no sense of compromise in here; Hackett's retains the character of top quality pub, but lashes out good-looking, simple, well-prepared food to punters who might find themselves famished.  As the great Van the Man might say, 'Wouldn't it be great if things were like this all the time?'

Many thanks to Dr. Brudder for the use of his Fright Night photos.

The Hawthorn Bar

Glengariff, West Cork

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here

What is it to be Irish?  Answers to that question are many, with many of them more closely reasoned, more nuanced and flexible in their approach, showing more academic rigour and dedication to the search for an essential truth than you might expect from a toasted special reviewer.  And you'd be right.  But how's this for a workable definition?

The Irish are the mad hoors that kept heading west.  

Kept heading that way until they ran out of west to head in to.  Fecked off out of Ancient Anatolia declaring whatever is the Sanscrit for "I'm just going over here for a look."  When their travelling brethren put down roots in the verdant plains of France, wondered what lay over that next hill towards the setting sun.  Loosing more of their number to the gentle hills of Southern England, settlers becoming house-bound and husbands, deciding "Yerra, lads, we might as well keep going."  Until they arrived here, the whole mad shower of them*.  Incidentally, this theory operates independent of race, ethnicity, language or culture - if you're mad enough to have gotten this far over, you're welcome aboard!

Are ye alright there lads in the back?

But even the wilds of West Cork and Kerry wouldn't be enough for some of them boyos.  Ireland has a curious tradition of something called 'White Martyrdom', a faith-funneled expression of that westward impulse.  You see, for a medieval type who'd love a good hierarchy in all things, martyrs occupied a tier of heaven just below that of saints - a highly desirable station, even if the journey there tended to be a bit ropey (or stoney, or firey).  But opportunities to be martyred for your faith in Ireland were practically non-existent - when these big noises from Europe arrived in and told the Irish to cop on to themselves with their aul' pagan gods and change their whole worldview quick-smart, the Irish just meekly rolled over and swallowed their medicine (sound depressingly familiar?).  So instead, the Irish zealotry would test their little lives against the waves, heading west when there was hardly any west left to find, from the barren outcrop of the Skelligs on to the voyage of Brendan the Navigator.

Room for one more?

Of course there's every possibility they were running, not towards the arms of an Almighty Creator, but away from some God-forsaken pit of a place on the mainland.   There have been times I've felt like hitching a lift....

The Hawthorn Bar is situated in the preposterously beautiful town of Glengariff in West Cork.  On the approach to the town, Bantry Bay, Brendan's launching point, glistens like beaten silver under a swollen sky, the Beara Peninsula bounding it beyond, the vaulting buttresses of Hungry Hill's bulk protruding from the earth like the ribs of some great slain behemoth.  'Twould be a view to give a man an appetite, after he got done with his mouthful of words.

The warning signs were there from the start, though we had reasons enough to miss them.  Casey's up the road had been heaving, so we journeyed farther.  The Hawthorn, by contrast, was empty - not a sinner - at half one on a Bank Holiday Monday.  Ordinarily, that would be your cue to beat a hasty retreat, but the child's arse had just exploded in spectacular fashion, and it was to be a close run race between Social Services and the UN's weapon inspectors as to who would reach us first if the nappy wasn't changed in a hurry.  By the time that situation was resolved, one partner had been so long sitting in the bar and the other had unleashed such atrocities in the bathroom that we both felt a moral obligation to stay on for lunch.  A stance we both came to regret.

Only one surreptitious snap - I was being closely watched at all times...

The Hawthorn is a mess.  Don't get me wrong - it's not messy, it's scrupulously clean - but it's as if someone had tried to explain the concept and function of a pub to a Japanese macaque through an interpreter who'd just had three teeth removed and was still high on the Novocaine.  The laminated menus (always a worry) were labelled for the Rainbow Restaurant, and had a right old mess of food advertised.  There was a shocking mess of traditional Oirish music aimed at the American deaf community on the stereo and the wall clutter seems to have been designed by Jackson Pollock during his little known 'Irish Charity Shop Bric-a-Brac' phase.  Design by consensus had brutally hacked the space into its perceived different functions and the general decor was an atrocity of pine and varnish.  You'd need to take two paracetamol before you went in there at all.

It's a local pub, for local people...

The customer service was of an equally high standard, having its basis in the League of Gentlemen Local Shop Customer Care Charter.  People arriving in (for some poor souls did venture in after us, and I'm afraid we must bear part of the blame for their ensnarement, having taken the bare look off the place by sitting down) were more accosted than welcomed, less served than hounded, herded then corralled towards the rear of the pub from where they could be intercepted should they dare to attempt an escape.  The bar staff's attempted patter resembled more an interview for a position at the Spanish Inquisition than a pastiche of niceties, weather and social convention, and the addition of thumbscrews and a bright shining light would rather have made things more comfortable.  And God forbid I try to take a few notes for a review - the waiter actually literally tried to look over my shoulder any time I put pen to paper to jot down a few thoughts.  One felt like a wounded impala on the Serengeti, anxiously awaiting the inevitable...

The Sandwich:

Chips were an extra, the pint was the business.

Now, by this point you may have gathered that this is not to be an overly positive review.  But to give the Hawthorn its due, there was nothing terribly wrong with the sandwich served.  At €6.50, I think it was quite pricey for what arrived, but I have paid the same elsewhere.  The ham was of good quality, the bread was nicely toasted (though flat toasted, not Brevilled), the cheese almost though not quite at the optimum oozy temperature.  I was prepared to hate the salad, which looked far too heavily dressed, but the dressing was based on a nice sweet salad dressing and in fact wasn't at all unpleasant (though I remain unconvinced that parsley garnish is necessary on a green salad).  But it all looked a terrible fright:  the sandwich was halved rather than quartered, and looked a bit squished and sad, and the salad appeared to have been abandoned halfway through preparation due to lack of interest.  While I understand that all food must necessarily end up in the gullet, but I'm not sure it ought to look pre-masticated on the plate.

On Tap:
As I said, while the Hawthorn might be a mess, it's not at all messy - it's the type of place you can rely on to have the food cooked through properly and the pipes cleaned with the gas pressure up to scratch on the beer lines.  The pints of the standards (to include Murphy's down this neck of the woods) I saw served looked to be in very good order, and they had one very welcome addition on draught as well; a pint of Blarney Blonde from the Franciscan Well brewery in Cork City.  It's a smashing, clean blonde beer which I'd love to see more widely available, and managed to put some class of a silver lining on an otherwise grim-looking cloud.

On the Stereo:
What would Irish traditional music have to do to a person to make them want to do this to it in revenge?  Whatever muck was on the speakers when we came in was an insult to ears everywhere and an act of cultural vandalism.  The only positive to be drawn is that the bar staff forgot to turn it up as a few bodies filtered in, and it was mercifully drowned out.

The Verdict:
No less an intellectual authority than Dr. Eoin Barrett was once known to leaven some of his less creditable anecdotes with the phrase "with exaggeration, of course."  We all tell stories at times that would benefit from this caveat.  Not on this occasion.  The food was fine, but the experience was every bit as bad as described and worse.  The lyrics of Hotel California ran round and round our heads as we prepared to make an escape, and I ran the awful arithmetic of which organ I was prepared to barter for the freedom of my wife and child (kidney, by the way).  We lived to tell the tale, and to warn others.  If Casey's is full, wait for a table.



*I think this theory still holds in microcosm even within the island itself, with a definite increase in lunacy as one progresses from east to west across the isle.  That's why I always feel compelled to check in my sanity, my passport and my liver every time I cross the Shannon.  In fact, I think it should be in a different colour on the maps....

Pat Shortt's

Castlemartyr, Co. Cork

Yes, that Pat Shortt

The Brother used always struggle a bit when he'd arrive home from that England.  Prolonged exposure to a culture of supportive comments about the lovely restoration job you did on that antique sideboard you spotted at the auction at Little Wigglebottom thins the skin somewhat.  The sharks would circle, smelling blood in the water.  Satire, sarcasm, slagging - it's one of the cornerstones of Irish culture, if any trait so corrosive could be likened to a building material.  By the end of the week, he'd be back into the swing of it though, trading caustic comment for withering witticism like the old hand he truly was.

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.

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.

The Way to Win any Argument

Biffo avec Bogroll

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.

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.

Murphy's Pub and B&B

Strand St., Daingean Uí Chúis.

Radharc Aoibhinn

Smugairle Róin

Cén fáth a bhfuil tusa ag déanamh bróin,

A smugairle róin?

Cén fáth a bhfuil tusa ag déanamh bróin?

Cé dúirt go bhfuil mise ag déanamh bróin?

Arsa an smugairle róin.

Cé dúirt go bhfuil mise ag déanamh bróin?

Cad tá ar siúl agat, a smugairle róin?

Ag ithe do lóin?

Cad tá ar siúl agat, a smugairle róin?

Tá mé i mo shuí ar mo thóin,

arsa an smugairle róin,

ag ithe mo lóin is ag déanamh bróin

agus beidh mé anseo go dtí– fan go bhfeicfidh mé

ó … leath uair tar éis a ceathair, ar a laghad,

san iarnóin.

le Gabriel Rosenstock

'What's in a name?' a young Miss Capulet once fictionally mused. 'That which we call a rose / by any other name would smell as sweet.'  Well that's alright for you, Julie baby, but sometimes one does a certain amount of judging based on the cover of the book.  For example, if a Martian was asked to choose by title only between a Rottweiler and a Chiwawa, surely even E.T. could guess which was likely to be the soft and cuddly one.  Of course, some cultural and linguistic differences are made manifest through vocabulary items:  one is likely to be far more afeared of meeting a German Schmetterling than an Italian farfalle, at least until the butterfly actually showed up!  But some few creatures have pulled the wool over our collective semantic eyes, disguising their true nature beneath misleading titles.  Smugairle Róin* - sounds cute, doesn't it?  Like a smuggled cuddle.  Even in English - Jellyfish.  Who doesn't like jelly?  Jelly Babies, jelly beans, Jellyfish - what's not to like?

A more apt name:  Stinging Malevolent Floating Dirtbags of Stinginess.  It may need work.

Grrr.

So, I'd decided to validate my aging status as a triathlete before the club started staging impeachment trials.  I talked the Chairman into signing up for the Dingle Triathlon with me, packed kit and kaboodle into Gilbert (who, heroically, didn't break down even once) agus ar aghaidh linn siar go Daingean Uí Chúis.  Wetsuit on, jump into the freezing Atlantic (I swear that Gulf Stream is a hoax), ready, steady, go.  It was all going, ahem, swimmingly until I began to hear screams round and about me in the water.  'Unusual,' thought I, before I felt a gentle caress from the seas, as if something had smuggled a cuddle onto my face.  A moment later, an agonising, stinging numbness.  Jellyfish.  Hordes of the hoors.  Shoals of sinister, stinging scumbags.  As if three hours of self-flagellation in ill-fitting lycra wasn't going to be bad enough^ - now I'd have to do it feeling as if I had just left the dentist's, then decided to set my face on fire.  By lunchtime, I was more than ready to seek out a little toasted something designed to raise a man's flagging spirits.

Fáilte isteach

Dingle, nó Daingean Uí Chúis mar a thugtar air sa Ghaeilge, is the bustling market centre of the Dún Chaoin Gaeltacht, a final waystation before Slea Head makes a last, desperate rearguard action in the land's battle against the unconquerable ocean, the Blaskets abandoned hostages to fortune and the waves beyond.  And sure, didn't even Peig think 'twas great craic inside in Dingle, and she hardly a women much given to the craic.  Murphy's Pub and B&B is well situated on Strand St, a stone's throw from both the marina and the town centre, were a man to be armed with two stones and be inclined to random acts of violence.  Myself and the Chairperson (who had roundly trounced me in the race with that unsportsmanlike glee common to all natives of Co. Kilkenny), being pure ravenous and in íseal brí after our Medusozoan molestation, were glad to seek sanctuary and sustenance within, agus bhuaileamar isteach i gcomhair toastie.

'D'Cuimhin liom craic iontach a bhí agam sa Daingean lá...'

Within, Murphy's has successfully walked the tightrope of being two things at the same time - the restaurant area at the back is clean and tidily laid out to capitalise on the tourist trade, while the pub area at the front has managed to retain the atmosphere and feel of a place where a man would happily suck on a few pints over a crossword of an afternoon.  Unhappily, I still had Gilbert to skipper in the afternoon, but Mao looked very contented indeed savouring the sweet draught of victory and a very decent-looking pint of Guinness.  I would have to content myself with the bitter taste of defeat and a Beck's non-alcoholic.

What I had, what I wanted

Either enjoying the jar or marvelling at the speed of the waitress...

The Sandwich:

Unusually, I have little to say on the matter.  It was a fine and workmanlike performance on all fronts.  The bread was nicely toasted, with a nice griddled finish.  Two slices of perfectly acceptable ham were present, the tomatoes turned up in the bland unripened state the supermarket sent them out in, the onions were maybe a little too roughly cut.  A pleasant grated cheddar was perhaps a little too amply apportioned (so felt the Chairperson, but he's a vegemite-arian, so what else could they put in?), and could have done with a little more heat to improve the consistency, but it was in no way offensive.  All four quarters were polished off in very short order, but I fear it will be the occasion rather than the toastie that will live long in the memory.

Spot the author

On Tap:

All the standards were in evidence, and the Guinness, as mentioned, did look good.  I suppose Murphy's stout merits a special inclusion, although it would be considered standard enough in this part of the world (and it would have been pleasant to indulge in a pint of Murphy's in Murphy's).  A more local brew on draft was Crean's lager, named for the great man from Annascaul some miles up the road#.  Though hardly ideal race prep., my journalistic instincts had prompted me to sample a few of the same the night before, and I found it to be a clean and crisp, if largely unremarkable lager.  There was a wide range of interesting-looking spirits from the Dingle Distillery on show behind the bar, but sadly time, tide and the drive to Killarney didn't allow for the testing.  Oh, and the Beck's non-alcoholic, which was exactly that.

On the Stereo:

There was a tourist-friendly mix of U2 standards (think Joshua Tree, not Pop) and superior toora-loora diddle-ei in evidence for our entire visit.  Thankfully the Corrs, best enjoyed in video format with the mute button pressed, never made an appearance, but one feels it was only a matter of time...

The Verdict:

Dingle is a great town (just ask Peig!), and I judge it a pity that time didn't allow for its delights to be more amply sampled and enjoyed.  I have similar feelings about Murphy's, and I don't feel that I'm necessarily judging it on its strengths here.  I think a 'proper' meal here (their menu and the plates being produced looked fairly decent) would be a better daytime option, and it did have the look of a place that would serve up good craic in the smaller hours.  But for the connoisseur of the toastie, one would be advised to search on.

The Chairperson went looking for fish for dinner later on, just to exact some sort of revenge.  I couldn't find a restaurant with jelly and icecream on for dessert....

*Though them crafty Gaels knew a thing or two - it translates literally as 'seal snot'.  Which is about where I rank them in God's creation too...
^Full race report from my slightly more straight-laced triathlete alter-ego available on the Waterford Triathlon Club website

#A pint of which taken in the South Pole Inn has now been added to the 'To-Do' list.