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.

The Lady Belle

Things were easier when Dungarvan was cat.*

In days gone by, back before we started lending each other Deutschmarks and telling ourselves we were rich, this was a given.  You could be sat on the bus, staring at your translucent half-reflection in the windowpane, nursing a dirty head and fervently hoping that no one smelly would take the seat beside you and think, "at least it's worse out there than it is in here."  In the grey monochrome rain-slant of the mid-nineties, the quays in Dungarvan huddled shivering against the winds off Helvick as sodden cattle stand together in a storm.  It was the place to which young bucks of the parish would decamp when expelled from the city establishments, where they could woo the females of the west of the county with fighin' and talk of farm machinery.  And, we would tell ourselves in superior tones, you couldn't get a decent blaa* there for love nor money.

Then I stopped getting the bus to Cork, and Dungarvan blipped off my mental radar for a few years, and quietly, while my back was turned, the town began to renew itself.  Now, walking through the town, you find yourself wondering, "Did the mountains always so eloquently frame the skyline to the north?  Did Grattan Square always so elegantly centre the town?  Did the quays ever thus sweep gently to the crumbling hulk of St. John's Castle?"  And you find yourself uncomfortably unable to escape the conclusion - Dungarvan is a pretty town.  Moreover, those quays are bustling, and that square this Sunday was alive with music for the Dungarvan Tradfest, and the pubs were spilling craic, caint 'gus ceol out onto the streets.  And it turns out that Barron's Bakery in Cappoquin churns out the finest blaas a man ever did insert into his facehole.  They even have a famous chef fella off the telly!

The Lady Belle stands demurely just off Grattan Square, opening its doors in 1825 just as the square itself was being completed at the behest of the Duke of Devonshire, and I'm sure this gracious lady has come to the aid of many a famished traveller in her near 200 year history.  And so it was with us.  This author's commitment to his subject was becoming a source of friction as the family had just been forced to decamp from Merry's, another fine pub with a laudable menu but a lamentable lack of toastie, and matters were threatening to come to a head just as the Belle hove into view.  The Missus disappeared to investigate as I stood buggywatch, and returned with an answer guaranteed to set to flame the heart of any aficionado - "We don't do food, but I can do you up a toasted sandwich."  My spider-sense a-tingle, we entered!

Note Illy coffee sticker - always a good sign!

The Lady Belle is a find - a real pub that knows its job and sets about doing it with distinction.  Stained-glass windows admit just the right amount of light on a summer's day - illuminating but never accusatory.  The door shuts and the world is elsewhere.  The exterior Georgian architecture of the square finds itself echoed within; the delicate plasterwork and ornate coving of the ceiling a feature rarely found in pubs outside Dublin.  Internal partitions intelligently divide the space into discrete (and discreet) seating areas, and one can easily imagine oneself happily falling into bad company in one of the snugs of a long Saturday afternoon.  In fact, with a little forward planning, this is a happy circumstance that may well be engineered in the near future...

The Door into Dark - 'tis named after a ship, don't you know...

The Sandwich:
I was hopeful, but wary - how often have we let our spirits be raised only the have them dashed against the rocks of disappointment?  Our circumspect hearts proceed now with caution, insulated from the heat of our passions - we are, after all, grown-ups.  But then I see the  double grill, battle-hardened, worn with age, and I am carefree, back in my twenties.  The sandwich is taken from the fridge in the same plastic in which it will be toasted - my stomach feels a teenage whoop of delight.  The large forceps-like device is clamped about the sandwich to give the distinctive striped markings, the hallmark of the greats, and I am six again, running downhill, eyes streaming in the wind and smiling, smiling until my face aches.

So seemed the view into Wayland's Forge, where similar wonders were worked

When it arrives, served with a bag of Tayto Crisps split between myself and the Missus with paper sachets of salt and pepper on chipped delph, I know that I am in Elysium.  All here is exactly as it should be.

It should ever be thus

On Tap:
All the standards are here, and the Guinness has every cut of being a fine one.  Certainly, none of the fellas at the bar seemed to be passing any negative comment.  I was a little disappointed not to find any of the Dungarvan brews on tap (which I would have found in Merry's), but settled instead on a bottle of Helvick Gold - given the location, it would have been rude not to!

The Tipple, with the grill working its alchemy behind

On the Stereo:
It was match-tastic when we were in, with the Déise taking on the Banner (and losing; a sour note on an otherwise sweet afternoon), but research tells me that one is likely to happen on a session nestling into one of the snugs on any given evening.  Imagine how terrible that would be...

The Verdict:
If you happen to be travelling through Dungarvan, then a beautiful lady awaits.  In fact, this is more than a pub of convenience, a stop on the road - this is a destination.  As much as it pains me to admit it, Dungarvan Town is now a place I'd travel to, and one of the few Irish destinations with the foresight to have developed a coherent plan for the impending Zombie Apocalypse (I kid you not - follow link!).  And the Lady Belle remains, as it has for the best part of two centuries, to give sup, succour and sustenance to any weary traveller who seeks her out.  You wouldn't keep a Lady waiting, would you?

That's no Lady!

*Local dialect item, meaning unpleasant or unsatisfactory.  See also 'cat melojian'.
*Local delicacy; a bread roll, topped with flour.  Possible derivation from Old French 'blé', meaning flour.  Not a bap.  Not at all like a bap.  I've met elephants more like a bap...

The T-Bay Cafe - You know we belong together....

Nice February we're having...

The T-Bay Café

We've recently decided that the only way to cope with this weather is to ignore it, so the Sprog, the Missus and myself tipped down to the beach for a muck about in the sand and to conduct a bit of research.  When I say the T-Bay Café is a stone's throw away from the beach in Tramore, even a ten-year-old girl with a broken arm could successfully hector the hapless coffee-drinker.  And there are plenty of stones. And disgruntled tweenies...

T-Bay is essentially Ireland's attempt at reproducing the diner in Summer Bay.  The furniture looks like it's been cobbled up from whatever driftwood washed in during the last storm, and the concrete floor is forever covered in a thin film of sand, either windblown or tramped in on bare feet.  The staff all tend to wear impossibly optimistic clothing and hair colours they'll come to regret in the future.  Presumably, they've all also been fostered by Pippa at some stage and now live at the caravan park when they're not getting up to mischief in Yabbi Creek.  If any of this sounds like a criticism, it most certainly isn't!

Note the Gaggia!

T-Bay, of course, isn't a pub, but merits the exception being made.  There are few places better to sit  around looking at the people and the weather pass by, and listen to improbable-looking surfers complain about how the waves are just not quite right, and how they might try up along the coast at Bunmahon.  The small downstairs café spills out onto a raised decking area that hunkers down from the wind behind a brightly graffiti-ed storage container.  If rain does drive you inside, the huge upstairs windows are a great spot to watch the clouds trail their grey skirts across the bay.

The Sandwich:

Faff-free

Firstly, it's only €3.50.  We're already on a winner here.  There's no faffing about - no threat of focaccia or alioli here.  The choice between white and brown bread is about as cosmopolitan as we need to get, and who could possibly object a few aul' Pringles trun* up on the side.  It's Breville-cooked and pleasingly lined and crunchy on the outside.  The ham has been added by a generous hand, and the use of sliced cheese, a matter of some controversy among the toastie community, achieved a nice gooey consistency without quite attaining the Promised Land of the stringy-melty bit.  The onions were properly assertive without overpowering, the tomatoes warm, sweet and squishy.  But soft!  There's something else at play here as well - some class of a secret ingredient is working a subtle magic on our faceholes.  We couldn't decide what it was, whether a Marie Rose sauce, a salad cream or a bit of sneaky relish, but there was a sweetness to the sandwich which elevated this toastie from senior club level to inter-county standard.  This fella could be hurling well into August and maybe even September.  That and a coffee in the sea breeze on a Monday evening, not to mention the Sprog falling asleep in the buggy - it's a potent and pleasurable combination.

On Tap:
No beer!  Just as well - I'd never leave otherwise.  A very fine Badger & Dodo coffee (roasted in Cork, boy), more types of tea than you could shake a stick at and a mean hot chocolate with marshmallows do a very fine job in taking up the slack.  Does a ferocious Capri-Sun as well...

On The Stereo:
Downstairs you can earwig the staff's iPod playlist - plenty of mushy Jack Johnson carry-on - but if you're not outside listening to the flags pouring protests onto the wind against the waves' susurrations, you're missing a trick.

The Verdict:
This one's a keeper.  Whether the rain is running rivulets down the windowpanes or the sun is making fools and lobsters of us, whether you're nursing a dirty head or fresh in from a post-work surf, you're going to find it very easy to make a stop in worth an hour of your day.  Sometimes, I think the Sprog thinks he lives here and only pops up around the house for visits.

Does good sunsets too!

T-Bay - it's suddenly clear, I will always need you here...

*local idiomatic expression, for which read 'thrown'