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....