The Asgard

The Quay, Westport

The Asgard and the Reek beyond

What did St. Patrick say when he was driving the snakes out of Ireland?

He must have been a ferocious class of a man, our Patrick.  He drove out all the snakes (and all fossil record of snakes ever having been here), explained the Holy Trinity with a shamrock and could program a VHS recorder to record from the telly a week in advance without recording over your copy of Dead Poets Society.  A beast of a man altogether!  Not only that, but between himself and Brigid he managed to expropriate almost every ancient pagan sacred site in the country and repurpose them to the new Christian tradition.

Croagh Patrick would have long been a place of worship when Patrick picked up crook to take up this swineherding lark.  Its massive bulk draws myth and mist unto itself, a brooding presence watching as the drumlin islands of Clew Bay enunciate the last syllables of a continent out into an unhearing and indifferent ocean.  Amidst all this almost senseless beauty along the Westport Quays nestles the Asgard Bar and Restaurant.  Whether approached on foot through the grounds of Westport House or by bike down the Great Western Greenway, one is liable to arrive at the Asgard with the senses replete but the stomach rumbling.  I locked d'auld rothar to the 'No Parking' sign (always a treat) and headed in to sample the goods.

All this useless beauty

The Asgard has attracted mixed reviews on Tripadvisor since a recent facelift, and I can see why.  Like many of the establishments visited in Westport, it has repositioned itself to capitalise on the ample passing tourist trade.  But 'what shall it profit a man (or pub), if he shall gaine the whole world, and lose his owne soule?'  The area labelled as the bar (and there was another area labelled as a restaurant) was a restaurant with a bar counter in it - there's no two ways about it.  You'd happily bring your Granny there for Sunday lunch, but I for one would never dream of settling in for a pint with a match on the box.  So I surreptitiously enquired of the helpful (and it must be said, even at the risk of spousal displeasure, very attractive) bargirl whether it might be possible to take my toastie in the snug I had espied on the way in.  Receiving an answer in the affirmative, I grabbed my pint and slunk away from this clean, well-lighted place.

This was more like it.

What 'more like it' looks like

It was properly snug in here, and I had to stare down the residents (and I would say long-term resident) at the bar on entry.  The races were on the box behind the bar, the leather bench and ancient cushions were careworn and threadbare, the light filtering through the single window was ample but not accusatory.  The small area was dominated by the bar and the huge marble fireplace housing the cast-iron stove, but the eye was drawn to the small gracenotes scattered around; the framed front page of the New York Times proclaiming the sinking of the Titanic, the small copper propellers, the lifebuoy from the Asgard itself.  In such a space, a man could easily see afternoon fade to evening, or two pints turn to five.

Add a fire, a newspaper and some bad weather....

The Sandwich:
The Toasted Special wasn't advertised on the menu - it was a 'design your own sanger' affair - but I ordered it as such, and all the expected ingredients arrived in due course.  And more besides - the initial impression of the plate is very good, with a nice looking salad and a generous dollop of coleslaw backing up a very appetising-looking toastie.  Appearances were not deceiving, nor were the other senses to be disappointed.  The ham, in particular, was an absolute rockstar!  I suspected from first glance that it might be rashers betwixt the slices of bread, but there was no rind in evidence, and it sat dead flat in the sandwich - on closer inspection, I concluded that it was closer to gammon steak than anything else.  And it was delicious; thick, salty and warm, and a perfect complement to the oozing cheese and a pint of stout.  The coleslaw was fresh and creamy, the salad (apart from the baleful presence of celery, that most evil of vegetables) crunchy, sweet and well-dressed.  It would be no exaggeration to say that I let me ears back to this one, and it was polished off in fairly short order.

It didn't last long after the photo was taken...

On Tap:
I can't speak to whatever class of fanciness might have been available in other corners of the establishment, but there was no messing around in the snug.  Far from Duvels you were reared, and if all pints of Guinness were as good as the one teamed up with my toastie, there'd be no need for any other beverage; water, wine nor nathing!

On the Stereo:
Not a thing.  Glorious silence ruled, with gentle conversation floating in from the other parts of the building.  The telly was turned down to a low hum of racing commentary, and there was nothing to stop a man happily earwigging as the locals dissected the All-Ireland hopefuls and the sexual vicissitudes of muintir Conamara.  Bliss.

The Verdict:
It struck me during my visit to Westport that many of the pubs have become products, packaged and processed, homogenised and sanitised so as to appeal to a wider audience.  And that's well and good as far as it goes; there's often a need to up the ante, to make sure folk are getting value for their money.  But it took some searching to find what I would identify as a real pub, something that would represent what Irish pub culture is actually about, like it or lump it.  I thoroughly enjoyed my pint and sanger in the snug at the Asgard, but would have found the 'pub' experience a soulless enterprise.  It is possible to walk that line, to be authentic and excellent at the same time, and I think that would provide a far better tourist experience than some of the plastic Paddy efforts that are to be found in our main tourist hotspots.

Incidentally, he said "Are ye all right there lads in the back?"

Ah, they get better with age...

Cosy Joe's

Bridge Street, Westport

Not quite what it says on the tin...

The early stages of a bromance are a delicate, fragile and beautiful thing: the tentative steps, the slow development of trust and feeling, the timid call and response of gesture and reciprocation. At our first meeting it was lust at first sight - I knew I wanted Gilbert the moment I saw him, though I was cautious to seem too keen early on. But as we took our first few halting steps together, learning one another's ways, I could sense my feelings developing, deepening, and I knew this bond could become one of the central relationships of my life, one that might change the way I would come to live out my days.

Gilbert fell sick twelve miles outside Westport. There was no warning, no prior indication, and suddenly the entire character of our relationship had changed. I felt angry and betrayed, and then simultaneously was wracked with guilt for feeling this way, knowing that Gilbert didn't want this to happen either, that this sickness was worse for him than it was for me. But can a relationship still in its nascent stages withstand such a calamitous shockwave? Will I ever be able to trust him again? There was nothing to do but call the tow truck and a taxi, unload the wife and child with whatever necessaries we could carry, and send Gilbert away to the Campervan hospital.

Gilbert in happier times

Truth to tell, there are worse towns in Ireland than Westport in which to find oneself high and dry, and only a very few better.  One half of the memorable Cork duo Foxy Ladies (widely regarded as one of the finest musical acts never to have actually performed a gig) was on hand to give succour to the other, and once the Sprog was fed, watered and put to bed and a cold beer put into a chap's hand, things didn't look quite so bad as they might otherwise have been.  A mitigated disaster, if you will, and the intrepid reviewer began to consider ways to derive from this sow's ear some class of a silk purse.

Westport's noble riverfront - found a new setting on me camera....

Westport is a vibrant and bustling town, and its Irish name Cathair na Mart gives an indication of its traditional importance as the market centre of the surrounding region.  It's now supremely well set up to cater to the tourist dollar, and the triangle from the Octagon down to the Carrowbeg River is peppered with thriving pubs and restaurants heaving with Yanks and Europeans of every hue.  There are mussels aplenty to be had, more panini and ciabatta than a man could shake a baguette at, but precious little sign of the humble and endangered toasted sandwich.  It took an intense and arduous search for the reviewer to turn up some indigenous pub fare.

Cosy Joe's enjoys a prominent location on Bridge St. right in the centre of things and is well placed to capitalise on the prodigious amount of tourist traffic passing its doors.  Cosy is something of a misnomer, as its demure exterior belies the enormous, four-floor split-level affair that lies within.  Speaking from experience, it enjoys a dubious popularity with hen and stag groups at the weekends, but during the day caters expertly to the pub-grub masses.  Its interior reminded me of nothing so much as that latest blight of Hollywood blockbusters where the credits boast of six and more screenwriters - everything here is design by consensus.  Each aspect, from furniture choice to menu, from lighting to background music, is homogenised; any quirk of personality that might give rise to offence or interest airbrushed from existence.  It is clean, considered and ruthlessly efficient.

Getting the job done - design by consensus

And this is not always a bad thing.  McDonald's and Starbucks enjoy ubiquity for the same reasons - you can be sure it won't be excellent, but you can also be assured that it won't be awful.  And while I like to roll the dice when flying solo, when taking lunch with the missus and Sprog in tow, playing it safe is a good option.  And in this regard, Cosy Joe's excels.  A high chair was produced with a flourish, and the Sprog had a diluted drink and a baby-bowl (free, gratis and for nothing) lashed in front of his ravenous facehole in the blink of an eye.  The table service was lightning quick and unfailingly helpful and courteous.  You may be ambivalent about its objectives, but Cosy Joe's know what it's at, and by God, it's good at it.

The Sandwich:

Chips - I'm never sad to see them...

The menu at Cosy Joe's is quite broad and includes a sandwich section where you pick your own fillings.  So while you can order a Toasted Special and reliably expect the desired ingredients to arrive, it's not something the kitchen deliberately sets out to do, and my expectations weren't especially high.  So, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my quite reasonable €4.25 bought me a daycent looking class of a sandwich accompanied by a nice side of chips.  Now, there were no particular high points - the tomatoes were the anticipated pale watery affair the supermarkets here dare to call ripe, the ham was from a packet as opposed to sliced from the joint - but it was a workmanlike performance designed to get the job done, the Glenn Whelan of the Toasted Special world, if you will.  The sandwich would have benefitted from another minute or so under the heat:  the sides could have done with a little more colour, the cheese with a little more melting.  One quirk was the different finishes on either side of the sandwich that had me wondering what class of a contraption had produced it - a flat, Brevilled texture on one side with a griddled finish on the other.  It was a riddle inside an enigma all wrapped up in a conundrum.  A braver reviewer might have asked to see the toaster...

A Riddle to best Oedipus

On Tap:
I guess one upside to a sick campervan; I least I wasn't driving!  The pint of Guinness was grand, and to be fair, it was early in the day, so there wouldn't have been much of a run on it.  You could be confident of a good jar in Cosy Joe's - it's a well-run establishment which will make sure these things are done right.  Options were pretty much confined to the usual suspects, though I'm most pleased to see Peroni, a very fine Italian beer, moving more and more into this bracket.

On the Stereo:
Background noise was being generated by one of these computerised jukebox jobbies, where staff can just select a setting (insipid and inoffensive in this case) and walk away.  The computer decided I would be treated to some agreeable The National, some acceptable Coldplay and some atrocious Peter Andre wannabe whose name, I am delighted to admit, does not reside in my store of knowledge.

The Verdict:
Cosy Joe's knows what it's about, and is superb at delivering a homogenised, sanitised, safe version of the Irish Pub experience.  The staff are excellent; friendly and efficient at all time.  The food is dependably good, the setting eminently family friendly, and these factors are very important when the Sprog is on the hip.  But personally speaking, I don't take my coffee at Starbucks, I don't eat burgers from McDonald's.  I prefer to run the risk of encountering something awful in the hope of unearthing the rare gem.

They say that fish and guests share this attribute - both begin to stink after three days.  Gilbert was still in campervan hospital, so the missus, the Sprog and I took the train out of Westport.  When I come back, hopefully Gilbert will be fitted with a shiny new clutch and we can pick up where we left off - it might still be the start of something beautiful....

The Roundy

Castle St. , Cork City.

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

'Twas a hoor to drive in, even then!

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

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

A Room with a View

Ou é mon tailor-monkey?

The Sandwich:

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

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

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

On the Stereo:

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

On Tap:

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

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

People-watching nirvana

The Verdict:

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

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

The Long Valley

Winthrope St., Cork City

Sure Thing or Beaten Docket?

The Exterior

It is said that all gambling addicts have something in common, an ill-timed stroke of good luck that turned out to be ill-fortune - their first bet won.  They hit the jackpot, their horse came in, they were dealt a winning hand:  in whatever fashion, fate decreed that in their minds, the association would ever be made between the adrenaline rush of the wager and the endorphin payload of the winner.  Ever after, the gambler will seek to recreate that moment, to feel their stars once more align, certain each time that this is the winner to pay all, the start of that hot streak when Fortune will once again smile on her favourite.  I had my first toasted special in the Long Valley.

Don't get me wrong - I'd eaten toasted sandwiches before.  The eldest in our house would regularly pull out the toasted sandwich maker at home and fire all manner of leftovers between slices of bread buttered on both sides.  His imagination was limitless and undiscerning, his appetites voracious.  Coleslaw hotter than the surface of the sun would spew forth from the crimped and browbeaten slices, hiding an inferno of mustard, lasagne and God-knows what else within.  Inflicting third degree burns on your tongue and tastebuds with the first bite was often a blessing in disguise.  It was many years ago, against this backdrop of dismal experience that I was led, with low expectations and three sheets to the wind, through the doors of the Long Valley.  My friend, a proud son of the Southern capital, had a cunning plan to add some structure to our day's drinking with a toastie in the snug before decamping across the street to the Hi-Bi to begin the serious business of the night ahead.  I watched spellbound through the serving hatch as the behemoth Breville worked a marvellous alchemy on bread and ham at the other end of the bar.  The die had been cast for me, the Rubicon crossed - there was to be no turning back.

But memory is such a fickle mistress; could it be trusted here?  Was it brave or foolish to retrace the steps taken by my former self so many years before?  Could the half-dreamed, half-remembered fabric of recollection withstand the hard realism and rigour of review?  It was with these thoughts in my head that I wandered the streets of Cork, heart in mouth and rumble in stomach.  The geography of the city seemed to mirror my thoughts;  Cork's jumble of streets are not to be navigated by logic or reason, but by hunch and intuition.  Each turn of a street corner is a remembered revelation, a familiar surprise.  I am convinced that there is no fixed number of streets that link Patrick St. and Oliver Plunkett St., but that these thoroughfares are in a constant state of flux governed by forces unknowable.  Though the warm, humid sigh that the marsh beneath the city heaves up on such summers' days I made my way, only accepting that I must have wandered too far when I reached the English Market and must retrace my steps.  Until at last I arrived, ready to measure memory against reality.

Marble and Wood

The Long Valley, as perhaps the name would suggest, is a long, dark cave of a pub penetrating deep into the interior of one of the irregular blocks of buildings that delineates the city's geography.  The floor is a mix of ancient marble and parquet flooring, and the faint smell of furniture polish thickens the air and the sense of wood in the place.  A long leather bench runs the length of the wall down one side facing the bar.  The bar itself is long, and peopled with barstools that have every look of use rather than ornament to them.  In the mid-afternoon, a smattering of people had taken refuge from the day's sticky glare; some tea-drinkers like myself, some others making concerted headway though doubles and mixers.  The snug was occupied, but no further information could I hope to offer on its occupants.  The snug in the Long Valley has doors you could defend from an army, that could withstand bomb-blasts.  Once in situ, no earthly power other than that wielded by the skilled barman could hope to displace anyone resident within its confines.  In the corner of the main body of the bar, the television silently flickered out a doubles match from Wimbledon, the type of inconsequential first-week game that would only hold your attention if you had a long summer of doing nothing stretching before you.  Which, as it happens....

The Snug even repels cameras...

The Sandwich:

I approached the bar with trepidation.  First, I noticed the price chalked upon the menu board - €5.80.  My heart sank; could a humble toastie justify such a price-tag?  But then my eye settled upon the impossible - could it be true?  Could it still be here some fifteen years later?  Hunched in the corner like some ancient warrior from a Nordic saga, wisened and battle-hardened, sat the self-same Breville of years before.  My heart exulted, and I took my seat with the flutter of expectation in my chest.

The Beast - not since Knossos...

Branded delph - c'est trés fancy, mon frere!

My first question was answered in fairly short order.  How do you justify €5.80 for a toasted special?  By putting about €8.00 worth of ham into it!  A thick wedge of pig had been sandwiched between the bread, and ham of a quality that would legitimately drive a beardy fella from Ros na Run out into the middle of a field to declaim its merits.  And that was only the starting point.  The bread too was of superior quality, and a thicker than average slice.  This meant that the harsh heat of the Breville had seared the outer side to a pleasant crunch without drying the bread out completely.  Inside that, two thin layers of cheese had melted either side of the ham to the optimal gooey, stringy consistency.  In the background lingered just the right amount of red onion, and the bite of the English mustard supplied on the side which I slathered on two of the quarters gave a nice extra dimension for them as might want it.  The tomatoes deserve a special mention:  these were properly ripe, the type of ripe you can't usually find on shop shelves in Irish supermarkets, and delicious.  They had, I strongly suspect, like myself wandered down from the English Market earlier that day.  A Toasted Special of this quality is not accidental - it can't come about as an afterthought or as a product of happenstance.  Each ingredient here was of a considered excellence, and their proportion and combination a legacy of long years of trial and error, of tweaks and refinements.  It is little wonder that the young man I was all that time ago fell under its spell.  Here I am years later, world-weary and a confirmed cynic, and I am again bewitched.

On the Stereo:

Can it be co-incidence that after my long wander through the streets that 'Destination Anywhere' was on the stereo when I walked through the doors?  The Commitments soundtrack saw the beginning and the end of my visit, which was as good an accompaniment for a trip into the past as any.

On Tap:

Unfortunately, I was not free to partake of any alcoholic beverage, reliant as I was on the trusty Astra to ferry me away to East Cork afterwards.  Grand cup of tay, mind you.  All the usuals were on draft, with the worthy addition of Peroni and that Canadian beer that has yet to come under the glare of my reviewing faculties.  I do speak from a position of knowledge when I tell you that the pint of Murphy's in the Long Valley is about as good as you'll get anywhere.  And however good the first one is, by the third pint it's absolute nectar!

The Verdict:

The Long Valley's Toasted Sandwich is a thoroughbred.  It's Arkle, Dawn Run and Desert Orchid all rolled into one, the impossible made possible - a sure thing.  When one thinks about how many lives that Breville must have saved over its long and storied existence, it's enough to humble any man.  It's a pub where one can place the fickle unit of memory against the harsh yardstick of reality and find that it measures up.  And, heavens forbid, should the Zombie Apocalypse come to pass, the snug of the Long Valley would be the place to meet one's fate.  Even if those doors fail, at least one could die a happy man!

Speak 'friend' and enter.

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...