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PROUDLY SPONSORED BY BARFLY words Conor Stevens w
ords Conor Stevens photo Killian Broderick words Conor Stevens BARFLY BARFLY words Ian Lamont photos Killian Broderick words Oisín Murphy-Hall photos Killian Broderick THE HOLE STORY The Hole in the Wall ENCHANTING ELIXERS The Sidecar MALLARD REACTION The Lucky Duck BARFLY Michael McDermott Ben Walsh photos Killian Broderick o The international taxonomy of bars features many generic or placeholder names – metasyntactic variables, if you like, and who wouldn’t – I have visited No-Name Bars and Bars with No Name, Dew Drop Inns and Welcome Inns. Once on a dreary bus trip to Derry in more Troubled times, a sign appeared in the murk advertising the Wel-Kum Inn; I took their word for it. I’m sure that, somewhere, someone technically-minded has opened a FooBar. Then there are numerous Holes in Walls, which in Ireland alone can be found in Galway, Armagh, and Kilkenny. The Hole in the Wall – “the Holer” to its friends – on Blackhorse Avenue is not the cozy little nook its name suggests; it is a whole row of cozy little nooks, stretched out to fill an immensely long building nestled up against the Phoenix Park. An outdoor smoking area and some bench seating stretch in the other direction. The bar counter continues through all the pub’s subdivisions and is said to be the longest in Ireland. It’s a wet but mild Wednesday, in November, when I arrive and the blaze of light is welcoming. Inside, fires are burning, it is warm – hot, even – and convivially crowded. The kitchen is doing a brisk trade despite the relative lateness of the hour. I’m joined by some friends who live locally and come by here occasionally. We agree that we’ve never been in a pub that was simultaneously hosting a wine-tasting class and showing Fair City, but here we are. Later, the wine-tasting room is revealed to be a full wine shop with o. Th a s Doblin i If you have any interest in what you drink 52 44 As I write we have been experiencing something of a strawberry Spring. Winter has stormed out of the room only to repeatedly burst back in to bellow “and one more thing…”. April has been cruel indeed. Nevertheless, by the time you read this, or don’t, it’s not unreasonable to assume that the time for outdoor drinking will be upon us. To put this in context, I’m not predicting balmy 20-degree evenings, or even orange warnings for fake tan, merely a relaxation of the dank and dismal grip that we’ve been enduring of late. It may not be raining and cold. Given the relentlessly depressing nature of our weather it is probably churlish to point out that we do not have a superabundance of spots that reward the alfresco alcohol experience. The terrace at the back of the IFI is always overlooked in this respect. Most regular folks tend to hit and run, perhaps enjoying a pre-or-post film glass of something. I imagine that this is the point of the place but I’ve found over the years that this space can repay the patient tippler with singular pleasures. This weather has never been a consideration I’m joined by Red Ben, erstwhile pinko to my ponce, for this, my thirteenth Barfly jeremiad. He is a man who (as I’ve mentioned before) is both very partial to and very picky about his drinks. He’s all about quality and quantity. We get along just great. At my suggestion we enjoy a couple of potent gins and tonics (Garnish Island Gin and Fevertree with a wedge of lime) at the office before setting out. Refreshed, we hit the City and point ourselves toward Aungier St. Expectations are lower than a snake’s belly but I’ve decided to give the Press Up group one last chance not to disappoint or enrage me. I’m momentarily buoyed up by my own magnanimity. Opened about six weeks ago now in the former Aungier House space (on a particularly unlovely stretch of the street), the place has been gutted and thoroughly Pressed-Up. Ben for my enjoyment of the space, even in the face of common sense. During my time trading at the Temple Bar Food Market (as a gentleman fishmonger) we would always finish up here to piss and moan, quite literally. Those days are sadly behind me, there are more unpleasant things to wash one’s hands of. Nevertheless, the IFI Gastronomic Council (of which I am a founding member) has been meeting here This may or may not be policy. Time will tell. He’s an affable young man and while I dither over my order he offers me a taste of the new Heineken product, H41. I guess it’s their Hop OLD TO BEGIN The Ivy ABBEY HOUR IN AUGUST COMPANY The Terrace at The Irish Film Institute As you read this, even as you don’t, we are (doubtless) still in the grip of our most severe Winter since records began and the city remains clenched within its unyielding gelid fist. Even if this is not the case it’s still January and you could almost certainly use a little pick-me-up. I prescribe an intensive course of top-shelf depressants to banish those post-festive blues. At the very least one might succeed in pushing those blues out to early Spring. Best of all – with the savings you’ve made by eating in Chinese supermarkets all month you’ll have the means to treat yourself to a moderate, guiltless debauch. The Sidecar at The Westbury Hotel should be just the ticket. I’m joined for the night by my old mucker Red Ben, a man uniquely qualified for this particular assignment. We s a eh r d more than a couple of drinks in our college days and although I had the pleasure of attending his nupti la s in the Summer this still feels like something of a reunion. One of the most discerning and considered drinkers I have ever known, he addresses every glass with an interrogative rigour and has borne his gout with great courage and quiet dignity. He also tells me that the place was originally to be called ‘The Dutch Billy’ until some locals “lodged some protests through the windows.” On the ground floor you get a facsimile of a Victorian pub that the owners/designers imagine might appeal to a target audience that may or may not exist. There’s a handsome copper bar and a very impressive dark mahogany back bar. Framed photographs of auld Dublin festoon the walls. It’s nice work. As I’ve been saying ad nauseam, these guys do nice interiors, just not content. I’m less impressed with a ‘snug’ that would make a street-side installation of its inhabitants. The barkeep is sporting a topknot and braces. or indeed any night. It is beautif n auld hly lit, loan ucur bg yohe whaat the Thr t The Jf tholly Monk ‘It’s weird how monks are allowed to drink, isn’t it?’ I ask Anton as we approach The Jolly Monk, the newly renovated bar of the Abbey Hotel. ‘I mean, as in you would think drinking would be prohibited or something.’ ‘What’s weird about that? Everybody drinks,’ unfolds. We are two boozy moths to the flame e glowing backbar. Daniel, our slick, whitejacketed b rta ender (please desist from using the term ‘mixologist’) glides silently over to us and oo little cr e s s a on an ordering stra egt y before we ght here so our first order is fo or ‘ ur drinks’ – the dr’ink he says. ‘Name one profession that doesn’t.’ I think for a moment. ‘I suppose I thought that the monk was one.’ ‘They named a bar after the monk’s drinking, pours us som he c ampagne into t ywu idiot,’ hys at lys. ‘Look a ht t e sign!’ A monk coupes, ‘for while we look over thho lo we m oks li’enu. It’ke Neil Morrissey is holding aloft a classy move and it sets the tone beer stein with a smile on his face. Anton pauses in toought: ‘I suppose childminders, maybe.’ Theres something quite a uring about the ide s w ink eg in a hotel bar. The sense of s a Bulleit Ryece, of mystery and briefly, fleetingly intersectarg li ,ves, in a place that is at once home The Ivy stands on the elegant corner site at the junction of Parliament Street and Dame Street, rejuvenating the space that used to be The Thomas Read, figurehead of the doomed pub group which was feasted on by fellow publicans following its collapse in 2008. The status quo for new bar concepts in my secoat t. I’e building uuesday night,d for (in more vuthen , ac timy t ar’s h t oea ion, however, t t ot’s e cuos a wide selection of bottles and various wine fridges and equipment. Beyond that room there is a restaurant area, currently closed. The Hole in the Wall keeps yielding more holes. As the busy bar is divided into different segments, it can sometimes be hard to locate service in any one of them, but we have no real complaint. The booze selection is nothing out of the ordinary, and our pints are perfectly good. The only non-standard beer is a white-labeled pale ale produced by BRÚ. My impression of any pub with a twee name in l’ the dirty martini has always had sg a martini glass at the corner of the bar and of the douchbag about it. It could be the s se that m ta erialises in each of our brain f dra o hen w hear the word ‘co kc tail’. So that’ impermanen Manhattan for Ben and a Grey Goose Mintini super dirty for Conor. It is testament to Danie s abilities and experience that he simultaneously manion in its vadiou the finest iteration of this drink th r at I’ ic t ys had in this country while making ie. Sufr that he rder k i s right, inomething on mixes a better Martinez than yo tud y’e roum is s to find out w nh d h m rewarded with the bs it me p a very pleasant place to be on a Tsed to be use I’ve e aer hadti t anes)ime, anyw tourist wri and en love ping. From the black m rble floo mo oas Read had alretady been doina, the dark inlaid wood fini hs es th namlace has b art-deco’d to within an inch of i been at that pas - ular corn Daniel in uirf th ence. It is a 1930s cocktail bar as designn lo kinaz L hru mann. Nevertheless, it fe ls likv e as, to itel bar in the best way and the room is hummingl . when we make our entrance. you will want to follow our lead and take a seat at the handsome zinc bar. This is where it happens. This is where your attention should be. If you are over six feet tall you won’t have any legroom but you will care less as the night e p ed as it was aeen fter t ah lm lert t im’ p e t t t had ts glittering exirtic a crn tthat. He makes iha n French G’velling in a d adultera es with Peychgud Bitter unfa tor like this is that there’s going to be a touch of forced quirkiness, and indeed every surface is packed with kitschy bits and pub paraphernalia. As Christmas is beginning to loom, the seasonal decorations have just gone up – the place is famous for them – and there are giant snowflakes and nutcrackers throughout. A tavern operated here at the sign of the aeons. Ied boy B g to es w tsh a new idents ty, t neo e I y ha n ho ts credit, avo oideruioed ora most tempting y o vb iou eacoutep. In the g ear t Dublin vintners ca ve-un , The Ivy is a sister bar to House on Leeson Street, 37 Dawson Street and Xico on Baggot Street (amongst others) run by businessman Alan Clancy. Like each of those bars of those bars, The Ivy is not playing for cutting edge or kooky. In fact even more so than its siblings, this bar The Terrace at The Irish Film Institute Meeting House Square Dublin 2 The Lucky Duck 43 Aungier St Dublin 2 (01) 405 4824 theluckyduck.ie 52 52 tabilih and proceed it o ah int m Eng s f bd gs ing dowe zesngn thet, the better to pe ofume s r h si My turn to blush. The dr t hisink is fllol ral s sub and a ’romartic a pd I drink it in nea tive yl . Both are excellent. Upon Dvniel’ n s a spicer,’ Anton suggests. he sets us up with an elegant, aust Aeer Vieuxn old man wearing a slightly-too-large cruCarré and a modern Negr nio mcifix neckelace passes by us as we return to our black horse from the 1650s, and the building’s aspect and location are still those of an old roadside inn. Travellers would have broken the long journey to Dublin at the Blackhorse Tavern for centuries. There are hitching-posts with horse-heads on them outside the door, and the road itself is now called Blackhorse Avenue, so it seems to be a shame that the McCaffrey family abandoned that venerable name in favour of its current one in 1970. A commonly-held story has it that the pub used to serve pints through an actual hole in the wall to soldiers stationed in the Park, but it is not clear when, or how, this would have s s ercepah ibly in its glass. Befy, engaagste er o q e city foes as tro which hand If’e dill be drinking y lef li hman w sa Pernod adulterated with ice water. One would of course prefer Ricard but it’s a nice way to start and gets us through the sole item on the council agenda – ‘Why eggs are so hot right now’. We generally stick to pints here but tonight we throw out the script because we’re spending Ben savours an Aperol Negroni A changbju ugation of the other. This, I supbartender sees Cathal prepare upose, io h eeab Cr kl pitfall of the hotel bar for the Old-Fashioned and a Corpse Revi er res eclation: here, everyone is an outsider. even heard some protest that certain of their ‘rights’ are being infringed as they are ushered out of this private space, bottles and cans clanking, by the long suffering security guys. They should totally take to Facebook to vent their witless outrage and probably do. On this occasion they seem too caned to fight for their right to party. Pity. We begin with a round of Pastis, in this case . of the s e of s a Kns t e r The Ivy 1-4 Parliament Street, Temple Bar, Dublin 8 theivydublin.ie 01-6718267 navtiv,e popu - ‘Eaeryo es ret’ urn ade on M zcal. The Hole in the Wall 345-347 Blackhorse Ave end up is also where the food does (there is a full menu which I’ll never sample). Also turns out that I don’t enjoy the smell of scallops when I’m in for cocktails. Wouldn’t be a problem if the other rooms were available I guess. There are but two stools at a very small bar. I feel as if we could just swivel around and give a presentation to the diners. Our barman up here is again very pleasant and engaging. His britches are also held up with braces. He does the right thing and asks us how we like our drinks. Ben’s is an old fashioned made on Rittenhouse Rye, The Sidecar and The Westbury Hotel Balfe St, Dublin 2. (01) 679 1122 Phoenix Park holeinthewallpub.com Thi ess thar recarious emotional state of the here. A b pest lokgaree. Susan Sontag notes how the tini traVine Gin din idv ual alleviates her anxiety at s. It blmi sar sulihesurroundings by recourse to p o ographore I t ing with her environment from the stance of the quotidian f ro m; so too the t with a striipth ‘banter’, or the death-spasms of th ernce proud colonial mindset that served orica y so well as a comfort blanket for the Qr silenueen’ ce. jects’ baser sensibilities at the cost h t doesn’t ent eir ly approve of my o M . He’s less Rita Hayworth w f drink of Florida, America’s wang f. Bm P ess epya John’s pizza boxes on their laps (the il narrow momentar y and he no bs sageity aen o ens at the start of Oct bo er, I’m Manh ta tan. It’s a very good start. Desperate fo validation now I put myself in D uoaniels inf’s hingemen House 13, moderately better than the piss you’re used to but still not worth drinking. He is blameless in this. The website promises ‘proper pints… golden, melty toasties and good conversation.’ This kind of copy is supposed to establish tone of voice. It succeeds in establishing a direct line of communication with my stomach ulcer. Serenity now! We order a couple of pints of Guinness which turn out to be not improper and talk about Ben’s desire for underfloor heating in his new house before moving to discuss the life and works of Saint Augustine of Hippo. His ‘Confessions’ still retain the power to succour those whose paths have led to dissipation. We decide for the purpose at hand to drink our way to the top floor (much like Augustine himself) only to be told by topknot that the top two rooms are closed. Nevertheless, we are ushered up to the purgatorial second floor with great ceremony. Those upper floors are again pleasant places to be, with deep blue walls, some bright modern canvasses and nice furniture that somebody else can describe if they wish. Turns out that The Digges Room where we . We had decided in weekly session for over a decade now. In all weathers. On more than one occasion hot water bottles, flasks and even balaclavas have been deployed to counter gelid conditions. Turns out that drinks don’t really taste of anything when the ambient temperature is minus nine. We had no such concerns on a recent drizzly ll Saturday evening. Our council quorum comprised Comic Book Guy, Stoney Paul, Sweet William and my good self. Mary from Dunloe would swing by later to gripe about the quality of tonic water in her gin. Contrary to unpopular belief, the terrace is not a BYOB affair. The kids who congeal in the square every week, as the market folds, have yet to receive the memo. Their repeated attempts to flout this seemingly apparent statute punctuate my every visit and never fail to provide some entertainment. I’ve d ar’s kl cht hisp told) and heckrling nearby indi idv uals for varir ands forts on their psychical comfort. more Engtliath lads’ weekend holidayers eating ro en’ a and not home. The cinematic imagination has a part to p al y in this, surely, with the institutages to pro ruces guises over the years housing omanvte evrer ts, capers, murder plots and the likt cleafice it to say, however, that The Jolly ist ully fingerseats after smoking on the terrace. ‘You’re so h pa py,’ he stops to say to me. ‘I wish I was that happy!’ It’s one of those exchanges, rarely occurring in life, that make your laughter very quickly give way to an implacable sadness. The back of his t-shirt reads ‘Those that shine from the inside don’t need the spotlight’ in cursive, under mine a bone-dry gin martini built on Tanqueray Ten. They are both good drinks and worth the twelve euro price tags. Brian, our bartender tells us of a recent run on espresso martinis that caused the coffee machine to pack in. That’s where we’re at. We go on to put down two solid negronis, made 50/50. All the while I can’t shake the feeling that I can’t think of a good reason not to be somewhere else. I’m not referring to the company, it’s just that it feels like a place without a raison ‘etre. Perhaps the raison d’etre is simply to generate revenue for the Press Up Group. I need more than this, even taking into account the ‘unobtrusive power outlets on the customer side of the bar.’ It’s not a bad spot, just unnecessary, especially been. The pedestrian gate into the Park is more commonly held to be the eponymous hole in the wall, and tradition has it that Douglas Hyde and later Seán T Ó Ceallaigh would come in here for a pint. Our barkeep says that the Áras’s current occupant, though teetotal, has visited for a cappuccino with some human guests but sadly without Bród, Síoda, or Fred the Labrador. There is a “Presidents’ Snug” with drawings of every holder of the office to celebrate these connections. I look for a mention of the Invincibles and Skin-the-Goat but a diplomatic sense of tact seems to prevail. Perhaps after Brexit. The space of a few pints passes pleasantly. Stefan’s money. Stoney Paul loses the run of himself and orders an espresso martini, the rest of us make do with some well made Aperol spritzes. The BYOB table is now populated by a woman self-consciously reading a book and a chap furiously scribbling in his Moleskine. You get a lot of that hereabouts. Service is generally cheery but on less clement tiof the famatio o g ab t ee peo woo. That The Jo y Monpe s a co ow ts guests an evenings the servers are less inclined to venture out for orders. I can’t really blame them. There are things to eat too, should you require them. The menu has recently been revamped and I’m hearing good things. I can vouch for the fish and chips. Certain elements could be helped - the awning at the back (end of the space) has been non-functional for about two years, ditto the heater at the front. The new chairs will make arar therBrc usct hn ooem was sueperhit, but s saele t ioe pf craft b les, stitutions before leaving. given its proximity to The Swan, an actual real pub. We repair to it without debate. There are no braces here, just bracers and the propriety of our Wine tasters and diners leave, but other punters arrive, and while the place is never rammed it remains busier than many city-centre bars would be at this time. A band sets up around a table by the front door, which seems miles away, playing a bit of dad-rock – Cat Stevens and The Eagles. They’re taking it handy and seemingly just playing because it’s something they enjoy doing, which, is fair enough. The décor and all these activities give the sense Cra The Hole in the Wall as a place where there’s a lot going on, bin restaurants as s ep cial occaegarded e ias s pretty fnet-B.’ranca to calm our conDrinks of this quality come at a price and I’m not referring to my liver or mental health. The cost of these superb elixirs ranged between thirteen and eighteen euros. Each was worth the price. You are paying for top-drawer ingredients and glassware as well as the expertise and intuition of the guy with the sh ka er. If you want an eight euro Sex on the Beach take yourself off to TGI Friday’s. It is not by accident that the place has won Best Hotel Co kc tail Bar at The Irish of ft Co kc tail Awards for two years straight. *I just took a break from writing this to meet an old friend, only to find that the outdoor space at Pinxto’s is now a non-smoking space. The place is now dead to me. We repaired instead to the very subject of this ‘review’ and enjoyed a slightly too cold cheese board and a couple of decent pours of wine. A very seviceable Picpoul and a Gamay that would give Beaujolais a good name if I could only remember it. We regard certa ut it’s also a perfectly service able place for a quietish pint. It’s w sion places so why not a bar? In t e sa e way b at you don’t saunter into Eleven Madison Park because you re pec thy parents I know as a place for sustenance after a tough da ’y wrangkish, oling children through theing zooere to cure a mid-week hangover, o The Jolly Monk 52 Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1 01-8728188 www.thejollymonk.ie y u won’t be dropp in h. I’d certainly visit on a peaceable Sundaar heyven f afternoon if I found myself in the area, and it’ u t shoes anvd run a coe when I need rf something a bit out of the normal run. Handy to have the Hole in the back pocket. BW hair. Chin-chin! *I mean that figuratively of course, I was not literally overwhelmed by women. hell-rm o end, for a ‘rake of pints’. It’s for special. Wesar some ad l a good option to ha e in reservmb through your pints is never in doubt. We roll on to meet Jerry ‘Two Jacks’, a fellow traveler from our university days, in Grogan’s. He’s back from London on business and in unusually pleasant form. I’ve never been the biggest fan of the shop but I respect its essential Grogan’sness. It is very much what it is. The Lucky Duck just isn’t and I can’t see time changing that. Like everything that they touch, it bears the feel of something curated rather than created. The bought-in talent do their design job and it stops there. There is taste but no flavour. There are never any of the rough edges that might snag your interest or catch that place where loyalty begins. Money doesn’t make this happen, that is a canard. This is the opposite of a passion project. I hear that the boss man at Press Up doesn’t take a drink. Uh huh, makes sense. your ass feel as if it is being griddled. People have been known to use copies of this august journal to protect their flanks. If that burning orb in the firmament does make itself known get a crew together and try it out for size. I may be there but don’t let that put you off. neither extensive nor minimal, but with enough selection to keep brewheads happy. Their signature cocktail is the Negroni, with a heapful of variations on the menu. I plumped for a Boulevardier (€9) made with Bulleit bourbon which was really tastily balanced between sweet and bitter. The Ivy styles itself as “luxurious continental t waes of Ferunny style bar”, suited to “watching the world go by whilst regaling old times”. While its oldness is contrived, it’s also strangely convincing. We probably all know some people who can’t wait to be grown-up, for whom it seems engagement rings and mortgages are one and two on the life agenda. This bar, born old, seems like a good fit for them. prour review?’ Atio oe a tks mor e.o onming in Ben ing hi e bhs pe bma y bably by a ra nt b f fi eave tr fe as we exit, wav’s t t At thoint. We pen. ‘ e’ uden le ty drink a co p wahen t aee ah fy’ nd classys’ comtaany, a enoug den tiinla s aug ore perorat of invnisthdd bec e a orem tat- n u n om Joly soetcah. apen io e haut m ween t e gs,th h o ned affilio s D f the Thkm s Read with its a ende tt ye o out pubs is, w maleabrble cossuming bar, with n h flowers and a o speak of (bme er caps being a little overograplit),hs n thv e wa ey Hotvy manages es t si n e ance a f seniority ecen u p to tve pa ron a picture of a candle. He will return momentarily to recite a poem of his own, printed out in an enormous folder (A2 size ma by e?) about how irritating it is when people use their phones l ys it s re in other. Its es pblishm hs t t creh act-t a sh ps burer ee, Bry thtian adf tt Thanhin lde worlde vib , b t betka es t em is Whdge pled colour sch lleme, strik id a ninw mfor , unaunters, arrays of freso immediate flaws b tuttload of fra r pa d ethhings and phot o gi es Ab lbl, The Iel the b t p o co v t por a ne os ble chv y a senste o having a de en f lace f r ibie; it reminded med whoever o lf ths e venera nble Old St o have a dr e o hven do craft beer! Ito’ t The Ihy is tthat s to it’ do ther helmin le yy* p inla There m y or may no ton as eye a to t e e might wa der in tand of Exc inquer Streeax. Th y e The t er no at ble thing ab s u s ov wese r t. ‘Ar g ou go he k and r let. opug tted bt to puy the fairer sex, of m ur e auld lad in 52 52