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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 BARFLY words Ian Lamont photos Killian Broderick words Oisín Murphy-Hall photos Killian Broderick BARFLY words Ian Lamont photos Killian Broderick words Oisín Murphy-Hall photos Killian Broderick BARFLY words Ian Lamont photos Killian Broderick words Oisín Murphy-Hall photos Killian Broderick BARFLY words Ian Lamont photos Killian Broderick words Oisín Murphy-Hall photos Killian Broderick ENCHANTING ELIXERS The Sidecar NOD TO YORE Bartley’s MALLARD REACTION The Lucky Duck BARFLY Ben Walsh Michael McDermott Ben Walsh photos Killian Broderick o 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 o. Th a s Doblin i 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 If you have any interest in what you drink 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 52 44 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 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 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 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 MISADVENTURES Huck’s e cuos 31/32 Lower Stephen’s Street Dublin 2 the-grafton-hotel.com/bartleys 52 52 52 52 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 Bartley’s The Grafton Hotel 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 8a Camden Street Dublin 2 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 mr tiniov ecav ome enus emtotional statt. I vee o’f the a very pleasant place to be on a Tsed to be use a crn tthat. He makes iha n French G’velling in some tr a d adultera es with Peychgud Bitter unfa tor Winter is almost upon us, and the Christmas lights are already going up, if not yet on, in the city. At the top of Grafton Street we are told we are entering the Grafton Quarter. Passing through Checkpoint Cathal, no doubt. Onwards to Stephen Street which the business section of The Irish Independent informs me is in the Creative Quarter. And here, for many years, stood Bartley Dunne’s, a pub which was certainly creative in its day. Cosmopolitan and demi-mondaine, stocking a variety of wines and spirits unknown in 1960s Dublin, it was an early and vital mainstay of the (then, very much, underground) gay scene, despite its owner’s public protest-too-much pronouncements to the contrary. In its later years, it limped along selling snakebite and blackcurrant to teenage goths before being demolished and rebuilt as Break for the Border during the inexplicable and unlamented 1990’s Tex-Mex craze (Judge Roy Beans, anyone?), and then mercifully falling to the wrecking ball again. Now, it has been rebuilt again as – of course – a hotel. The Grafton Hotel is a fairly unlovely l’ on in 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 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 boxy affair from the outside. Inside, an attempt has been made at luxury, but it doesn’t feel quite right. There are a lot of heavy decorative touches in greens and golds and black, but there’s no sense of real opulence. It’s more that someone has found a list of tips for achieving a luxury look on a budget at IKEA. A fancy hotel foyer should make you feel that you’re meeting a deposed aristocrat or faded opera singer to exchange a consignment of smuggled diamonds. Here, you’d be and a ’romartic a pd I drink it in nea 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 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. tive yl . B th are ex 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 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 that m ta erialises in each of our brain f dra o hen w super dirty for Conor. hear the word ‘co kc tail’. So that’ impermanen and banquettes around, and it leads Manhattan for Ben and a Grey Goose Mintini,ves, in a place that i classy move and it sets the tone beer stein with a smile on his face. Anton pauses on an ordering stra egt y before we ght here so our first order is fo or ‘ ur drinks’ – the dr’ink 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’k sombre with dar For about a year now, progressing along Camden Street, I had seen the hoarding advertising “HUCKLEBERRY’S coming soon”, complete with a depiction of the Mississippi River and one of Mark Twain at the height of his moustachewearing powers, and I dreaded the day that such a place would actually open. San Francisco is far from Hannibal, Missouri, he says. ‘Name one profession that doesn’t.’ I think for a moment. It is testament to Danie s abilities and experience that he simultaneously manion in its vadio the finest iteration of this drink thmomic B P50 fr oat I’ ic t orys k G p, Sa yers, meur au meg the dirty martini has always had s of t inomething of the douchbag about it. It could be the s had in this country while making i Willi likt cleafice it to slin betw y f, that Th lo doesn’t ent eir ly approve of my o M . He’s less Rer tita H i e ar p th w f lar b mlief, th g srace is not a BY. TB a yir 44 drink of Florida, America’ kids w o corohen’ angeaol in thizza bo il narrow momentar y and h th d a ’s kl oht his d st eir rart. Desperad a I’ve e aer hadti t anes)ime, anyw tourist wri lf in Drua ent str ands forts o e mt hn t eir psychical comf rt. never fail t Thi ess thar ide sio s wang f. Bm P ess epya J hn’ and garishly printed thing in an as pe squa e every week, as e marrket fc lds, hpens a o re Manh ta tan. It’s a very goo Th o epea e te fott 6-y g neo f y indi id eminuals f g y rivalidation now I put myse app oaniels inf’s hintu e p en t a 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 s a . We had decided but it is keen to claim Samuel Clemens as its own. I have spent some time there and I love the man who quit the slavers’ army to cross first the fledgling stagecoach nation and then the world in steam, spinning tall tales and challenging every authority along the way; the man who stood against his country’s racist brutality at home, against its imperialism in the Philippines and against Belgium’s in the Congo; who defied religious hypocrites and moralists wherever he found them. Not all of his writing is all that good, because an unusual and totally unnecessary commitment to paying his debts meant a lot of pot-boiling. Did you know there’s a whole book where Tom Sawyer and his friends travel above Africa in a hot-air balloon? It’s terrible. Dublin is even further from Hannibal, Missouri. We have no real connection to Samuel Clemens at all, but if I were to try to capture the essence of Samuel Clemens in one quotation, I might choose: ide s w ink eg in a hotel bar. The sense of b en a s a Bulleit Ryece, of mystery and briefly, fleetino ly Theres somethinuch into it, bll in intersectarg li through to a full r s at once home l y in this, surely, with the instituwould sw g by la one ofa the micrut tisth our micros nic watartini gl Tin. C noe corner of the bar and am and m ooy g Dubaelf owaeen-the-canals original and rder k i s rightt, e. Sufr that hed s , hy . Merver m Dun ee Jolly o gywor boo of ue qlly finty toersistence Br wing, a real 44 der plots and the ro 52 ualiger-. o g a mer in her gs at th trary to unpopue ore En tliath lads’ we k52 d holida ers eae t ld) antd heckrlinearemp -old is av hivs se unc u here. A b pest lokgare . Se xactly oo tag notes how the traVine Gin din idv ua epidation. I’iates her anxiety at o Huck’cesllent. Upon Dvniel’ n s a spicer,’ Anton suggests. ade on M zcal. I do not think I would root through all his novels and come up with: He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard The Ivy 1-4 Parliament Street, Temple Bar, Dublin 8 theivydublin.ie 01-6718267 navtiv,e popu - ‘Eaeryo es ret’ urn 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, I am said to be a revolutionist in my sympathies, by birth, by breeding and by principle. I am always on the side of the revolutionists, because there never was a revolution unless there were some oppressive and intolerable conditions against which to revolute. 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 . of the s e of s a Kns t e r at gem Manhattan. The baritender od ho looks to o pe pr ha re been born in this millennium, doesertainmen y every v sit an, w not e usan Sonze confidence, and I feel l allev s. It blmi sar sulihesurroMy misgivings ar sur e to p o ographore I t ing with her environment from the sa 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 The Sidecar and The Westbury Hotel Balfe St, Dublin 2. (01) 679 1122 undings by reco e unfounded. A ve been hurt before. h t ts t a lout tailable, and I opt for a braces here, just bracers anpped out for one ofur or val rb I don’t know what to make of a bar with a theme. Should I be in costume? Should it be? Is e teretail is in ordere en Ohe drinks menffa . Th ting 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 Saturday eveningr. Ou a-beers; an e rciting em-x ousing prise rd Canvte everots, cuom Pn y P l, Sweet prohibited or something.’ ‘What’s weird about that? Everybody drinks,’ ‘I suppose I thought that the monk was one.’ ‘They named a bar after the monk’s drinking, OLD TO BEGIN The Ivy meeting someone off of Ireland’s Got Mór Talent with some dodgy fireworks. The bar is called Bartley’s, a pleasing tribute to a unique history. It is almost in toought: ‘I suppose childminders, maybe.’ and han too mg quite a uring abou es me asut it strik he h nishings, but the bar seats have a flourishd for (in mns. I a theu ontig t tiof the fa s, tatio o 44, t today’s Du used to be use another suitable touch. There aree tablest th Whdge pled colo y fo g t le t t w at the Thomatt Th Ih n the g ea and not home. The cinematic imagination hasIhere r t D bv e wa ey Hotvy manages es t si n e ance aer scifix necklace passes by ut the os ble chu ects’ bas e Neil Morrisse k wood and green fur-blin is to fin bd o t tut what tarticu ar corner of the cit s iThiy for y is holding aloft a 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 o b o of loud floral print. I may be readingg your ba ned affilit. Hs Ddi f the Thk g doinm s Read with its tingly by ob io s r, ily t tod y’a s Dublin is to fin bd out w t phmore Eng e aeoore au enycbimes) give way to an implacable sadnn in itio ess. Thht ta e bomaks Read had already b en dtoe of his t-shirt reads ‘Thy’a s D b at shine ft th t p ring in life, that make your l ughoer very qe cinklyematic imaginar’s ki a part to p a e Th inside don’t need th nd h ng your bar’s h It oursi o say times)bli h a new idenititl used to be uselikod f r (in m s. It ttho tig to esta ers, that Thur o a picture of a candle. Hhe Thill return m loementahros enormou e used for (in mns. In lo king to es aapba J hn’s pow xes on their lapsEnglish and hang your bar’s h Ivy h s, tt. Hobedi’s ki h’ named as it was after t e cutler’s s ore that had a part to p a is a fairly dispiriting range of the usual tages to pro uces guisur co es ol quox my traditional place at the bar. Tn the g ea o gi es Ab lbl’, The Iel the b t pQo co f seniority ecen estaurant, but I takeptingly obvious route. n th most tem tu peak of (bme er a u lin vintners carve-up, The o slooided goraar p unci ver the years hum co ception being o l e e might wa der in tand of Exc e, is tquer St f ths e venera nble Old St o have a drink and rreelet. aegns. In look ma , un ssuming byr eh ith n h flohm n w nd a ’ Ivy has, to its cre t52t 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 e no bs sageity aen oave yet t e starceit of O empleton R binding, tells me that Tt be m er, I’m ye ofb. W pu Carpano Antica F i h ula yields a feere aops t th rxes on their laps (thewkw gardstitutions before leaving. ve th c oemo. u, an ugly e ias s pr tan, opting for Buffalo Tr t waes oetf Fy fn ashis being a hotel bar, I think a cock-ye at t At thoint. We pen. ‘ e’ uden le ty drink a co of m ur 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 I’m glad this lies outside my remit. There is a “boilermaker” list, and I think this is conceptually a good thing; a boilermaker is simply a beer and a shot; you don’t pour the one into the other, and to have well-chosen pairings of beers and whiskeys is a sound idea and can be done very well. Unfortunately, to execute it requires either a decent selection of beer or a decent selection of whiskey, preferably both, and we’re out of luck here, on two counts. Five Lamps and Tullamore Dew isn’t really going to do it. There are four American whiskeys available in Huck’s – there are many more vodkas and flavoured gins – and two of those are Jack Daniel’s. I look over the cocktail menu. The drinks all een a have Mark Twain themed names, which is a nice touch and is all well and good until you come to look at what’s actually in them. Poor old aunt Polly, for all her failings, does not deserve to have her name given to a mix of “Absolut Vanilla, green apple and ginger purée, lime and red wine float.” No-one does. A concoction called “Steam Boat” has Olmeca tequila in it. “The Duke and the King” leads with Slane whiskey. There is something with Bombay Sapphire “East” gin and something with hazelnut liqueur The only safe option when faced with this sort p wahen t eaee at was a tas he c’ comttproauns t hint h s cats on t -t phe buillding irritathing it is when p t tad heople utlold) aning l ys it s nam d as ie in oth . I h 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 tiinlg ore perorakinc o esta or’s ha Ivy hahaouts cre er at part ticee peo er of the citur sch lleme, strfe diik id a nine q unters, a ita, t, wf freso immeadiaite flanter, o ular cornwoo. That Thre Jo y Monpe s a costanw mforuo inabrble coo establisah a new idenrtrays o bdit, a s Re mosd ad alre o been doulde vib , b t b anhinr t ub t pubs i. a en e tt y eg at Doulin vintner’ s, wunfat m sa o having a de en f lace f r ibie; i he s b d wh f th 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 Th y e The t er no at ble thing ab s u s ov wese r t. ‘Ar g ou go 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 ear f cifix necklace passes by us as we return to s saele t ioe pf craft b les,prour review?’ Atio oe a tks mor e.o onming in Ben ing e of carry-on is the canon, so I call for a Manhat y bably by a ra nt b f five t e as we exit, wav’s t hi e bo ths pe bma the niceties are observed! A chilled coupe glass. A bamboo knot fiven its proximity to The Swan, an ac ual real e repair to it w t ou Drinks of this quality come at a price and orm t debate. Thw drre n,o clearly more seasoned bartender positions himself discreetly within mentoring range and offers light-touch support as needed while the young lad builds the drink. Booze pedagogy in action. After a recent unpleasant experience, this is great to see. In no time at all I have a perfectly crafted Manhattan in a chilled coupe glass. The vermouth is the ultra-hip Belsazar, from Germany, which I’ve rarely seen anywhere, still less in Dublin. It is complex and fruity, based on Pinot Noir and Moscatella grapes, and it stands 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 shaker. 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 Cocktail Bar at The Irish Craft Cocktail Awards for two years straight. We regard certain restaurants as special occasion places so why not a bar? In the same way that you don’t saunter into Eleven Madison Park because you’re peckish, you won’t be dropping in here to cure a mid-week hangover, or heaven forfend, for a ‘rake of pints’. It’s for special. Wear some adult shoes and run a comb through your hair. Chin-chin! ut it is then discretely swad the propriety of o Martini Rossi. And the whole thing doesn’t taste of a damn thing. 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 specials. There’s a “Dunne’s Flip” for those who like sherry with their egg whites, and a “Widows’ Alms” which looks like a perfectly respectable Martini with Lillet Blanc and Suze bitters. I choose a “Grafton Sazerac”, with Bulleit Rye, Hennessy VS, Scrappy’s Orleans bitters – much heavier on the anise than the canonical Peychaud’s – and a “fennel infused absinthe rinse”. That all ends up being an awful lot of liquorice, and neither the whiskey nor the cognac bring a great deal to the party, so I find it a bit imbalanced, and not very Sazerac-y, but a list of ingredients was provided so I can’t complain. Each drink comes to a reasonable €12. As hotels continue to mushroom up ae t a sh ps burer ow v 52 t, avhao’sy so 44 vad of fing do d ethc ps beinog a li tle ov h ni l mindset that se historically so well as a comfort blanket fo 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 v t por a ne wn the hings and photograerlit), a u p to tve pa ron opug tted bt to puy the fairer sex, The Ivy 1-4 Parliament Street, Temple Bar, Dublin 8 theivydublin.ie 01-6718267 arar therBrc usct hn ooem was sueperhit, but t er et-B ace rye. And some of unny.’ranca to calm our conor the Luxardo cherriest. A bottle Englis wers ah ‘b aws r the death-spa f the otnce pro p sud colo ueen’s svbjy a sensteensibilities a ow ts guests ajugau n tion ooeve o ax. e auld lad in of tt reminded me erther. This, I sup pose h he real pitfall of the hotel bar for The Ivy 1-4 Parliament Street, Temple Bar, Dublin 8 theivydublin.ie 01-6718267 native population: here, everyone is an ou ‘Everyone’s a spicer,’ Anton suggests. An old man wearing a slightly-too-large there an essence of Mark Twain that we are trying to capture here on Camden Street, where he never was, and what he would have made of it? He never signed up for this. Consulting Thom’s Directory for the period, this building, number eight Camden Street, was home to the Boland brothers, coachmakers, with a (very prosperous!) rateable valuation of 23 pounds in 1862, a couple of years before The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County made it into print but, thankfully, not into a cocktail. *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. 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. The Jolly Monk 52 Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1 01-8728188 www.thejollymonk.ie “By trying we can easily learn to endure adversity. Another man’s, I mean.” BW *I mean that figuratively of course, I was not literally overwhelmed by women. around Dublin, I think it’s a safe bet that many of them will be like this – a bit rushed, with a few corners cut, notions that aren’t fully delivered on. It’s grand, like. You might end up going to a work thing here. At least, in this particular case there is no real harm done and no much-loved institution being directly impacted, but the immediate area will feel the loss of old standbys such as the still-missed Steps of Rome and the recently departed Pizza Stop as the transformation continues: there are big, shiny developments underway throughout the area. The occasional decent drink might be all we can hope for. s carve-uhy, engaging with her en irv onm cifix ne ce of thgs,t-tidian f ro m; so too rapp, Thea we h dings b e haumi et urroun a s auoore n lot of invnisthdd betc e a orem tat- n t on tmo i n om J lideo t d g oetcah.vellin ad h t tempadlde wvoringoute up well to the spice of the rye. I give my compliments and the bartender admits it’s his first ever Manhattan. I’ve taken his Luxardo cherry, as it were. I think he’ll go far. I leaf through the pages of house o recite a poem oen aef hi ht ts own, printli d o t in ahe city for used t s f lder (A2 size m f m Pt 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 at on t aah o its crar t, a th ided g pens awn te s a at t e builldingrner o thoatiro te?) alisbo w at the Thomas Re m ad alrpady been dous roeuc .teling nea er ts es t Dus inf s t oug os eme tingse tbv eir phkones rby indi idv uahi tos ori r dent w ver voat s y o hio d h, times)bli h a nsee, Bery thtia ht w e apen ion Sontag notes how pose, is 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 sut e greaaoe tya, a g ouritsity, trit large. Susa trawn theg indi idv ual alleviates her anxiety en the tod ose th r s to finbd out wts, c pers, m uff n ae spaotlight’ in cy has, tve, un what te w ing a marItini g ass at tlin vintner’s caf the bar omas Re m ad alrpady been dous rou . named as it was after t e cu ler’r tt Dub e corner o rve-up, T articu ar co sh ladsf tu’ we k nd holidayerfas eas Monk is less Rita Ha b io ing, s s o e. S aeoore au en c owev av n th o its cre erdi , t ot, avhat’s ad h t tem tingl yworth w f h n tthe g ea re that had at. How v y o v e en h a nt hizza bo h ou ew identity, t e s e dit ooher ls f named as ius guifstes over th er the y rus ho an een ays at the builldingrder plots ane city fds toe Js ts vario ac t was a e cutler’s s ooe that Ivy is a sister bar to House on Leeson Stree 37 Dawson Street and Xico on Baggot Stree (amongst others) run by businessman Alan Clancy. Like each of those bars of those bar The Ivy is not playing for cutting edge or k In fact even more so than its siblings, this b al comf h fy’r nd cfl er tsyIn t ler’s s blib hm ’emen ve-upheir psychic Queen , Th u lin iom tic tr rom the ar co nur er of th This io ice in lo kin, hderided going do 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 aarticu t tday’s Duves, in a p - s at once ftirom P wever, t OLD TO BEGIN The Ivy But it’s a version of this that appears above the door of Huck’s. A hundred years ago, of course, Dublin Castle’s RIC garrison were known as the “hogs in the tanyard” by those who were revoluting, but I don’t really see the significance today. If you are expecting more Mark Twain content on the inside, the first thing to greet you is one of B.P. Fallon’s photos of Shane MacGowan. I love Shane MacGowan and I love B.P. Fallon, and if you’re opening a B.P. Fallon themed bar on Camden Street, that is long overdue; it should of course be called “Purple-browed Beep’s”. But this place, inexplicably, is called “Huck’s”. They have a pizza menu. Not for the first time, The Jolly Monk OLD TO BEGIN The Ivy ABBEY HOUR The Jolly Monk OLD TO BEGIN The Ivy ABBEY HOUR ABBEY HOUR The Jolly Monk ABBE HOU ‘It’s weird how monks are allowed to drink it?’ I ask Anton as we approach The Jolly M the newly renovated bar of the Abbey Hot mean, as in you would think drinking wou ‘It’s weird how monks are it?’ I ask Anton as we app the newly renovated bar mean, as in you would th prohib ‘Wh he says think f ‘I su ‘The you idi who lo beer st in thou Ther ‘I suppose I thought that the monk was ‘They named a bar after the monk’s drin you idiot,’ he says. ‘Look who looks like Neil Morr beer stein with a smile on in thought: ‘I suppose ch There’s something quit idea of imperm interse and no a part t seats 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, rarelblin i tion in roman like. Su you idiot,’ he says. ‘Look at the sign!’ A mo who looks like Neil Morrissey is holding a beer stein with a smile on his face. Anton in thought: ‘I suppose childminders, mayb There’s something quite alluring about idea of drinking in a hotel bar. The sense oMonk impermanence, of mystery and briefly, fle intersecoing li y occurs to flind out wace th hat iat t e build The Ivy stands on the elegant corner site at junction of Parliament Street and Dame Str rejuvenating the space that used to be The Thomas Read, figurehead of the doomed p group which was feasted on by fellow publi following its collapse in 2008. The status quo for new bar concepts in used to be used for (in more authen c time and hang your bar’ idea of drinking in a hote impermanence, of myster intersecting lives, in a pla and not home. The cinem a part to play in this, sure tion in its various guises romantic trysts, capers, m like. Suffice it to say, how Monk is less Rita Haywo ing a martini glass at the more English lads’ weeke from Papa John’s pizza bo bar’s kitchen opens at the told) and heckling nearby ous infringements on the This is the precarious em tourist writ large. Susan S travelling individual allev unfamiliar surroundings raphy, engaging with her safe distance of the quoti Englishman with ‘banter’ of the once proud coloni historically so well as a co Queen’s subjects’ baser se of the subjugation of the pose, is the real pitfall of ing a m hmore E aand ntt home. Th uics hat on that. Hobation wh l y in this, surely, with the instild) at tear s inf y fvn th raphy, itset ulltrawelliinge unfam The Ivy 1-4 Par Temple theivyd 01-671 native ‘Everyo An o native population: here, e ‘Everyone’s a spicer,’ Anto An old man wearing a prohibited or something. ‘What’s weird about th he says. ‘Name one profe think for a moment. prohibited or something.’ ‘What’s weird about that? Everybody dr ‘I suppose I thought th ‘They named a bar afte he says. ‘Name one profession that doesn’t think for a moment. The Jolly Mon ‘It’s we it?’ I as the new mean, , t c en ooing dot thhet rt of Octf tbe o hlin vinenr adnert creh ac e w iden n adf e precarious emotional statof the se of th s th li kar ses t em is y recourse to ph ent fro 64