All Entries Tagged With: "dining out"
Elvis Christmas music in March
(Connemara, County Mayo, Republic of Ireland) I generally don’t start drinking until 10:30 but I was on vacation. This looks like a nice pub. I smiled hello to two regulars named Sean and Rory and ordered a pint and a Powers. I have had the pleasure of tipping a few with characters like these two from town. They were like little children waiting for something to either break or talk to death.
“I just come back from Nashville,” said Fiona from behind the cherry wood at Griffin’s Pub in downtown Clifden on the Atlantic Coast of Connemara.
“Really. Who did you see? Where did you stay? What was the weather like in March?” I said.
Fiona went into a flurry of observation from Hank Williams to Minnie Pearl. She talked about the food and the Cadillacs and the cowboy hats. It was then that I heard it.
Elvis was on the sound system singing “Blue Christmas.”
Before long Sean and Rory heard it too. We looked at each other trying to appear shocked, even insulted by the unseasonable troubadour crooning and spooning about another lost love. Finally Rory spoke up:
What the hell are you doing with Elvis singing Blue Christmas in March? And you- the expert from Nashville and all…”
“I’m never coming into this pub again said Sean
“Good,” said Fiona.
“Neither am I,” teased Rory
“Fine. Drink up and get your arses out!”
“And you…she said, looking down at me…”Coming in here from over seas interfering with Irish culture and so early in the afternoon.
I was ashamed.
She let the entire song play and after it was all over put on some Christy Moore and then everyone settled in for the afternoon, on the merits of their recent victory over what is right and what is not.
“I thought you were leaving,” Fiona said to Sean
“No I think I’ll stay. I’m almost certain that Elvis is about to sing The Rose of Tralee.”
I got a smile from Sean and a wink from Rory and a kiss goodbye from Fiona. Not bad for a morning’s work. Now it’s time for lunch and a nap. How does one say siesta in Irish?
Clifden in the daytime. Mountains and the ocean.
“Don’t Encourage Them.”
Even though there are at least seven pubs open in Clifden during the winter months, I found myself back on the same bar stool at Griffin’s around 8 pm. The music was unbelievable. Two men and two guitars and the whole bar singing the chorus…kind of those rebel songs…. The West’s’ Awake…The West’s’ Awake. Tearful tunes sung loud to drown out any of the old sadness that the Guinness may have missed.
Don’t get me wrong. Ireland seems a happy place today.
At a break I wandered up to the small bandstand asking the singer, “Does your mother know you have such a fine Irish voice?”
“She’ll be here in a 1/2. You can ask her yourself,” he said
Only six of the town’s pubs have live music every night. On Tuesday night they are all packed…sippers and shooters and football nuts and some guy intent on reading Joyce in the corner.
“My dad is playing up at Lowry’s and my brother is part of a band over at Malarkey’s,” continued the singer. “Mom’s holding down the stage on her own up the street at the Central until about 10. We’re all playing together at Mitchell’s on Saturday. Will you still be in town?” he asked as if we were cousins.
“Guinness isn’t cheap but socializing is free so you need to find the balance. That way you come home with a few coins at least,” said 88-year-old Mr. McCrery, a local farmer who still works his land and has been a fixture at Griffin’s since 1950.
I don’t have to get back to Dublin until Monday. I think I’ll hang out in this absolutely charming town and catch the whole family performing together. I know I’d kick myself if I didn’t, and besides I’m supposed to go fishing with a retired Cork policeman who tells gold medal lies about his 30-year career with a straight face. Imagine that.
– Kevin Haley
BONUS:
Q. How could a person spend the entire day walking the streets of Dublin City without passing so much as one pub?
A: Go into all of them
THE COOMEEN WELL
“Indeed it is rare for an Irishman to tell a story. About as rare as the sky meeting the sea.”
– Judith Garibaldi O’Toole, St Patrick’s Day 1923.
Michael was a wealthy young man, a favorite of the village and the faeries since birth when the blessings of the ancient gods were visible to the Tuatha De Danann. Even the Druids took notice of someone out of their realm for a change, consistently nodding their stark approval. When his father passed back in January he was intercepted after the funeral by several of the elders. Did Da talk of the well, lad, or did he plan to take the secret to his grave?
“I know nothing of the well,” smiled Michael. “Da never spoke of it. He took me there once but would not let me look down it. He said unfriendly spirits dwelt there and that was all. “Stay clear!” he had said. He dropped a small spittoon down the well to further dissuade any future embarkations on my part. We listened hard for it to hit. Then we went to the pub.”
Soon Michael began thinking about the Coomeen Well. Why were these men so concerned, almost frightened?
“Some say it is enchanted and that the faeries will push a mortal down into the dark shaft just for the fun of hearing him hit bottom,” he told his sister Maureen, who was having none of it. “I’ll be passing the well this afternoon. Can I bring you anything?”
“Bring back some sense if you can,” she ripped. “since you don’t seem to have much of it.”
Michael laughed her off saying “I am a favorite” protected from the banshee and even the troll under the bridge. “The wee people love me and no harm can befall a favorite of the leprechauns. My life is blessed.”
He walked home that afternoon along the bogs and the east estuary where he turned down a steep path toward the well. It was quiet and starting to rain when he began to smell the seaweed, the primrose, and the mossy rock that went on forever, across the beach, then darted up over emerald hills through eyebright and blackthorn. He was there…at their wicked well. All appeared quite peaceful.
“Who goes there?” said a low voice from in the ground
“It is Michael, a friend to the Danann.”
“We have no friends. Go away.”
“I will not. I am a favorite of the Danann.”
The little man was red-faced, freckled and stuck in the well just a few feet from the surface. He appeared exhausted. It was clear that he could easily be rescued with a stout pull or two but first he had to make sure whom he was dealing with on this misty afternoon.
“What will you do for me if I pull you up?” asked Michael.
“I don’t need your help,” said the voice in the well. I am happy down here.”
“How is that possible? It is dark, wet and slippery. You must be mad.”
“No I am happy. Come and take a look for yourself.”
‘Michael moved closer, careful to keep some space between himself and the rock chamber.
“I will gladly pull you up sir but what will be my reward?” he asked knowing the wee people could be clever and adept at twisting fantasy into reality.
“Gold! All of you humans would sell your souls for a pound of gold. I shall make you a rich man this very day.”
Michael moved to the circle of rock that crested the shaft and looked down into the darkness.
“But I am already rich. Nonetheless I shall rescue you and you will give me gold to make me even richer.”
“That’s right,” said the voice from the well.”
Michael’s grave near Castletown-Bearhaven
Michael reached down to pull the man up and found himself swiftly yanked into the well, falling and falling to the sound of laughter. He was jerked so smoothly and violently that his boots remained on the ground, transfixed. Next to them, according to the lies and truth, was his father’s spittoon crammed full of gold coins The magic treasure soon surfaced at the pub, growing lighter by the hour, with the remainder of the loot going to the poor.
No one on in Castletown-Bearhaven ever saw Michael again. Every so often a loved one carefully throws flowers down the well, thinking of the young man and his harrowing departure.
Only a small sign on the well memorializes “a favorite of the faeries”. It reads: Niether a bhrú ná a tharraingt má tá tú lán buicéad that translates as Neither push or pull if your bucket is full.
Others watch the well from up high – sometimes wrapped in the coat of a lamb, caked with sand or even in the dress of Cliodhna…Intruders are pushed into the well by the faeries more than we realize. The pucas in the dark prefer to torment England’s idle rich and tourists from America bragging on their Irish roots.
– Leopold Bloom
IRISH MINERS UNEARTH MASSIVE GUINNESS VEIN
(Allihies, West Cork Eire) Miners digging potatoes on the Beara Peninsula have discovered the largest vein of Guinness Stout known to man or beast. Ascending from the Finn McCool Mine, workers could barely contain themselves with the talk of eternal flows and a return to the good old days when a pint was less than two Irish pounds.
The find, at the foot of the Mashed Potato Mountains, appears to be almost twice the size of a similar discovery registered near Ballyferriter in 1923. The dark ruby liquid found here contains a much higher level of barley, a major ingredient in the porter brewing process.
“The isinglass finings from fish air bladders common to most Guinness samples is absent here,” said Brian O’Sullivan, head mining engineer at McCool. “That means vegetarians can enjoy a glass. It’s a great day for the thirsty!”
The quiet village of Allihies, at the end of the Beara Peninsula, near the site of the discovery.
O’Sullivan said the mine was not concerned with rampant high grading on the part of workaday miners.
“Even these lads can’t carry out enough to make a dent in the supply,” he smiled.
The first Guinness deposit was revealed during a particularly gruesome hurling match (between Clontarf and River Liffey) by one James “The Gallant” Markey near Dublin in 1869. At the time people here thought it was a gift from the saints. Later it became apparent that these veins were quite rare indeed and common only to Ireland.
The find seems to be intact and after preliminary tapping is expected to flow for decades, glutting the market and driving down the price of a pint here in Ireland. How it will affect the price of Guinness worldwide was not known at present.
The Archdiocese of Cork is calling the discovery a miracle and has petitioned the Pope for recognition.
“Holy Mother the Church can smell a farthing from across the continent. Everybody wants in on the action,” said O’Sullivan, of nearby Healy Pass. “Our family has been making poteen with hickory, ash and oak fires , down in a hole under what is now my brother’s house since 1792 and the Vatican hasn’t once been by for a visit. Meanwhile the local vicar, has developed quite a taste for our single pot whiskey. He says it helps him write his fiery sermons.”
Once assayed, the “ore” will be shipped to Dublin for further pasteurizing and then drained carefully into kegs for safekeeping. Most of the stout will be stored in kegs and quite a bit of it will remain underground where it now resides at perfect the temperature for sipping.
“It’s like winning the Lotto,” said one bystander, glass in hand. “We haven’t seen anything like this since the Vikings came for tea.”
– Suzie Compost
WHETHER CHATTEL “WHITEWASHING” SAYS INFORMATION CIRCUS
Steer clear of volcanoes, earthquakes and tsunamis says The Wether Chattel. According to The Castigated Consumer “The excess of mindless information and the dissection of misleading trends leads to an overflow of disinformation. Hyped reporting leads to bogus worth. If it’s going to rain please tell us so and just leave it at that – We’ll take it from there. “Great resource if you’re not planning to leave the house.”
Horseshoe Lotto Fraudulent, Misleading Says State Treasurer
(Denver) Persons stupid enough to buy a San Juan Horseshoe Lottery ticket have about 1 in 30,000,000 chance to win any loot, according to state data reserves and unreliable casino sources up Confront Range canyons.
The State of Colorado, which would not release highly sensitive information on winning percentages in its popular Lotto programs, is investigating the Horseshoe for evidence of misdoings including possible extortion and kidnapping.
“The Colorado Gaming Commission was not amused by these ham-fisted and proletarian attempts to swindle the good people of Colorado and Wyoming. Never mind that the state has allowed gambling to diminish mining history and quality of life in palaces like Cripple Creek and creating cute little Disneylands and Bransons right in our midst,” said one former hardware store owner, turned Black Jack dealer in Central City.
“That entity (the Horseshoe) has no right to portray lotteries as the magic solution to social injustice and poverty. That is our job,” said an official release from Denver.
-Susie Compost
