A halo-like glow shatters the darkness of the windswept bogland. As I approach the building giving off this warm glow, I strain to make out the small, lightly illuminated sign hanging over the door, “Anderson’s World-Famous Thatched Pub est. 1734.” I tilt my head to look up at the building’s roof; it is indeed thatched in an old-world style. The pub part of the sign I am still uncertain about as the parking lot is completely empty save for a nearly rusted-out Ford pickup. From the three weeks I have spent in Ireland thus far I had never come across an empty pub, not even at 10 a.m. Exhausted from driving for hours along a windy, desolate road across Ireland’s sparsely populated center, I push my uncertainties to the recesses of my mind and push open the door.
Stopping at Anderson’s Thatch Pub in the outback of Carrick-On-Shannon was one of my top ten life changing experiences. That was the night I was introduced to the realm of Caife Gaelach, Irish coffee. I stooped through the doorway right at the moment Pat, the pub owner, was making a batch of hot whiskey and Irish coffee to warm up after his kite-surfing escapade . On cold, dark rainy nights I still remember and long for the its creamy, smooth taste.
Irish coffee is a hot cocktail consisting of whiskey, preferably Bushmill’s or Jameson’s, and sugar, stirred and topped with a puff of thick cream. Like Guinness, there is a complex and well-developed method involved in its creation. Before anything is poured, the glass must first be warmed to the ideal temperature. Only after the glass is warmed can you pour a shot of whisky (or two) into the glass. Gradually add the coffee to the whisky and stir 1 level tablespoon of Demerara sugar, no more no less, into the mixture until it dissolves. Finish it off by slowly pouring fresh cream over the back of a spoon so it floats on top. Do not stir the cream or else all will be lost.
The brilliant inventor of this concoction was Joseph Sheridan, a head chef at Foynes in Shannon International Airport in the west of Ireland. He became inspired when a group of American passengers disembarked from a Pan Am flight and stumbled into his business on a miserable winter evening in the 1940s. To warm and relax the passengers he added whiskey to the coffee. When the Americans asked if they were being served Brazilian coffee, Sheridan immediately replied in his Irish brogue, “No! ‘Tis Irish coffee.”
This weekend’s rain turned my thoughts from midterm papers back to that rainy night spent talking to old Irish men, while huddled around a cup of steaming Irish coffee, in the Thatch. From the moment I woke up Saturday morning to find rain pounding on my window, I could not stop thinking about it. It quickly became an obsession. I ran to my car, forgetting to grab a coat, and immediately set off for South Boston in search of a cup of St. Patty’s day luck.
In my haste, I forgot to google where the best pubs were located in South Boston and had to rely on a friend doing it for me and contacting me via cellphone.
The first spot she directed me to on my quest was Sullivan’s, a supposed pub located at the very tip of Castle Island amidst a jungle of industrial buildings. The small brick building situated on the coast of Boston Harbor reminded me of the Thatch Pub and how it was similarly located in the boonies. Rain pummelled my Bushmill’s umbrella as I sprinted across the parking lot towards the welcoming light streaming through the windows. Right when I walked through the door a sinking feeling overwhelmed me. Where there should have been a wooden bar, handcrafted from bogwood, and barstools, was a takeaway counter. To my chagrin it was a fish and chips place, not a pub. Stepping out of the takeaway shop I called my friend and emphatically told her “You failed. You are no longer a member of this quest. ” On the plus side, the fish and chips were cheap, greasy, and delicious. Anyone hailing from Merry Old England would’ve been proud.
After Sullivan’s my GPS replaced my cyber tour guide. I believed it would be a more accurate and efficient employee. After a few minutes of searching nearby businesses with “Irish” in the title, I was directed to Greenhill’s Authentic Irish Bakery. I deducted an Irish bakery would have to be located in the main, real ‘Irish’ section of South Boston where the pubs would be located. Sure enough, the bakery was located in a quaint, small village amidst an otherwise industrial section and was situated between two pubs, one claiming to be one of “Boston’s Originals.” Excited by my good fortune, I dashed into Eire Pub Men’s Bar, the one claiming to be a community founding stone, taking the ‘Men’s Bar’ part of the title to be a reminisce of its founding days. The second I entered the pub I felt the burns of forty stares. The bar was full of men, many of them Irish emigrants, between the ages of 40 and 70. I slowly turned around and inched out the door, consoling myself with a piece of simply spectacular soda bread, real imported Irish Weetabix, and Cadbury chocolates from Greenhill’s Bakery across the street.
During the aimless driving around the bakery area that followed my flight from the men’s bar, I came across the Dorchester trio of pubs: The Playwright, Tom English’s, and the real Sullivan’s Pub to which I was originally supposed to be directed. To my disappointment, not one met all the qualifications I had established to define a real Irish pub: Irish accents behind the bar, Guinness taps, Magners cider, and Irish flag decoration. As the sun sank behind the towering factory stacks, I made peace with myself and admitted defeat in the Irish coffee quest. Although I had failed in my quest, I had discovered little bits of “real Ireland” in South Boston.
Be the first to comment on this article!