Drinking in Dublin: American Tourists in Irish Pubs
My friend Erin and I had planned for the stereotype. We’d tried to prepare for our Irish binge while we were still at home in the states, but we learned drinking in the states just isn’t the same as it is in Ireland.
When we first arrived, we decided to explore the pub-life close to the row of cheap hostels just north of the Liffey, and were looking for a pub that our ‘Dublin Tourist Book’ promised would offer live music and great fun. We walked and walked, deeper and deeper to the seedier portion of Dublin, until we realized the book must be out of date. We stared at the run-down building covered with graffiti that was probably the bar we were looking for.
So much for our stupid tourist book.
But the trip was surely worth the adventure. As we were wondering what to do, we heard a slurred rendition of an unrecognized Irish drinking song. When the singing man stopped right before use, we met a brilliantly friendly, highly intoxicated old man who had made his way up the same street.
“Are ye lost, then?” He spat through his missing teeth in an Irish accent so heavy it was hard to make out.
We told him we were, but he decided it would be a good idea to give us a history and run-down of Dublin before he gave us directions out. He pointed towards the Liffey, and explained that a giant structure, called the Monument of Light, was meant to be erected in time for the millennium countdown and was to stand as a symbol of the year 2000. He told us that the Dublin City Council must have been drunk while making their plans, because the monument was still missing almost four years after the millennium had begun and had cost double what they had originally planned for.
The drunken man fervently claimed he wished that the counsel could be made of young, passionate people like us-not that he knew us of course, but he said he could see the life in our eyes. I assumed it was the alcohol talking, but walked away grinning at the idea of a drunken old man who wanted me in charge.
We finally ventured down to the definitively Irish Temple Bar. Temple Bar is an area known for the variety shops, restaurants, and of pubs and clubs, just south of the Liffey River in downtown Dublin. There is also a pub within the area by the same name, a red brick building with a wall-sized stack of kegs lining one side of the pub. Temple Bar in Temple Bar is a huge, open pub with far too much going on to process on an alcohol-dulled mind. In one room, there was the traditional Irish band, which performed Celtic songs over a banjo, flute, a couple guitars, and an assortment of percussion instruments. They played for hours, although they were disrupted from time to time with an outbreak of Irish drinking song from the crowd that were so loud, even the band’s PA system couldn’t keep up. The band didn’t mind though, and they smiled and clapped between shots of whiskey and sips of beer, as they waited for their turn to continue. The pub was more alive than even the stereotype had prepared me for.
Then we found our first insight into our misconceptions about Irish drinking. Coming from Nevada, we weren’t used to last-calls, and Ireland was the last place we expected them. We were surprised to find that the vast majority of pubs in Ireland, including Temple Bar in Temple Bar, close around midnight. Before we left, I made my way downstairs to the typically filthy bar bathroom, but was met by a silly Irishman why stood in a rigid salute, significantly softened with his proud grin. Instinctively, I saluted him back as I entered the restroom. To my surprise, he waited for me as I made my way back up to the lively pub.
“You have won, and are now my princess,” stated David the saluter, matter-of-factly. “Now, you shall dance with me.”
Then his silly, Guinness-driven grin was back, and that was all the convincing I needed.
“To Fitzsimons!” David yelled, gathering his friends.
David and his pals were native to Ireland, but were only visiting Dublin for a few days. I never found out if he was serious, but he said they all lived in rural Ireland where they were farmers. Either way, they knew enough about Dublin to know that Fitzsimons was one of the few after-hours clubs in Dublin that would stay open into the wee hours of the morning, and that it was just “200 meters to the right,” or so he incessantly repeated until we were all out the door.
Fitzsimons was a pop-dance club, and the questionable sounds of American pop infiltrated dance floor. We looked around, and the dance floor was filled with drunken young people taking themselves way too seriously. I worried about what this would do to my perception of Irish drinkers, but David assured me they were mostly tourists.
“Princess, let’s show them how to dance,” he said, and led me to the dance floor.
And dance we did. Only, not the way Britney Spears and Beyonce probably envisioned dancing to their songs. We thought ballroom dancing would be more appropriate, although we didn’t really know why. Hours later, we were liquored and danced out, and returned to our hostels to wait for our hangover reprimand from our bodies.
For our next adventure, we lazily walked to the east edge of downtown Dublin, towards the Old Jameson Whiskey Distillery. Our tour began, and the guide said he needed two volunteers, a male and female, to be whiskey tasters when we got the bar. Erin and I were the only two girls there, and Erin’s a Guinness girl. I sheepishly volunteered, while the group of guys fought for the guide’s attention in a very ‘look what I can do,’ third-grade way.
The guide presented what we thought we’d known all along: that whiskey was central to the Irish economy, as well as to the culture. He also told us that almost all Irish descendents had, at one time or another, a relative who worked at the distillery. Of course, this information could easily have been a tourist trap to simply insinuate the stereotype we already had, so the guide’s words couldn’t be trusted.
His actions, however, could.
When we got to the end of the tour, we arrived at a bar where two placemats were set up with 6 shots sitting in their reserved spots, labeled on the placemats. He had the other volunteer and me sit in front of the placemats, and handed us each a glass of water to cleanse our taste buds between shots. We took six small shot of six different types of Irish whiskey, with only water as a chaser, and then we were told to choose which our favorite was. Of course, both of us chose the Old Jamison, and were given a glass of it-on the rocks. I began to realize my lowly American drinking could hardly keep up with this culture. I started to remember that the bartenders had always looked at me strangely when I ordered coke with my whiskey the night before, and I realized that chasers and mixers just weren’t part of the Irish culture.
The guide came and sat with us as we drank our whisky. He had poured his own large glass of whiskey, which was filled to the brim. He affirmed my suspicions that the Irish thought the taste of whiskey should be pure, and shouldn’t be spoiled with coke or anything else. Then he finished his huge glass and got back to work, unaffected by about the same amount of whiskey that had me stumbling into the street. I figured he was probably telling the truth about whiskey being such a large part of the culture.
For another bar night, we had found a pub called “The Flowing Tide,” which was a pub we commonly frequented at home, so we thought we’d give it a try. We went in to find the bar packed with middle-aged locals, and they all seemed to know each other. They laughed with each other and sang their drinking songs. We smiled with appreciation and affirmation that the stereotype extended beyond our young demographic as we left to find a pub more suited to our own age.
We ended up back at Temple Bar in Temple Bar, which was completely packed. We stood and chatted while I drank my Jameson and Erin her Guinness, until two friendly guys, Tom and Eddie, came and offered us their seats. They were soon met by a large group of their friends including Nilee, Ray, Tina and Tara.
I asked them about the karaoke scene in Dublin, which meant the whiskey was working. Nilee was confused.
“Why don’t you just sing here?” he said. “Nobody minds. This is Dublin.”
This gave me an idea. If nobody would mind singing, Erin and I wanted them to teach us an Irish drinking song. It took little convincing before Tom and Eddie looked at each other, then at us, and then began singing.
“You lost that loving feeling,” they wailed for the whole bar to hear. “Wo-oh that loving feelingâÂ?¦”
When we stopped laughing, Erin and I went to find Nilee, Ray, and Tina. We begged them to just teach us one drinking song to take back from our trip.
Again, we were met with a serenade of the Righteous Brothers song. But no matter how hard we tried, Erin and I could not get anyone in the group to sing a real Irish song, or to even let us in on their little joke. We still don’t know if their song was something they often sang to American tourists, or if they were prepared just in case they met people like us that night. Either way, it’s the only Irish drinking song I know.
One thing Ray did teach us though, was how to give an ‘Irish high-five,’ as he called it. He would tightly grab one of my hands, and then begin slapping it in a regular high-five fashion, but at a fast, regular pace, and accompanied by a jig-sounding assortment of “diddly-diddlies” which matched the rhythm of his hand.
Midnight came, and it was time to find an after-hours club. Tina and Nilee suggested a dance club called Re-Ra. It was a sketchy club, nestled in empty back alleys, and in retrospect I think I should have been scared. But it was difficult to see any danger in a group who sings the Righteous Brothers and gives Irish high-fives.
Luckily, when I got into the club I came to believe a new stereotype: that all Irish bars are safe. How couldn’t they be, with everyone so merrily intoxicated? So we danced and laughed until liquor led us back to our hostels.
Comedian Louis C.K. jokes about stereotypes in his stand-up routine: “Every time you hear a racial stereotype, they’re always negative. Why can’t you have racial stereotypes that are nice? Like, ‘You know those Chinese peopleâÂ?¦They’re made of candy!” Well, I think there are some. Like, ‘You know those Irish. They sure can drink.’
