A bit of Ireland Everywhere

My personal gripe with Irish pubs, which proffer names like Paddy O’Flannigans or Bridy O’Lonnagan’s, particularly the ones in Australia, is that they’re usually about as Irish as Vegemite.

Walking into this particular establishment, I’m met at the door by Craig, the waiter……in a real Irish pub he’d have a name like Shamus or Patrick but because Craig works in an Australian-Irish (or Austrish) pub, the best he can do to be Irish is to spell his name the Gaelic way……….so he’s Graighe – his name badge says so.

Craighe asks me if I’d like a table. “Do youse want a table?” he says in his best Austrish accent.  Real Irish pubs rarely have tables- they’re designed for drinking, not eating, so usually, there’s barely enough room to stand, let alone sit.

I walk past all the not-so-genuine Irish paraphernalia adorning every square centimetre of wall space and take a seat at my allocated table, my trip to the table accompanied the lilting Irish ballard, Sweet Home Alabama by that famous of Irish crooners – Lynyrd O’Skynyrd,

I scan through the menu, which is virtually the same as any other menu in any other Irish pub in any other part of the world, Lynyrd O’Skynyrd gives way to Jimmy O’Barnes as he gently treats us to a typical Irish folk tune – Khe Sanh…..(that would be The Last Train out of Belfast).

The menu is predictable with potatoes featuring heavily, with no potato famine here and that’s okay, but it’s the lack of variety and the banal predictability only a chain-like operation can offer which leaves a less than satisfied taste in the mouth.

I complain to myself like an English curmudgeon lamenting the loss of real food as fare at his local pub……….don’t worry George, it’s happening all over the world. (Mind you, George would do much better with the fare offered here than at most pubs in the entire British Isles.)

Craighe explains the differences between the sauces, which smother the steaks. “Youse can have the peppercorn sauce- that’s a light brown, or youse can have the Irish Cream sauce which is a bit darker.  Oh yes, there’s another one too – that’s real dark brown.”

The pub, or confused restaurant, is huge, with enough capacity to seat the entire population of County Cork in one sitting and patrons at this pub never just ‘pop in for a pint’; it’s more of an event.

As I sit at my pre-allocated table with my fellow revellers, Rhani and Tran (they fit in quite well, as are just about as Irish as any other of the patrons or staff), Craighe brings us our meals of huge steaks and the obligatory traditional Irish chicken parma, accompanied by a small mountain of chips, cover the table surface.

To wash the meal down we have a choice between Guinness and Kilkenny ale at ridiculously inflated prices, or we could settle for the alternative- Carlton Draught for half the price. What’s the point in paying double just to pretend we’re in some far corner of the Irish countryside? We settle for the Carlton.

It’s 34 degrees outside, but inside the Northern hemisphere mood is manufactured with the help of four strong air conditioners blowing a force 10 gale of refrigerated air throughout the building. In the far corner, a small gas log fire compensates and tries desperately to set the cosy scene despite the outside temperature. Such comforting pretence!

As we talk and eat the genuine Irish fare, a small green flash at floor level catches my eye. I must have had too many beers. “I’m sure I just saw a leprechaun,” I said unconvincingly to Rhani.

“Can I call you Colleen, just for tonight?”

Well, it’s an Irish pub, why wouldn’t it have leprechauns?

It has pictures of The Shannon River, posters of brightly coloured doors and sacks of potatoes!

As we finish our meal and the pub fills with people, I see him again…..I’m not mad, drunk or hallucinatory………..There is a leprechaun! This is beautiful.

Dressed from head to toe in lime green and with ridiculous shoes and hat, is a midget………he’s the maitre’ d and he professionally ushers a group of unsuspecting diners to their table, but his distinctive accent tells me he is from a small county somewhere in Ireland, known to most as New Zealand.

He swings past our table, grabs a couple of empty glasses and checks that everything is in order, asking boldly, “Is iverything okay here?” adjusting his wide black patent leather belt…….his New Zealand eyes smiling.

He exudes a confidence incongruous with his size and he’s in total control of the room checking on all his patrons, darting from table to table like a lime green superhero.  As he stands next to the bar, surveying the scene, he’s camouflaged and could easily be mistaken for a bottle of Midori.

I watch as he  works the room and I suspect most of his patrons must be regulars as they pay the little green man no heed and no one but me seems surprised to see a leprekiwi.

The feeling inside the pub is a little more Irish now, thanks to the gnome, but to complete the scene and give me a real taste of an Irish pub, I’d expect at least, one half-drunk Catholic priest propping up the corner of the bar, with a pint in hand and cigarette in the other, he could treat the bar as a confessional, saying things like “Jaysus, Mary and Joseph”.  Alas, I have to settle for the leprechaun.

We leave before the live music starts, full of Australian beer, and A grade Gippsland beef.  Shannon Noll (well, at least his name is a bit Irish) squeaks out another Irish jig through the PA as we leave.

It’s been a wonderful experience, if not a bit of an Irish joke….I just know that the best Irish pubs are in Ireland and that’s where I want to experience and enjoy them, which has to be a great reason to go to Ireland!

A Report by International Travel Writer and TravelMole Correspondent Kevin Moloney.