Homebrew

For a country that loves its beer as much as Ireland, the choice available in pubs is truly uninspired.

> Guinness (fine, on occasion)
> Heineken (pisswater)
> Carlsberg (probably NOT the best beer in the world, though props to the ad campaigns)
> Smithwicks (popular with an "older" crowd, she explains diplomatically)
> Bulmers Cider (a hangover in every bottle)

And that's largely it.  Sure, now there's a smattering of pubs that offer draft Paulaner, Corona by the bottle (lime if you ask for it) and the occasional Erdinger (including non-alcoholic -- I've definitely made that mistake), but homegrown talent is hard to find.

Things, they are a-changing, however, as a small number of local microbreweries are making headway on off-license shelves and in Dublin's more progressive watering holes.  Porterhouse Brewing Company (with locations at the bottom of Dublin's Grafton Street, in Temple Bar, Glasnevin and on the seafront in Bray) offer their own range on draft -- recommendations include Oyster Stout and Hop Head pale ale.  Sister pubs, The Black Sheep on Capel Street and Against the Grain on Wexford Street, are also supporting local craft brew talent -- extensive beer menus, good ambiance and food...worth a visit if you're in town.

My favorite, though, has to be our summer discovery: Eight Degrees Brewing out of Ballyhoura, Co. Cork.  Their Howling Gale pale ale is beer-y deliciousness personified.  Not being a beer aficionado, I'm afraid I don't know the adjectives (hoppy? wheaty?) to explain with any expertise why I like it.  (On the upside, we thus avoid any alcohol descriptive pretension -- "nutty, with a hint of peach and squirrel.")  Just trust me when I say it's goooood.

To date, I haven't found 8-Degrees in any Dublin pubs, but it got to the point (perhaps worryingly) in August when we were so regularly stopping off at our local off-license to pick up a few bottles, they actually invited us in to meet-the-brewers.  I was suitably devastated when I realized the date coincided with a trip away.  Ah well.  Next time, my brewer friends, next time.  

And until then...

Slainte!

Turkish Delights

I spent the last week in Istanbul for work (I know, rough life.)

It's a vast city, a timeless mix of modern and ancient, East and West, land and water.

Highlights of my days there include: (1) a daily breakfast of simit (like a bagel) with ridiculously delicious, fresh tomatoes and white cheese, accompanied by a glass of tea (so civilized) (2) a visit to the Blue Mosque at dusk (what a ceiling -- Michaelangelo, eat your heart out) and (3) a reading with a fortune teller in a cobbled alley near Taksim Square.  (My last reading with a fortune teller was in an Atlanta mall, age 14, so this certainly wins in terms of locational authenticity.  Guess we'll just have to wait and see how things go on the prediction front -- to be continued!)

 

 

The Dogwalker Debriefs: A Series

Wed 11 - 1, Shelly Banks

No issues.  Constant running around.  Scarlett found some rubbish and ate some carrots before I could reach her.

Barry

The Dogwalker Debriefs: A Series

Wed 12 - 3, Three Rock Mountain

Non stop in good form.  Scarlett got a bit narky with a young, male dog, but calmed down.

Barry

Vocabul-Eire: Grand

Grand.  Ain’t life…?

The word “grand” is an Irish catch-all.  Though it implies something imposing, startling, remarkable, the best translation I can offer for its common usage in Ireland is “fine.”  As in:

“How was last night?”  /  “Ah sure, it was grand.”

“It’s been ages, how’ve you been?”  /  “I’m grand, not a bother.  You?”

“You must be exhausted after your flight…”  /  “Not at all, sure I’m grand.”

Lest you’ve a picture in your head of a jovial, red-faced leprechaun, booming “I’m GRAAAAND” at every occasion, let me disabuse you of this notion.  Its delivery is most often nonchalant, accompanied by a self-deprecating smile and shrug of shoulder.  Almost as if to imply that things AREN’T grand, or the night wasn’t particularly good, or that said flight has indeed left you shag-tired, but you’re hardly going to ruin the inquisitor’s day by complaining.  Pain/misery/discomfort is to be borne, not shared.  Particularly when it’s of the mental variety.  

Conversely, the word “fine” is most often used in reference to weather.  As in:

“She’s a fine day out, alright.”  (Days, like ships, are always female.)

Or in the case of a wedding:  “They surely got a fine day for it, eh?”  

At which point, a member of the group will inevitably remark on the gorgeousness of the bride, the stunning bridesmaids’ dresses, the beautiful flowers, the service.  I’m consistently humbled, in fact, by the lack of snide commentary at Irish weddings.  It just isn’t done -- a trait I find aspirational, given my American proclivity to not-so-gently pick apart the happiness of others.  

Certainly, the bride may look like a tango orange, spilling inappropriately out of her sweetheart neckline, the peach bridesmaids’ dresses may cling disastrously, the service may have been long/boring/horrifyingly traditional…

…but for this day, at the very least, the couple’s choices are perfect and opinions to the contrary – like pain or discomfort – are to be borne, not shared.  

And I think that's grand.