Pub Grub

As with any story, we have to set the scene. Today, I find myself in a tiny village on the Ring of Kerry. I was in no rush, so I decided to explore and ended up finding a gem. I love villages. They have all you need, but in a handy size. Villagers are the ultimate multi-taskers. O'Brien's Funeral Home, O'Brien's Hardware, and O'Brien's Ladies Fashions, occupied one small building, and of course, only one O'Brien. The epitome of Irish village life has to be the combined shop and pub. A shebeen, (you say it She Bean). For those yet to visit Ireland, I’ll do my best to describe the one I sit in, now.

The front door is brown timber, housing opaque glass, it's split in the middle instead of opening from one side. The window facing the street is crammed with; tins of beans, boxes of cornflakes, dairy milk gift boxes, dog food, light bulbs, to name a few items. High on one corner of the exterior, hangs an ancient Guinness sign, the only hint that a drink lay within.

Inside, the floor is natural limestone, polished to a dull shine by years of shoe leather. The first half of this narrow building is home to the shop. The high counter is made of dark timber worn light by thousands of items passing over it. On the end of the counter is a weighing scales, with stacks of cast iron weights. In the corner, near the door are peat briquettes and sacks of potatoes. Along the back wall, a short bench huddles under a mountain of newspapers.

Behind the mottled counter, a massive fridge dominates the available space. It looks like an art-deco coffin stood on its end. The back wall is shelved, from floor to ceiling. It is not the number of products that is interesting, but eclectic variety on offer. There’s the normal stuff; like bread, tea, coffee, sugar etc. What's with the four tins of white paint, flanked by cigarettes and boxes of nails? Or the motor oil, hair brushes, fly spray and boot polish, that I could see? Clearly, they stocked in accordance to the specific needs of the people who shopped here.

Then, there’s the partition. These shop/pub combos, differ in many ways, but the feature common to all is the partition. It rises about six and a half feet tall, the timber bottom is scuffed from years of boot marks, where feet rested, while chats were held. The top section holds dappled glass, so only shadows of those moving within could be seen. In the past, this partition served to protect the gentle nature of Sunday mass goers from the rowdiness of drinking men. The fact that everyone knew who, and what, was behind the partition, didn’t matter in the slightest.

Walking through the partition door is like Alice walking through the looking glass. Nothing much actually changed, yet things were suddenly completely different. The shelves behind the counter were the same except from this side they were filled with spirit bottles. The counter was the same but now there were high stools and beer taps. Small tables and string topped stools dotted the polished stone floor. The bench covered outside with papers continued its journey along the back wall. Here, it hosted men drinking pints of porter and chatting happily. The bar man bobbed from one side of the partition to the other. Shop-assistant one moment, barman the next. By walking through the partition, you became a member of a different circle, the wilder few. Words that caused scowls the far side of the flimsy partition were welcomed and enjoyed in this drinking den. Eyes twinkled with naughtiness.

As I said, I love these places. They are a remnant of a gentler time. Despite the décor having remained untouched, (thank God), for fifty years, you can't stifle progress. It seeps inwards like an ocean mist seeps into your bones. In the fridge, alongside milk, and bottles of Guinness, nestle cans of Monster energy drink. The bar man, who once would have worn a peaked cap, but now sported an i-phone. Most of the customers still sported wellington boots, but occasionally the bottom of the counter would feel the expensive brush of a Jimmy Choo. What I really wanted to share with you, is a story the bar man told me.

In the mid-eighties, Irish tourism was making its mark. Tour buses were a regular sight on the highroads and byroads of the country. The Ring of Kerry, has always been one of the places to visit when tripping around our Emerald Isle. The bus drivers would stop in this very village, to give the camera toting tourists a chance to click some real Irish people, doing what they did best, posing for tourists. 

Back then, this shebeen was owned by a man called Murphy, and logically was called, "Murphy’s". One memorable day, a few American people wandered in and ordered glasses of Guinness. Murphy was a renowned rogue, and liked nothing more than taking the micky out of his customers. 

Being accustomed to a better service environment, one American lady turned to Murphy and asked, "Sir do you have any food?" 

Murphy lifted his flat cap and itched his shiny head, thinking hard.

"I could make you a ham sandwich, if you wanted," he offered.

"That would be lovely" said the woman. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t what happened next.

Murphy took a full pan of bread from shop, and ripped open the wax paper. Pinching some bread between his meaty, callused, fingers. He tossed them directly on the bar counter, in front of the shocked woman. From the same fridge that still sits in the shop today, he extracted a full pound of Kerrygold butter. Murphy opened the foil with filthy fingers, before dropping the open butter beside the bread. Instead of a knife, Murphy grabbed the hard-plastic spatula he used to scrape the excess head from the pints. He didn’t even rinse it before using it to lather butter thickly on the bread.

On a hook over the fridge hung a full, smoked-leg of ham. Murphy unhooked it and slapped it on the counter, beside the bread. Still having no knife, he pulled lumps of meat off with his fingers, piling them on the greasy bread. The look of amazed horror was nailed on the poor American’s face. As it happened, it was a warm summers day, and flies were everywhere. One scooted down and landed directly on the open sandwich. Murphy stopped what he was doing, and stared at the cheeky fly. He grabbed the greasy peaked cap from his head, and deftly swatted the fly where it stood.

Replacing his cap, Murphy flicked the flattened body of the fly off the ham, before slamming the top slice of bread home, with his filthy paw. Having no plate to hand, he slid the uncut sandwich across the bar towards the horrified tourist. 

Murphy fixed her with a devilish smile. "There you are, Missus. I'm a stickler for the hygiene," he said, with a wink to the locals, holding in belly laughs, up and down the bar.

I am fairly sure that sandwich never got eaten.