The Fine Line Between Bartender and Patron

There is no way to sugarcoat this: catching the flu while on vacation just sucks. We lost about three man-days this past week to a nasty little bug. Although otherwise it was a pretty enjoyable vacation, I will be hard-pressed not to remember it as the flu vacation.

But to keep the focus on the positive as I am wont to do, I will tell you about one of the highlights of the trip.* We ended up staying for two days in Ballina, partly because we didn't want to drive much with one of us sick and partly because we found the town quite agreeable. Ballina is not a tiny charming town. Nor is it a city rich with history. It's sort of at that awkward freshman stage between town and city, but in a way that made it endearing to me. Incidentally, Ballina is second only to Letterfrack as favorite towns to say out loud. It's pronounced bah-lee-NAH, with an emphasis on the last syllable that is very exaggerated by locals when drunk.

While in this town, I noticed my surname on the front of a pub. Although mine's an Irish name, it's a bit rare and this was the first time I had seen it on a pub. So of course we had to visit. This place was only slightly larger than a finished basement, with approximately the same odor. Several older men who looked like they had not moved in a very long time populated the place; a few watching the football match on the telly. But the bartender, a wiry man in his 60s, wore a shirt and tie, which gave the place a modicum of decency.

He had a bit of trouble understanding me, and I him. It was only after being served I noticed him serve himself a double whiskey and gulp it down. I realized it wasn't our accents that had caused the difficulty but his drunkenness. Best friend and I sat and sipped our pints, muttering out of the side of our mouths about the patrons.

Is that guy asleep?

I believe the technical term is: 'passed out.'

Should we stay for another?

Think of the blogging potential that is here. We are staying.

Do you think he's one of your kin?

He drinks like he is.

I am hoping that we were better at gauging our volume than our bartender, because as different patrons arrived, he would "whisper" in a voice that the whole bar could hear even over the telly.

"We got two yanks here. It's those two over there. The ones under 65 not wearing tweed."

When best friend ordered our second round, it emerged that our bartender (Sean) and I shared the same last name. Suddenly we were all fast friends. Perhaps more than best friend would have liked. Sean removed himself from behind the bar and joined us at our table.

"Hop up there and pour yourselves another pint," he said, motioning towards the bar. "I'll pay for them." Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, I jumped up. I think Sean planned on this. No one at the bar batted an eye. I poured two Guinnesses and waited for them to settle. Now, if you've never been to Ireland or just don't drink Guinness, you might not know that the 'proper' way to pour a Guinness is to fill the glass about 5/6 full and then wait for it to turn from what appears to be all foam to its normal black with cream top. This takes a few minutes, then you top it off. While I'm behind the bar waiting, two guys walk in and order two pints of Guinness. I look over to Sean for help, but he is entranced by best friend, who is a pale-eyed bonny lass. Later I would learn he was telling her an abridged version of his love life ("but you can ask my friends for the rest of the story - I just don't want to talk about it"). The new customers were not smiling at my hesitation. What could I do? I poured them two pints and charged them three euro each - I figured that was a fair price given the atmosphere. Of course while their pints were settling, three more guys came in.

Point being, for about 45 minutes I was both patron and bartender at my namesake pub - a role Sean had apparently been fulfilling for decades. Another singular experience in Ireland.


*This is (unfortunately) tempered by the fact that middle brother was unable to join us and partake in the fun; he could not be more than a short walk from either a bed or a toilet, or both, for the better part of a day and a half. The same fate would strike me 24 hours later.