Throughout my many travels, I’ve always found a pub when I needed it the most
“Ok,” I said. “Answer me this, then.”
A hush fell about the bar as a dozen men stood waiting to hear my query. I was in a state of flow at this point. I was in a groove. We had moved way past the point of logic or reason and into a phase of collective consciousness that was beyond contestation. We were no longer a disparate group of foreign nationals. We had become one in a sort of Vulcan mind-meld that only happens in an Irish pub when you’re far from home. It was transcendent.
“What,” I asked them, “is Whitney Houston’s favorite type of coordination?”
Everyone thought for a few seconds, and then in unison as if it were planned, we all sang out at the top of our lungs, “HAAANNNNND EYEEEEEEE!”
We were in Dusseldorf, Germany, in an Irish pub, and there wasn’t a German to be found. Scotch, Irish, French, Italian, Spanish, Canadian, and two Americans. No Germans. We’d all met just hours before, but it was as if we’d known each other our whole lives. An oasis of companionship in a country not accustomed to friendly banter with strangers.
It wasn’t surprising to any of us. This is just what happens. It’s why we were there.
Sutton’s Irish Pub
My old business partner and I had traveled to Dusseldorf several times to work with a client there. We had grown rather fond of the city, especially the Old Town section, but German culture was not terribly conducive to open dialog among strangers. From our experience, Germans tended to go out in groups and keep to themselves. Random conversations between strangers were just not something that happened.
If a German found himself alone in a bar, it was by design. They weren’t looking for a conversation. Having traveled a lot together, my partner and I were eager for distraction from one another, so the last person we wanted to talk to was each other. We’d had a lovely dinner with our client and his wife. They were a wonderful couple, funny and engaging, who spoke near-perfect English. But they had triplets at home and couldn’t stay out late. We were left to our own devices. We had been down this road before and knew that your typical German bar, was not going to give us what we needed.
We looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Irish Pub.”
After years of international travel, I have yet to be skunked in my attempt to find an Irish pub in any country I’ve visited. Irish pubs are nearly as prevalent as McDonald’s, which is really not Irish, in case you didn’t know. I don’t know what it is about my people, but the Irish have done a good job conquering the world with whiskey, beer, lies, and laughs. Frankly, I don’t think we get enough credit for bringing the world together.
I have often found myself, alone or with others, in a place unaccustomed to me and in need of a bit of familiar comfort. Some oasis from the strange and a reminder of home. No matter how amazing it is to be away from home and enjoying new experiences, sometimes we need to ground ourselves in the familiar.
This, to me, is the purpose of the Irish Pub.
Dirty Franks
On the corner of 13th and Pine Streets in Philadelphia is a nondescript building on the corner. All the windows have been blocked out, and there is only a simple sign above the door. It’s one of the older bars in the city and was infamous for having sawdust on the floors to soak up the beer and puke. The walls are covered in original artwork that changes quarterly. A rotating gallery that somehow manages to survive without being destroyed.
The local newspaper once described it as the place most likely to find more working writers than any in the city. It was always a hodgepodge of clientele from art students to bikers, lawyers and traders to punks and tattoo artists. It was like a movie scene. It was also the first bar that ever felt like home.
In the mid to late 80s, my best friend Mark and I spent most nights there. A mug of Yuengling Porter cost $1.50. As long as we had that, we could drink all night by relying on the generosity of friends with pitchers. When we had money, we bought the pitchers. Everyone made out just fine. For a few years, we worked in various capacities, from collecting empty glasses throughout the night, restocking the coolers after hours, or even working the door. We were allowed to drink for free in exchange.
Dirty Franks was not only an institution. It was quite the scene. Mark and I were prominent characters there, and we often found that people would approach us out in the world and ask us if they knew us from Dirty Franks. I used to joke that one day I was going to be standing on the Great Wall of China, completely enamored by the glory of human achievement, when someone would come up behind me, tap me on the shoulder, and say, “Excuse me, but don’t I know you from Dirty Franks?”
The Queen & Mangosteen
We had been in Penang, Malaysia, for a week, on a mission from God, and honestly, it wasn’t going all that well. The organization I was with had taken a stance that because Malaysia was a predominately Muslim country, and because Muslims, at least the observant ones, don’t drink alcohol, we had been asked not to drink while we were there. I had expressed my displeasure with this conceit, as a general principle, but was overruled.
Ironically we were on Penang, an island 11km off the mainland, boasting a population of 1.7 million people and acting as a popular vacation destination for many, including a seemingly endless number of Aussies and Kiwis. Everywhere I looked, there were open bars and drunk white people with funny English accents. It sure did look like fun.
Finally, it was time to go home, but we all couldn’t fit on one flight. I was chosen, along with another person, to fly ahead that morning to Singapore, where we would have a 12-hour layover while we waited for the rest of the group to meet up with us and begin the long flight home. This meant that I would actually get to see Singapore. You can do a lot of damage in 12 hours, in my experience.
The person under my protection was a short, heavy woman of indeterminate age who, I would learn, was a kindergarten teacher for a small private Christian school. Not my first choice as a traveling partner, but I decided to make the most of it. I explained that I planned to store my luggage and go see the sights, and if she liked, she was welcome to join me. She agreed to follow my lead and join me. Okay, then.
“The first thing we’re doing is finding a proper pub,” I explained.
After storing our bags in large airport lockers, we officially entered Singapore. My initial impression was that of a cleaner New York, just with more Asian people. Really not that different from home. Lots of overpriced shopping downtown. We headed to an outdoor market and wandered around, but didn’t find anything we needed or wanted. Eventually, we made our way to Chinatown, where some sort of harbor was teeming with people, and low and behold, an English Pub called The Queen & Mangosteen.
I’m thinking it was a weekday, and everyone was at work because the streets seemed relatively quiet. Or maybe the opposite was true, and everyone was home enjoying the day. All I know is, when we got there, the pub was jumpin’. It was like someone had called for a party for everyone who wasn’t from Singapore. Everyone was from somewhere else, but they all spoke English. The patrons were the usual suspects of expatriates. Brits, Irish, French, and even a few Dutch. It was like a convention of colonialists.
Some might find this blasphemous, but in certain parts of the world, the line between what makes a pub Irish or English is rather slim. If it’s got a Guinness sign out front, you can be reasonably sure that you’ll find an oak bar inside and that some combination of Football, Rugby, and Cricket will be playing on televisions, while a surly bartender from some shithole such as Barrow or Belfast ignores you as you eat a meat pie.
There are no Irish or English pubs in Ireland or England. They’re just pubs. When you’re in the middle of South Asia, the demarcation ceases to have much meaning. Even the English and Irish can coexist peacefully when everyone else seems to be from another planet. Pour a decent pint, put the match on, and pull up a stool. The craic is all the same.
“So, where are you from,” said the man. He was a large bearded fellow wearing a beret. He looked charmed.
“New Jersey,” I said.
“Brother, you are a long way from home,” he said.
“You’re telling me,” I said.
A few years ago, I was touring Santa Barbara wine country with a producer and walked into a quaint little wine shop in Los Olas. I was greeted by a man sitting behind the counter, and I answered in what I considered an appropriate manner.
“How you doin’?” He repeated back to me mockingly, using a fake Brooklyn accent, sounding more like Joe Pesci.
“Is that what you think I sounded like?” I asked.
Yes, he laughed.
Sometimes, the Jersey precedes you.
‘O Say Can You See
More often than not, an Irish Pub will appear in the unlikeliest of places. Moscow has one in the airport. It might be the shittiest Irish pub I’ve ever seen, but they served Guinness and hard cider, and you could smoke at the bar, so it was a welcome sight, nevertheless. Any port in the storm, as they say.
I was wandering around the old town section of Prague, not far from the astronomical clock, down a side street when I came across what might be the strangest Irish pub I’ve yet found. It’s called O’Che’s, and above the Guinness sign features a portrait of the Argentinian Cuban revolutionary Che Guevara. “Where Cuba meets Ireland,” the sign says. “A favorite of ex-pats and tourists alike.” Home to a full English Breakfast, right there in the middle of Prague.
On a trip to Paris, I had arrived on an early morning flight from Dusseldorf after a rather late night, and was in search of relief. A half block off the Seine, not far from Notre Damn, I spotted a Guinness sign, and sure enough O’Jason’s was just opening up. Ahmed, the owner, was taking the stools off the bar when I walked in.
“You open?” I asked.
“Almost,” he answered. “You can come in if you like. I’m still setting up.”
I pulled up a stool to the bar and slung my bag over the back.
“What can I get you?” He asked.
“Strongbow, please,” I said.
He poured me a pint of cider and went about his business. I read my book and wrote in my journal. Eventually, he finished his chores and stopped back by to chat. Turns out he and his sister owned the pub. They were originally from Morocco. How do a brother and sister from Morocco end up owning an Irish pub in Paris? Luck of the Irish?
The French, and more specifically Parisians, are very protective of their language as an essential part of their culture. Even though most can speak English, they generally refuse to unless it’s absolutely necessary. So, if you happen to find yourself in Paris and want to hear your native tongue spoken, just find a pub.
I finished my pint and went about my day. I ended up renting a scooter and touring a good bit of the city that way. Later that night, I found my way back to the pub. It did not disappoint. When I walked in, the place was jammed full of what appeared to be mostly college students, crowded together in small groups, laughing and drinking. I reconnected with Ahmed, who introduced me to his sister, a dark-haired beauty with big brown eyes. It was a night to remember.
Ye Olde King’s Head
There is a pub in Santa Monica, California, called Ye Olde King’s Head Pub. I guess it’s more of an English pub than an Irish one, but as I’ve said, once you travel any sort of distance from the source, they become interchangeable. For Los Angeles, this is a pretty old establishment that goes back to the early 1970s. It’s one of those places that started small and kept growing, expanding into progressive storefronts down the street. As far as I can tell, it’s open 24 hours a day, but I’m not sure that’s true. I just know I’ve never been kicked out because they were closing, and because of the crazy time difference, they’re open early in the morning. I’ve never seen them closed.
This is another aspect of the pub that you find pretty regularly. Ex-pats use it as an oasis for comfort food. Most pubs I’ve been to in other parts of the world serve everything from a full English breakfast to fish and chips, bangers and mash, shepherd’s pie, and meat pies. Because English Premiere League matches do not coincide with normal drinking hours half a world away, it’s not unusual to see a full bar of ex-pats drinking and watching their home team while enjoying breakfast at 9am.
I was sitting at the bar late one night when an older woman who had been seated nearby, walked up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and kissed me on the neck.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked her. I held up my left hand to show her my ring and exclaimed, “I’m married.”
“So might I be,” she answered.
I looked over at my business partner Bill, who was staring at the two of us.
“I have to go the bathroom,” he said. Then he got up and walked away, leaving me alone with this lecherous woman.
I convinced the woman to go back to her seat, and when my partner came back, I let him have it.
“Big help you were,” I said.
“You didn’t seem to be in any mortal danger,” Bill said.
“I was being attacked by a 50-year-old hooker,” I said.
“Hey,” Bill said. “How do I know what you’re into?”
“Gee, thanks.”
The Duke of Wellington
I was returning from a business trip to Moscow, and we decided to stay over one night in London on the way home. Just for shits and giggles. Once again, I was traveling with my business partner Bill. Bill is Italian and grew up outside of New York City in upstate New Jersey. His wife is 2nd-generation Irish. They have land in Donegal and usually visit once a year. Bill was at a pub once in Ireland with a few uncles and cousins in tow when he had an interesting conversation with a local patron. Bill, who is dark-haired with olive skin, also happens to be 6’4”, and the man he was talking to was about the size of a leprechaun.
“So Bill,” Kelly said. “Are ya Mexican then?”
“Mexican?” Bill said. “No, I’m Italian.”
“Italian, eh? You don’t see that many Italians as tall as yourself,” said Kelly.
“You know a lot of six-foot-four Mexicans, do you?” Bill said.
“Fair point,” said Kelly.
Bill had talked me into going out with him and his sister-in-law, who was living in London at the time. She, in turn, talked us into going to some awful nightclub in a basement somewhere. It was dreadful, but I still managed to get wrecked. The next morning, which was a Saturday, we decided we would go to Portobello Road in the Notting Hill section of the city. The movie with Hugh Grant was a recent phenomenon, and it was a place we’d seen in the film. Why not?
It was an unusually beautiful day for London. Sunny and 75º. Not a cloud in the sky. Everyone in the country was outside, and apparently, most of the city had also decided to head down to Portobello Road. We got off the tube and began walking with everyone else.
All along the sides of the road were stalls of merchants selling fake antiques and other assorted goods. It was so packed that I couldn’t even really see most of what they were selling. We were just moving with the crowd, like cattle. The sun was starting to bake my head when I explained to Bill that we needed to find a pub and have a seat. A block later, one appeared.
On the corner stood The Duke of Wellington, a picture-perfect English pub with tables and chairs set up outside to take advantage of the glorious weather. The entire street was a madhouse. There was no way we were going to find a seat. As I began to despair, I saw two people get up from a table and leave two gentlemen still sitting there. Being an American with zero shame, I promptly approached them and asked if we could join them. I offered to bribe them with a round of drinks. They obliged.
Jonathon had long grey hair down to the middle of his back and a bright smile. Curt had classic English teeth and spoke with an accent so strong that I had a hard time understanding him. Turns out they both lived in the neighborhood. We ordered a round of drinks, and Curt hand-rolled cigarettes for us to smoke. We all swapped stories. We sat there for the next 4-5 hours, watching the people go by, smoking, drinking, and telling tales. The more Curt drank, the less I understood him. It wasn’t just his accent. He spoke in so much slang I could barely make out what he was talking about.
I remember one story Curt told. More of a joke than a story, but he told it as if it had happened to him just that morning.
“I’m on the bus the other day when this woman gets on with her baby. Out of the blue, the driver turns to her and says, ‘Jesus! But isn’t that the ugliest baby you’ve ever seen?’
“Now the woman is obviously upset and storms towards the back of the bus where I’m sitting. She sits beside me, turns, and says, ‘That driver just insulted me!’
“‘I saw the whole thing,’ I told her. ‘You go and give him a good telling off. Here, I’ll hold your monkey for you.’”
Finally, after we were all good and sunburned, we realized it was time to get to the airport. We exchanged emails and phone numbers and promised to stay in touch, before hightailing it back to the hotel to retrieve our bags and get to the airport.
It wasn’t exactly the sightseeing tour I was expecting, but I’m still in touch with Jonathan to this day. Even he doesn’t know where Curt has got to.
Erin Rose
There is no place in the world like New Orleans, and no place as simultaneously dangerous and beautiful. I once scouted a house in the Garden District for a film I was directing while carrying a red solo cup filled with rum and soda. Not only did no one blink an eye, but before we left, the homeowner asked if I needed to be “topped off.”
A half block off Bourbon Street on Conti is the Erin Rose, a hundred-year-old building that was converted from a home into a pub in the 1950s. It’s a strange little place that feels more New Orleans than Irish. It’s made even stranger by the fact that even though it’s a half block off the chaos of Bourbon Street, it’s populated primarily by locals. It’s worth mentioning that on Tuesdays, they have Po’boys. Only Tuesdays. But they’re arguably the best Po’boys in the city.
You know you’re in New Orleans when you can hit the local pub at 10 am, and it’s full. These aren’t tourists. They live here. They’re having beignets and coffee, bloodies and Po’boys. I don’t even think it means they’re off from work. Just taking a break.
There are a lot of great places in New Orleans, and most locals avoid Bourbon Street for obvious reasons, but once we found the Rose, we knew we’d found home base. We might wander over Frenchman’s Street or deeper into Treme, but we always came back to the Erin Rose. Everyone is your friend in most Irish pubs, but a New Orleans Irish pub is an altogether different affair. You begin to think this might actually be your real family.
On my last night there, we’d been drinking literally all day and had ended up back in Rose. Claudio, one of my producers, said I was wearing my “angry eyes.” He kept trying to convince me to return to the hotel, but apparently, I refused to leave unless he did.
I met a guy named Moose there who had a handlebar mustache, wore colorful suits, and took pictures of bears and strippers. We’re still in touch.
K-Rae’s Irish Pub
When you find yourself on the coastline of a Central American country that is more jungle than civilization, you really don’t expect to find an Irish Pub run by a woman from Worcester, Massachusetts.
My friend Bob and I were on a boys’ surf vacation and had wandered south from Tamarindo in search of waves and adventure. We’d heard tell there was an actual Irish pub in these parts, and we were anxious to have a look.
K-Rae’s looks a lot like what you might imagine an Irish Pub would look like in the jungles of Costa Rica. Large common tables and benches. Wooden stools at the bar. Framed pictures all over the walls. But it’s also what you might imagine a Tico would imagine an Irish Pub to look like if they’d never left Costa Rica. Sort of Central American.
While we were there, we ran into some other Americans, and we got to talking. Come to find out, they were from New Jersey as well, and lived not far from us. We talked surfing and travel, and bought each other rounds of Imperial, the local beer.
“Hey, you look familiar,” said one of the dudes after a while. “Did you, by any chance, ever used to hang out at Dirty Franks in Philly?”
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