Kehoe’s – An Unseasonable treat – As published in Totally Dublin – August 2008

By Jonathan deBurca Butler

 

Migration is a funny and wonderful fact of nature.  In winter for example, some breeds of whale move to warmer waters to breed and give birth, moving back in the summer to the colder climes of the north to feed. Perhaps, the steak and chips are better in the northern hemisphere. But whatever their motives this is what some whales do.

 

 In the same way there are certain pubs that I don’t go to at certain times of the year and I wondered if this bent was instinctive. I had this on my mind as I went, with my girlfriend, to have a few unseasonable jars in Kehoe’s of South Anne Street.

 

I hadn’t been here for months. So I say unseasonable, because this famous pub, which sits just off Grafton Street, is a place that I associate with the winter months. It is a warm, welcoming and cosy pub, synonymous with Christmas and annual reunions. So I found it a bit odd coming here on a warm summer’s evening; a bit like a fish in the wrong waters. However, as we approached the flower-laden exterior, it dawned on me that I shouldn’t have felt that way.

 

  Around about the time RTE newscasters were getting ready to give us more doom and gloom recession news, we ambled through the rather relaxed crowd that was lapping up the sunshine underneath the pub’s well-known neon-sign and strolled into the bar, where punters anxiously watched the gee gees on the box. A convivial atmosphere is never far from this spot and this evening, albeit a Monday, was no different.

 

 We ordered our drinks, a pint of Guinness for myself at €4.60 and a Heineken for herself at €4.95(a bit hefty?), and headed straight for the snug- a small and comfortable room just off the main bar (mind your head).

 

As we sank into the small leather couch and chatted about the day’s events, we took in the atmosphere of the place that has given both of us quite a few memories, and blackouts, over the years. We both agreed that there has always been a good mix of people in here. Both country-folk and rugby jocks in their suits mix quite freely with the musos and arty types. All groups hang about on a Friday or Saturday night looking at themselves, and others, in the many mirrors that adorn the walls and the warm mahogany interiors.

 

For our second pint we went up the broad, creaky stairs to the living room area, which wasn’t too busy at all. Save for the very courteous barman and what seemed to be an admirer of his twirling her hair, we had only ourselves and framed calendars recalling Ireland’s sweet and sour history for company.

 

Half way through the pints we decided to go up to the smoking terrace -and it is just a terrace- where we spoke about the good weather and how it can transform this city. We spoke a little bit about whale migration too, until we figured it was time to eat.

 

“Fish and chips?” I suggested.

 

“Sounds good to me,” said my missus and we headed for the chipper, safe in the knowledge that Kehoe’s is a good spot all year round.

The Beggars Bush-A pint in the hand is worth two in the bush- By Jonathan deburca Butler – as published in Totally Dublin June 2008

Tasty pints

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

According to the Rough Guide, the Beggars Bush was considered by the British to be  “ a lawless area on the edge of Dublin.”  Things have changed a lot over the years and these days the price tags on houses are the only criminal element still resident in the borough.

      

        So right in the middle of this fairly affluent part of Dublin 4, it is heart-warming to find a boozer that doesn’t rob your eyes and come back for the lashes.

      

        When I told my Spanish mate Xavier that a pint of St. James’ Gate finest was only €3.80 in here he looked at me as if I had just told him I wanted his babies. Xavi, a newcomer to our shores, has no experience of that time, not so long ago, when any combination of drink, crisps, fags etc. cost less than a fiver. He has come to Ireland in an era when it is impossible to enter a bar with less than five bills in your pocket, unless your poison is Pringles.

       

          Go to the Beggars on Friday after work and the place is buzzing. The front courtyard is packed with all sorts: the young, the old, the pleasantly tipsy and the chilled observer.

        

           Inside is a nice, clean, simple bar that doesn’t seek approval. The pint is world class, poured expertly by a staff that are positively sound. The whole place has an atmosphere and smell of proper pub [The aroma of farts does not constitute a proper pub smell]. Add to that, that this is one establishment where the Celtic Mutt (eat that McWilliams) has yet to cock its capitalist leg to leave the foul stench of class division, and you have a classy classless classic Dublin pub. You’ll see the lads from the taxi trade exchanging pleasantries and banter with the chaps from the medical profession in here.

        

           I sat down with Alan and Noel, two regulars. They told me that the original owner’s family still runs the place.

      

           “That’s him up on the wall there,” said Noel pointing at one of the many photos that add a real sense of history to the place. “Jack Ryan.  He was from Tipperary originally.”

        

            Between them Noel and Alan went through a whole history of the place.

        

            “ They were going to build a concert hall here in the 60s and name it after JFK but the OPW ran out of money,” said Noel.

           

             “ Thanks be to Jaysus,” said Alan lifting his eyebrows over his glasses.

           

              I had to agree with Alan. The JFK Concert Hall instead of the Beggars Bush? Now that would have been criminal.