Bucko's World

Belfast Day 2 part 3

After the disappointment of the Tender vessel – other than the hilariously drugged up host – we head back to the main exhibition for tea break number 11 and plan making for this evening.  So…

…after a refreshing 40 winks or so back at the hotel, we find ourselves returned to the mean streets and looking for some invigorating entertainment ahead of our night out.  Now, when my mother had found out we were coming to Belfast she had two sage and helpful pieces of advice.  1) – why the fuck do you want to go there? (I may be paraphrasing) and 2) – we always stayed at the Europa Hotel when your Dad was around.  OK, let’s ignore 1) for now (or indeed forever…) and look at number 2.  Or not, as it was three times as much to stay there as it was the Premier Inn – and no matter how fancy it’s reception area and supercilious the staff money talks and bullshit walks.  And this walk goes to eleven…

Anyway, having admired the illuminated edifice of the Europa from afar (well, as close as they would let us in jeans and a Maiden T-Shirt, i.e. not that close at all) we find ourselves at the a pub with the world’s greatest name ever - The Crown Liquor Saloon…

And believe me, the establishment is every bit as good as you would hope it would be from that fantastic moniker, plus about 500%...

When we enter, having a little knowledge of this National Trust property, we look for one of the booths we’ve heard about to settle into for a drink but find they’re all taken, and that the rest of the pub is packed to the rafters.  Others in our group look defeated, but I’m having none of it.  I’ve never seen a pub anything like this and I’m buggered if I’m leaving just because the chances of getting a beer appear to be about 50 to 1.  Fuck that.  We have a Lisa with us and we’re prepared to use her.  We shove her through the throng towards the bar and let her do her magic.  Seconds later not only do we have some drinks on the way, but three tall seats at the bar as the only other English people in situ (three quite lovely young ladies…) decided following the onslaught of Lisa’s elbows and handbag that there is somewhere else they’d rather be.

I’d try to describe this temple of Dionysian worship but it would be pretty futile – it’s just the most extraordinary pub I’ve ever been in.  Gas lamps abound, barely illuminating the bar, dark wood sculptures decorate every booth top, mosaic bar signs glitter behind the bar staff in the limelight, and the whole place buzzes like a beehive in full summer swing.  It is simply epic. 

And then they do a beer with such a local connection it’s impossible to resist.  Yes, it really is called Belfast Beer – and is actually rather bloody good.  It could be shite, of course, bearing in mind that with that name the 20,000,000 Yanks who claim to have been from this exact fucking pub will drink the place dry of it every night it’s available, but it isn’t.  The brewery have made it bloody good, and therefore, it’s even more important that we’ve formed an impenetrable barrier of bodies, bar stools and clothing piles between us, the locals, and any unworthy sorts who may try and get between us and the bar for a beverage.  I’m pleased to say job done by us, but other areas could do with a proper shake up, as we could hear quite a few Yankee Doodles complaining how warm the beer was, how packed it was, and why there were no booths put aside especially for these glorious former sons of Hibernia.  Daft cunts.

Strangely enough, even as we sat there contemplating life and the Yank arseholes, things took a turn for the weirder.  A group of Japanese came through, making a massive fucking racket, elbowing people out of the way, generally being gigantic tossers and started taking endless selfies, group shots and even photos of other people’s drinks, all without a by or leave for anyone who may currently be in the bar, you know, paying for drinks.  It seemed that manners were something reserved for home and so long as you didn’t speak the language you could do anything you wanted with impunity. 

Rather wonderfully, the locals were having none of this and (probably not for the first time) gurned and photobombed their way through all the Japs’ pictures, before politely pointing them towards the bar with the universal sign language drinking gesture as accepted by all.  When they tried to ignore this simple suggestion and continued to try to photograph the entire pub, these helpful locals pointed them towards the exit and made sure the cheap fuckers didn’t make it back in again.  British passive-aggressiveness at its best.  I felt very proud, and even the annoying Yanks could be heard saying something along the lines of “Jeez, at least you buy a drink before annoying the fuck out of everyone else in the bar…” Word. 

You know, if you’ve been to a temple in a foreign country you were no doubt expected to make an offering – and probably take your shoes off too – so why do these fuckers come here and think that can come through ours without at least purchasing a couple of pints of Foster’s or Carlsberg (and a couple of packets of Scampi Fries) is beyond me.  Blood boiling ensues…

Despite everything, our couple of hours in the Crown is actually excellent and before we know it we are right up against the time for our reservations at Howard Street Restaurant.

We know that it’s only two minutes from the pub but here’s the rub.  When we get to Howard Street, it is simply a long road of office type buildings, all with the same faceless green doors.  For half a mile.  We’re that far down before one of our group suggests that we are no longer “near to the pub”.  They are correct.  And we’re now 10 minutes late for our table.  Being English this is not acceptable, and we are all in various levels of panic.  Will they give our table to someone else? Will they deny any knowledge of our booking as we watch a lucky table of four high fiving and getting the cocktails in?  Will they turn all the lights out and hide behind the sofa when we ring the bell asking to be fed and watered?

Well, luckily for us Irish people have a slightly different concept of time from us Londoners’, and by the time we’ve been back and forwards up the street a dozen time and eventually worked out the restaurant has no sign and the same plain green door as the rest of the buildings, we’re glad to finally be crammed into an inglenook away from the rest of the restaurant’s punters, like the naughty children in the corner.  Don’t worry folks, when you’ve got the name best get the game, you feel me fam?...Err, I’ve no idea what that means…

Anyhoo, despite feeling cornered off away from the rest of the punters, we have an excellent meal, and a great night.  The Pork Belly with Black Pudding and caramelised onion and Potato gratin was quite orgasmic, and the drinks were good; service friendly, funny and rather excellent and we had a great time.  Deffo would go back again if we were in town…

And so we’re off back to the PI, where K&P rather sensibly fuck off to bed leaving me and Lisa with a bottle of white and tomorrow to plan…