The methodic beauty of a slow pulled Guinness is that it is that rare form of barista magic that is unduplicated anywhere else in the world. There is an art to not only the actual dispensing of the precious liquid but also to the generally unacknowledged brilliance of the person minding the CO2 levels, keeping the tap lines clean, and also, keeping that keg of Guinness at the proper temperature.
Ireland pours different from the rest of the world, we'll just give them that since it is their court, Tanzania on the other side pulls long and heavy while here in Portland, most baristas fail to take the necessary time to accomplish that magical head, cascading down the edge of a room temperature glass. They pour like its a lager, tap up, glass under, and fill. Still, the creamy goodness of Guinness trumps any fault of the barista, as the first sip turns into the tenth, who actually cares who poured it?
So I sit in an Irish bar listening to the Eurythmics and the Cars (must be '80's music day) looking at the nearly 25 taps and see IPA's, porters, lagers, pilseners, wheats (two, actually) with the full complement of Oregon breweries represented, but only see Guinness and Beamish stouts as the lone Irish representatives. There is no whiskey as this is a public house (no liquor here, only karaoke, darts, beer, wine and soundless TV) and the requisite food served up by early twentysomething grommets with patchy beards, rasta hats and scattered tattoos and piercings. Irish paraphernalia decorate the walls along with a Buffalo Bills pennant, a portrait of both Reagan and Kennedy, and mirrors of Harp, Mactarnahans and Lindemans.
This place screams Americana! Fish and chips, paddy (haha)melts, burgers, wings, salads and then a nod to their claim to fame---shepherd's pie, Murphy's stew, bangers and mash, and scotch eggs. I love truth in advertising, especially in pubs because if it's one thing you know you'll get in an Irish pub, it's a glass of Guinness. And, truth be told, I wouldn't go into an Irish pub for the food, no offense to Leprechaun Nation, but the food from the Emerald Isle leaves a little something to be desired.
One day I will go to Dublin on a decidedly dreary grey day, walk the streets until I can smell the telltale vinegar emanating from an authentic chip house and open the door to find the true Irish standing behind that infamous black and gold label. The crusty old salt behind the bar won't even ask what kind of beer I want, he'll just pour and expect me to accept it. Until then, I'll be content to frequent these so called Irish bars as much as I frequent French bars (for their brie and champagne), German bars ( brats and lager), American bars (burgers and Budweiser), and Italian bars (pizza and chianti).