I DON’T THINK I’LL EVER DO it again. At least if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be around later to tell the tale. I suppose I escaped this time only because, first, it was relatively early in the evening and the little time-worn pub in the heart of Wexford barely contained a quorum of imbibers, and second, because I managed to turn my inane question into a lousy wimpish joke that generated enough dismissive sneers and sniggers to dispel, or at least divert, the threat of malicious mayhem. Of course it also got me labeled as a loopy “blow-in” tourist—harmless and certainly not worth correcting in the traditional Irish manner. Which can be a rather messy business, what with all that threatening verbosity followed by the bludgeoning, spurts of blood, splintered cartilage, purpling bruises, and facial lumps the consistency of extremely hard-boiled eggs.
And what, you may well ask, was this question that could have brought about such a potentially traumatic and painful termination to an otherwise very pleasant evening?
All I did…honestly, this is the whole thing in all its naïve simplicity…I asked the barman—“Is it possible that you have a bottle of Sam Smith’s Ale…or better still, a Newcastle Brown?”
Now, I asked this, not for any troublemaking reason or devious intent, but merely because I was, despite my growing enjoyment of the ubiquitous Guinness, longing for a good old pint of British ale, preferably one brewed in or near my home county of Yorkshire or certainly somewhere in the north of England.
There was a sudden somber silence. You could have heard the legendary pin drop, although a sharpening of ax blades might have been more to the point.
“Wha’…wha’s that yer askin’ fer?” asked the barman, preceded by a sly malicious wink to the cluster of arm-flexing, Guinnesschugging giants by the counter.
“Er…just, ah, a bottle of Sam Smith’s? Pale Ale will be fine—or a Newcastle Brown…Even a Worthington would be okay if…”
More silence. Of the sinister, sniggery kind. And then: “So—that’s the way then, is it? Guinness is not good enough f’ya, then? Is that it? Or Smithwick’s or Harp. Or Murphy’s. Or Beamish. In fact, it seems t’me like nothin’ made in our beautiful country will suffice? Is that right? Y’ll just be lookin’ exclusively f’yer English piss-water, it seems. Puttin’ our poor lads at the breweries here out o’ the business while y’ be asking fer yer own imported rubbish instead…”
“Look…listen…if you don’t have any, it doesn’t—”
“Don’t have any?! As if I’d let anythin’ with a name like Sam Smith’s or Newcastle or Worthington get into my cellar while my lovely barrels o’ the black stuff rest there waitin’ t’be appreciated by them’s as knows their beer an’ their stout…”
I began to suspect that I was becoming the butt of some stupid insider joke or the recipient of a silly little hazing ritual for blow-ins with a hankering for the great British ales. Or maybe it was my accent. Very obviously British. Sort of middle–working class with overtones of grammar school. But definitely not that upper-crust tone, all clipped, authoritative, and dictatorial—the one that conjurers up days of Empire, Rule Britannia, Churchillian bombast, and Prince Charles’s speeches. “You’re not being serious…,” I suggested with a kind of “that’s enough now—just pour me a pint” nonchalance.
A nonchalance that was not reciprocated. “So, what’s it t’be then?” The barman had an unpleasant habit of stroking the under-side of his chin with his finger, sliding it about like a short but deadly knife.
“Well, I guess if there’s no Newcastle in the house…I suppose a Murphy’s stout will have to do.”
“We don’t sell Murphy’s.”
“Beamish then?”
“We don’t sell Beamish.”
“Smithwick’s Bitter?”
“Out.”
“Harp Lager?”
“Out.”
“Look—why don’t I just try the place across the road…”
“One more guess. Y’get one more,” said the barman with a menacing leer that suggested no contradiction.
“Okay—right. Fine. I’ll take a pint of your Guinness, then.”
Utter transformation!
“Well! Yessir! O’course, sir!” He smiled his best “at your service” customer smile. “A pint o’ Guinness it is, then, and a fine choice, sir, if I and my colleagues here might say so. It’ll just take a couple o’ minutes. T’get the top right. ’S’not Guinness without its proper head, y’understand.”
“Yes, I know. I’m quite familiar with Guinness by now.”
“Well—are ya, now? I wouldna known that from what it was y’ were askin’ for a minute or two ago…maybe y’were just havin’ a little confusion of the mind…”
And that’s when I should have left. But he was already pulling the pint and the black stuff was pouring in with its surges of infinitesimally tiny brown bubbles and that creamy head building. And it looked as good as all the ads you see on television, particularly the one shot in sepia colors with a young guy mesmerized by the gradually rising nectar of his stout and a bead of anticipatory sweat easing slowly down his forehead to the tip of his nose as the glass gradually fills…
Finally the pouring ritual was over, and as I reached to pick up the glass, I sensed a concerted gathering of onlookers around me at the bar. They seemed to be watching me and my drink very expectantly. Well, I thought—I guess I’ll show this crowd I can drink a pint of Guinness just as well as the next man. This is no wimpy blow-in here. So I picked up the glass and slowly downed the whole pint without a break for breath or anything else for that matter. Then, when I’d finished, I placed the empty, froth-laced glass back on the counter, wiped my mustache and lips with my left hand, and smiled. “Not bad…” I mumbled while half turning toward the door. It was only ten or so broad steps away, I gauged, and there was no one blocking the exit. Maybe I could make it because I certainly had no intention of hanging around this malevolent place—an obvious bastion of blow-in bashing if ever I’d seen one.
“So,” sneered the barman. “Y’seemed to enjoy that right ’nough, then…”
Go for broke, my proud little Yorkshireman whispered internally. So I did. “Well, t’be honest…a pint o’ British ale obviously would’ve been far better, but…”
I think the but was actually delivered as I reached the door, flung it open, and rushed out into the dark streets. I expected a clatter of feet behind me, but fortunately, no one seemed to think the chase was worth the trouble. I’d survived this little unexpected brush with mortality.
Which of course I hadn’t because…I’d left my bag on the bar-stool and had no choice but to go back and retrieve it…but that, as they say, is another story…