Tag: oconnell

From Jim Gavin to Gin Martinis: A Recent History of The Sackville Lounge

It was relatively early on a hungover Sunday, some years ago, that I found myself in a packed Sackville Lounge, settling into the last available seat, tucked away at the end of the bar and beside the entrance to the small pub.

Awaiting his arrival back to the table from the bar, I had expected Pintman №2 to return in a bit of a huff. Or at least that’s the way I would have – not having anticipated such a busy bar for the early hour that was in it of a Sunday. So imagine my surprise when he landed back with a big happy head on him, before plonking the pints down on the table.

– I’m after getting them for free.

– Yewhat?

– Yeah, those are on the house, he said, to celebrate the five-in-a-row.

– Happy fuckin days.

Taking that first, curative sup of the sweetest of pints (free ones), I’d settled my gaze on a youngfella sat across the other side of the pub.

– C’mere, see your man over there, do you recognise him at all?

– Looks familiar, alright, but I couldn’t tell ye where from.

It might be that we’re not the most observant of fellas, or it might have been the fact that we went out on The Waxies’ Dargle* to watch Dublin win a historic 5th All-Ireland Football Final in a row, the day prior. It could even be a combination of all of the above, but we really should have realised what was going on. I mean, all the signs were there:

· A pub that was so packed at such an early hour on a Sunday

· The fact that we were given a pint on the house to celebrate the win.

· A gang of similarly dressed jubilant lads on the far side of the pub.

· The familiarity of one of them that we could properly see.

But we only copped it after Jim Gavin – the team’s manager and now a presidential candidate – rose from his seat and came into plain view. Yes, we had walked into a pub hosting the All-Ireland winning team, no more than 20 or so hours since the final whistle had blown in Croke Park. This was, of course, much to the jealousy and annoyance of our peers with an actual, full-time interest in GAA, and not just bandwagoners like ourselves.

Being one of the smallest pubs in Dublin City, the episode above came at a time when The Sackville Lounge was in a sort of renaissance, having been reopened following a few years’ closure on the back of the demise of Clery’s Department Store.

Sadly, such incidents of closure were not finished affecting The Sackville Lounge. Just as the pub was beginning to hit its stride, the pandemic struck, and ultimately, the proprietors of this particular incarnation of the pub had to pull out of the venture, throwing the premises into another spell of disuse and uncertainty.

What followed thereafter is probably best forgotten, but for posterity, here goes. The pub was acquired by someone who saw fit to open it as Biddy Mulligan’s Old Ale & Stout House – replete with cheap Carroll’s Gift Shop-esque signage and the lot. To say that there was an outcry would be to put it mildly – numerous media outlets even reported on the outcry, with this one even quoting us in the process.

As it turned out, Biddy Mulligan’s Old Ale & Stout House was not a successful venture and the pub was once again vacated. But having been acquired by the owners of the 1661 on Green Street, the pub had its previous name restored and was reopened. The 1661, which we haven’t yet written up for the blog, is undoubtedly the finest cocktail bar in the country, and their offering in The Sackville is a pared-back version of the type of thing they do at 1661. They’ve even given the pub the tagline – it can be seen on the awning in our picture above – it’s ‘Beloved Dirt’, whatever in the name of Jaysis that’s supposed to mean.

To us though, it’s all a bit of a bittersweet affair. There’s little doubt that it’s a different pub now – its new fitout certainly tells you that – with its beautiful marble bartop contrasting against the matte-black furnishings that abound. And while we can’t help but lament its past – where you might nip in from a downpour of an afternoon and find yourself debating the issues of the day with a GPO clerk, a bus-driver and a Ladbrokes cashier – we can be delight that the pub is at least in good hands and back in the city. And maybe we might just need to dig a little deeper before we find this particular dirt beloved, but we’ll certainly darken its door for a few cocktails yet.

* The Waxie’s Dargle is a traditional Dublin Street Song chronicling the efforts of two cobblers, a profession whose members were colloquially referred to as Waxies, to go on a holiday, for a drinking session in Ringsend and Irishtown. A Dargle being another colloquialism for a holiday, taken from the popularity of the more well-off for visiting Bray in County Wicklow and holidaying there, alongside the River Dargle. TLDR: We were on the lash in Irishtown and Ringsend

Postscript: While I’m very grateful to Jim as being one of the main driving forces in Dublin’s All Ireland triumph, and for us ultimately getting free pints on that day, this post should not be considered as an endorsement of Jim Gavin in his campaign to be the next President of Ireland or of the Fianna Fáil party with whom he is campaigning.

Shameless Plug: we’re in the midst of a very soft launch of an Etsy page, selling some of the prints of the photos of pubs we’ve accumulated over the years. Feel Free To Click Here And Take A Look

October 3, 2025
From Baring All to Belting Elton: Meagher’s and the Great Circle of Pub Life

It was one of those wholesome, heart-warming moments. The type of thing that could have done numbers on TikTok or Instagram, or wherever things do numbers these days, if anyone had been bothered to film it. First of all, the setting was perfect – it was the Christmastime of the year; literally just a day or three to go – and the pub was all aglow with pine and twinkly lights and all the rest. Secondly, the occupancy was just right—lightly packed. No spare seats, but still enough room to manoeuvre, and ample space to stow away the proverbial Christmas shopping bags. 

And it was the shopping bags that were crucial, because it was one of these that someone retrieved him from – with tags dangling and in all his golden glory, his owner displayed him with great reverence to the rest of his companions. And going by his companions’ faces, they all shared similar reverence for the life-sized replica lion cub – Simba, from The Lion King®™© (please don’t sue me, Disney), that the man had retrieved from the branded bag that sat on the bench next to him.

And that would all be very pleasant and fine in itself, but it was what happened next that I wanted to speak to you about today. It was when another punter, at another table, saw all of this and began to belt those time-honoured words at the top of her lungs: 

NAAAAAAAAAANTS INGONYAMA BAGITHI BAAAABA!

Possible that it would have been better to have typed that out phonetically, but suffice it to say that this woman basically co-opted an entire packed Christmas pub into a full sing-along of Elton John’s Circle of Life, the Theme Song from Disney’s 1994 Classic – The Lion King.

If I hadn’t been overcome with the magic of the moment myself, I might have spent longer looking at the man who had bought the gift. The poor fella, he could only look on with a nervous trepidation that the half smile on his face did nothing to hide, as his stuffed toy was relinquished from his grasp and crowd-surfed across the packed pub. Thankfully, the toy would come back to him unscathed, but not before the pub’s sturdiest-looking stool was recast as Pride Rock and the toy triumphantly raised aloft to the cheers and hollers of the masses as they went for one last chorus of the song, mimicking the opening scene of the movie. The staff had even copped what was going on and put the actual song on the jukebox.

So all in all, as wholesome a moment as you could ask for in a pub at that time of the year. Especially so, given one of this particular pub’s recent incarnations – something another man was certainly aware of. I heard him, as I was making my way to the toilet after the whole Simba affair, and he says to his friend: That’s not the first time a growler was put on show in this pub.

And the man, beautiful linguist and all as he was, was absolutely correct – prior to being Meagher’s, and a short-lived Indian Restaurant, the pub was called The Garden of Eden and was one of Dublin’s handful of purveyors of lapdancing and associated services. Yours truly never did darken its door during these years; however, Pintman#REDACTED had the pleasure once and gave it the following six-word review: Penneys Knickers and Caesarean Section Scars.

The building re-opened as a pub in 2022, having been acquired by the owners of the River Bar, the nearby pub in O’Connell Bridge House, across the river. It underwent extensive renovation and a faux-Victorian fitout was installed: replete with decorative wallpaper and a snug to the front of the pub. A beautiful mosaic tile runs underfoot, and the walls are decorated with historical images and adverts, lots of which don’t appear to be the same, usual ones that you tend to encounter everywhere else, time and time again. This was also the first pub I’ve come across with a cabinet of supposed whiskey bottles, all affixed with historical labels of brands, some still in existence and some since confined to the ages. I’ve come across the same bottles in other pubs, since and have considered buying an inkjet printer, an extra-large box of teabags and a few Pritt sticks and seeing if I can monetise the empty bottles I’m throwing out down at the bottle bank every other month.

The drinks offering is mostly comprised of the familiar macros, and the Guinness has been pretty decent on all of our visits, most recently hitting the pocket for €7 even in early to mid-2025. There’s also a full food offering, and there’s a good-looking function room downstairs that you can gaze into and think about booking when on your way to the Jaxx.

So, while we’ll admit to being a bit distracted by some other nearby pubs, and not getting in all that often, we’re happy to have Meagher’s as a good pinting option in the Eden Quay district. And to those who are sad to no longer have the option of bare breasts or tikka masala on the premises, we can only assure them that the building’s future is never a certainty and that these options may come back around in that great Circle of Life.

June 26, 2025
Fibber Magee’s

In the early hours of a Friday morning somewhere on Parnell Street in the middle of the first decade of the new millennium, you might have found me in the time-honoured sweaty skirmish that I’m sure you’ll still find long-haired leather-clad rockers in to this day.

With pint glass firmly clasped like all should be when mosh-pit adjacent, I’d be quaffing some unholy concoction sold to me as a loss-leader – aniseedy and tinted in shining glowstick green – you’d still be able to smell it in the morning afterward.

Having arrived early, as to avoid the bouncers, I’d generally be garbed in building site-safe attire, content that at least my steel-toe boots were half on par with the dress code. Eventually, then the gang would spill in and the night would while away into that green aniseed haze, and you would find yourself in that menagerie of boots, chains, leather, denim and all the sweat and beer spilt therein.

And as the drinking-up hour would close in, you might be going hoarse from defiantly shouting the repeated lines of the last song spun – it usually being Rage Against The Machine. “F**k you, I won’t do what you tell me”… you’d howl it as you swayed arm in arm with any number of sweaty metallers… “F**k you, I won’t do what you tell me.” Then the bouncers would move in to clear house – and you’d do what they told you.

There are but a handful of widely accepted institutions in Dublin City, and the place mentioned above – Fibber Magee’s is certainly one. Dublin’s premier Metal bar, it was a rite of passage for young trainee rockers like myself who found that their fondness for music could no longer be confined to unlicensed premises way back when.

Though ultimately I’d find the tunes in Fibbers a bit on the heavier side and transfer up to Eamon Doran’s, and given that it’s not somewhere I’ve ever frequented in the true sense of the word, I’ve always retained a fondness for Fibbers and the foundation it provided to me to learn the trade of drinking pints.

Being the likely best example of a Dive bar on offer in Dublin’s portfolio of pubs, Fibbers is cut into a sizeable number of defined sections – a medium-sized bar runs along the left side of the room as you enter, toward the right side, you’ll find an alcove containing two or three bays of semi-circular couches which snugly house a circular table apiece. Moving toward the back of the room, you’ll come upon a bank of pool tables, and as you move right from them, you’ll end up in the venue section, complete with a stage and dancefloor. Beyond all that, there’s a vast smoking area out back which we wouldn’t normally bother commenting on, only for the fact that it is contained in a common courtyard with two vastly different styles of bars/restaurants – Murray’s and The Living Room. This lends to a sort of Gangs of New York – Five Points vibe, the likes of which are found nowhere else in the city.

Pint-wise, we can’t really comment in any great certainty as we generally find ourselves here when our taste buds have been rendered less sensitive than they would’ve been before a hearty sceilp of pints. But I cannot say that our last visit is remembered as being one where the pint was below an acceptable level. I’m told the pint is at the fiver mark here, but we’ll stand open to correction there.

We last visited of a Halloween night, which ended somewhat acrimoniously. With a sizeable crew of costumed and costumeless in tow, we’d awarded the night’s best-dressed award to Pintman №7, who had ignored all advice of it being more of a 2009 thing and decided to dress as Heath Ledger’s incarnation of The Joker from The Dark Knight… as a nurse… in a dress… I think he might have even shaved his legs for the occasion.

Pintman №7, who, despite being a long-time subscriber and attendee to the cause, has heretofore gone uncredited in the annals of DublinByPub. A man caught in a never-ending cycle of giving up and getting back into drinking strong IPAs, he would, as it turns out, have made a fine character actor.

For, you see, it was on this fine October night that Pintman №7 had truly engaged his inner Heath Ledger, Jack Nicholson and Cesar Romero all in one. And the timing of this couldn’t have been more perfect. We’d been unfortunate enough to find ourselves having made the acquaintance of some nasty, uncostumed upstart in the course of playing pool. And it was just as this little bollox was smack bang in the middle of his twenty-somethingth ill-advised insult of the evening when he felt five of Pintman №7’s knuckles speedily settle into his cheekbone. It was so perfect a hit that some of us even swore we saw one of those 60’s Batman pop-art graphics depicting the word POW right before our eyes. Needless to say, the boy went down.

Next of all, we’d found ourselves witness to one of these wonderful Halloween scenes where Donald Trump and Wonderwoman beckoned bouncers as Obi-Wan Kenobi attempted to barrel The Joker out of sight. The bouncers did arrive, and when Pintman №7 freely gave himself up, they informed him that he’d have to be thrown out. He went peacefully. He went so peacefully that the bouncers even cheerfully bade him good night and the best of luck for good measure, too.

Unfortunately, our hopes and prayers that footage of this melee would eventually surface on the national airwaves as part of Crimecall’s CCTV segment have yet to bear fruit. We continue to live in hope.

So that’s about all we have on Fibbers for now. Let us conclude by saying that if you’re the type of person who’s looking to accompany a pint with the aural pleasures of the more advanced sub-genres of metal, or if you’re just a lad in a dress who wants to shoot some pool and watch the world burn, Fibbers might just be the place for you!

September 6, 2019
The Long Stone: Townsend St.

The Long Stone we hardly knew ye.

You stood proudly on Townsend Street for over 200 years, and now they’ve decided to knock you down. We never even took our chance to photograph you while you were open, and now it’s too late. Soon you’ll follow your neighbour, Ned, into the dusty abyss and take your rightful place in Valhalla, and all we can do to console ourselves is to think of cliches – you really don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

We went to visit you on your last day and came to realise what fools we have been not to have spent more time drinking within your confines. We were like flies scuttling along the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – ignorant of the beauty upon which we were standing.

It’s true that I’ve said things in the past that you mightn’t have liked. I was no fan of the hot nut machine that sat atop your front bar and bathed all around it in an uncomfortable fiery hue. I certainly bemoaned the price of your drink on more than one occasion, but none of that matters now.

How we wish you were still open. How we wish we could saunter into the back bar and sit at the mouth of a 10ft sculpture of Odin’s head and gaze upon your bespoke wooden features, your slate flooring, your ancient hanging banners.

But we can’t visit you anymore. The newspapers say that a wrecking ball is due on-site in January. They’ll probably build a hotel on the ground upon which you currently stand. Tourists might come to stay, and they’ll ask if there are any good pubs around. No, we’ll respond… Just hotels.

Rest in peace, The Long Stone. We’ll miss you.

January 2, 2019
Fitzgerald’s: Aston Quay

Growing up in Ireland, you come to realise that certain phenomena can occur from time to time that there’s just no excuse for. Hindsight is certainly 20:20, and 20:20 puts a harsh and unforgiving light on things once they’re done. Garda Patrol, Dustin the Turkey at the Eurovision Song Contest, The ‘Ah Here Leave It Out’ woman getting paid fistfuls of cash to appear to drunken nightclubbers, to mention a few. All equally inexcusable and blatantly ridiculous moments in Irish social history. This is okay, though. All of these were quite evidently outside of the norm, and it’s even easy for us now, as it was back then, to hold our hands up as a nation and say- ‘mea culpa lads, things got a bit out of hand there.’

Some other things, though, are so ingrained into our national identity that coming to view them with any sense of their ostensible ridiculousness is a harder affair. This is something I came to realise a number of weeks ago, having donated blood and mistimed a bus. Realising that another bus wouldn’t be leaving the terminus for at least another hour, I knew there was only one thing for it. And that one thing was to be delivered in a pint-sized vessel complete with black body and a white head.

Sitting in the confines of the canteen in the Irish Blood Transfusion Service’s clinic in the architecturally striking Lafayette House (a building based on that which houses Bruxelles pub), I opted to text Pintman Nº2 – who, as luck would have it, was practically across the road in Fitzgerald’s. With haste, I gathered up as many complimentary pens as I could and set about correcting the pint’s-worth of liquid deficit I’d just undergone.

Arriving into the ornate surroundings of the pub, I met with Pintman Nº2 and two other friends, one of whom happened to be a Brazilian native. Explaining where I’d just come from to Pintman Nº2, our other Irish companion interjected with an enquiry as to whether the act of donating blood still begets a free pint of Guinness. Retrieving my drink from the barman, I explained that the practice had ended some years ago, and with a hearty gulp of my newly poured pint, I exclaimed, to laughter that fell one short of unanimity, that you now have to provide your own pint.

Thereafter, our somewhat perplexed Brazilian companion then listened intently as three Irish nationals described the grand old tradition of swapping pints of porter for pints of blood. I’m still not sure if she actually believed us, and who really could blame her – I mean, the act of giving stout to blood donors is, admittedly, ostensibly, a bit ridiculous. When you try to disassociate from the national psyche for a bit, that is.

Named presumably after the Fitzgerald part of its owners – The Fitzgerald Family, Fitzgerald’s is decorated with that familiar Victorian pub architecture sort of persuasion in mind. Its features include tiled and wooden flooring, a long granite bar, dark wood and high ceilings. These all combine to create a cosy aesthetic along the front half of the pub’s narrow space, a space that is nicely illuminated with the aid of large mirrors which distribute the light effectively. It would be far too picky of us to fault the appearance of this half of the pub – it’s a fine-looking shop.

The back half of the pub, however, we were less keen on. Opening up wide for a more restaurant sort of vibe, it contains lower seating along with the much-dreaded carvery bar. But given that that particular feature is tucked away into a corner and not too imposing, I’ll forego the same style of rant that we decided to level upon poor Madigan’s and leave it by saying that we couldn’t, in all good faith, deduct too many points for the back section, not when it does such a fine job of keeping all the tourists from cluttering up the bar, trying to decide what pints to buy. Speaking of pints, the Guinness we found to be tasty and well-poured, as it should be at €5.50 a pop!

All in all, Fitzgerald’s is a fine aul bar that we’ll likely visit more than just the once again. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re off to petition Guinness to bring back the donor’s pint, and then to try and figure out how to tell our Brazilian friend about the pints given to women just out of labour.

October 18, 2018
Kimchi Hophouse: Parnell St.

Occurring in the form of premises decorated with ephemera alluding to places and people of no significance to local culture, the overseas ‘Irish Bar’ is an ever-intriguing anomaly.

Of course, we’re more than aware that most are likely a mere means to generate profit, but it’s sometimes still a difficult task to silence that voice in your head (that same one verbalises, after a pint or two, to ask the Garçon in McNulty’s in La-Rochelle whether he’s ever been to Ballyfermot) from bigging-up the fact that the most popular variant of drinking establishment, worldwide, is that which replicates your own native one.

It would, though, make you wonder how others feel about similar circumstances. What would, say a native Korean, think about Dublin’s flagship Korean watering hole: Kimchi-Hophouse? Answers on a postcard, please.

Sitting in the somewhat Asian district of Parnell Street, Kimchi-Hophouse trades premises that have been involved in the purveying of intoxicants since 1848 and which, much to our delight, retains the signage bearing its former name: The Shakespeare. The reason for this, we’re not sure of. Whether it was a decision based on finances or a deliberate nod to the past is uncertain, but we’re sure Will-o himself would approve. Past being prologue, and all that.

As it turns out, a Korean bar in Dublin isn’t that unusual in the grand scheme of things. The similarities between Korea and Ireland are many, with some even referring to Korea as the Ireland of Asia. It’s also well reported that Korea is a country not too dissimilar to ourselves when it comes to the partaking of a few social beverages. A fact that is easily evident when you consider that their national spirit, Soju, was the world’s best-selling type of liquor in 2017.

This is all good and well, but the 72-billion KRW ($64M at the time of writing) question is whether this all translates to persons of Korean lineage running a good boozer. Using Kimchi-Hophouse as an example, the answer is yes. A narrow sort of pub, its appearance is characterised by a light blue and white colour scheme with homely wooden flooring underfoot. TVs are ubiquitous, and my companion, a far more discerning football fan than I, agreed that the pub is a perfect setting in which to take in a match. The drink on offer comprises both craft and mainstream, and the prices – all of which are helpfully displayed upon labels hung from the taps- are good. The Guinness was of a very high standard, costing a mere and moreish €4.50 a pint.

The overall vibe of the place is a buzzy one, and the adjoining restaurant means there is plenty of movement from the kitchen, which is situated somewhere toward the back of the pub. On any visit, we’ve found the crowd to generally be a young one, with trendy inclinations. Many of them seem to opt to occupy the smoking area out the back of the pub. The staff are sound too, and our only complaint about the experience of the pub was the ordering process, which seems to come into effect in the evening, whereby one can only be served if they are standing within the confines of a relatively small section of the bar. We found this to be an unnecessary practice, especially when it was enforced with a strictness that meant you’d miss out on the chance of service if you were merely a foot out of place.

But overall, we’re very fond of this boozer -having all the adventurousness of a departure from the norm with all of the comforts of the familiar – Kimchi-Hophouse is a pub we’ll definitely revisit, even if only to try some of this Soju stuff.

October 11, 2018
Madigan’s: North Earl St.

I wonder if any of you agree with me when it comes to my distinct repulsion toward a good hearty roast dinner? First of all, let me assure you that this is no case of picky eating or food snobbery – there’s not a single bad thought I could possibly muster when I’m halfway through a plate and am mixing gravy and mash together like your aulfella would cement and water with a spade. But there’s a certain vibe that this meal, which is traditionally served on a Sunday, evokes for me that just fills me with dread. The vibe in question is that gloomy sort of despair, a bit like a dose of watered-down grieving, or even like The Fear – minus the physiological effects of the drink.

This is no solitary phenomenon, though; this feeling can be evoked by many different stimuli – many will experience it upon the occasion of hearing the Glenroe theme tune, some even attribute it to seeing horses jumping around in the RDS in late August. At any moment, you are just one small experience away from your mind being tricked into thinking that good times are coming to a close and that normality’s resumption is closer than before.

The above is an excerpt from my manifesto calling for Carvery Bars to be removed from all public houses. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Carvery Bars in plain sight within the confines of a pub are the Devil’s work. Consider it to be a DublinByPub core belief that no one person should be at risk of getting that sinking Sunday feeling while they’re out on the pints, except maybe on a Sunday.

Madigan’s of North Earl St, as you might have guessed, has a carvery bar, and I think the previous number of paragraphs say all that needs to be said on that. The pub sits in the centre point between its two identically named sister pubs on Abbey & O Connell St. Aesthetically the pub follows a similar design specification to these sister pubs whereby well-kept wooding fittings and stained glass are the order of the day. It’s a fairly narrow pub and split into two atria by a rather ornate wooden divider that houses a recessed clock in its centre. A long marble bar, which complements the mosaic flooring well, runs along the right side of the further of the two atria before stopping to accommodate that feature which will not be mentioned once more.

The pint was of an acceptable standard and at €5.20 came in at far better value than that on sale in the O Connell St branch. The staff couldn’t be faulted too much and even accommodated Pintman Nº2’s insatiable appetite for international football by putting the World Cup on the nearest TV to us.

We couldn’t quantify Madigan’s of North Earl St as anything other than a great-looking boozer. But the truth is that it’s quite unlikely that we’d take to frequenting it when we’ve such a Grá for so many boozers nearby. But who knows, leave the food in the kitchen, and we might talk.

July 24, 2018
Doyle’s: College St.

It was over a few pints and within the midst of a discussion on the topic of academia that I found myself outvoted by a majority of my peers recently. Having counted yours truly alongside Wilde, Wolfe Tone and other such alumni, I came to realise that considering Trinity College as one’s Alma Mater by virtue of having served a small portion of an ill-fated electrical apprenticeship on campus is not an act that bona fide Trinity Graduates are agreeable to. This is not even negotiable when coupled with hours clocked up drinking cans on the Green at The Pav or drinking pints in Doyle’s. I suppose we’ll just have to hold out for an honorary degree in the meantime.

Sitting on the corner of College St., Doyle’s can sometimes be considered something of an ad-hoc student bar serving the nearby Trinity College. More a bar with students than a student bar, you can forego the thoughts of sloppy-drunk youngsters nosily gathered around a beer pong table when you come to think of Doyle’s – the place is first and foremost a public house. Traditional in its appearance, it’s decorated in similar tones to average Dublin Pubs throughout town. Dark woods are used for the bar, the floors and the church pew-style seating and set the overall look of the pub. The walls display the usual mix of ephemera relating to sport, drinking, music and local history, while flourishes of exposed brick and air ducts add a sort of understated rustic charm to the room. The bar itself follows the circular pattern of the pub – wrapping around the curves of the room, it leaves no patron more than a couple of metres away from a point of service.

The pint of stout has always hit the mark for us in here and has never given us too much reason for complaint. There’s a decent mix of crafty options alongside the old reliables, and there’s usually an offer or two on the go for the students and thrifty postgraduates alike.

All in all, we couldn’t fault Doyle’s too much. It’s a pub that facilitated Pintman №3’s tentative foray into the world of pints and pubs, and he refuses to view it through any other lens than one that’s heavily tinted with nostalgia. And that’s not to say that the rest of us don’t have our fond memories of the place too, notwithstanding the time the three of us almost came to blows after a disagreement over a question in a Father Ted quiz in the upstairs bar. But that’s a story for another day.

July 10, 2018
Madigan’s: O’Connell St.

Of all the questions that people level at us here in DublinByPub, the one that we seem to find ourselves on the end of the most is that which seeks to identify what our favourite thing about the Pubs of Dublin is. Now, if we’re entirely honest with ourselves here, we’d have to admit that the only consistent thing about the answers we’ve given to this query over the years would be the level of inconsistency that could be attributed to them. For, you see, there are a great multitude of things that we hold dear when it comes to the watering holes of this city – and if you are to query us on such a broad topic, we will take full liberty to fly off on any given tangent influenced solely by what happens to come to mind at that particular moment.

Today, for example, our feature of choice would be history – we’ve said in the past that an interesting history is a marked advantage (yet not a pre-requisite) when determining what makes a good pub – this is definitely a statement which we would still stand over. One of the handier things, though, about a pub with a rich history (from the perspective of someone who happens to be in the business of writing about pubs) is that they offer a good hook from which a piece of writing could flow from – this was certainly something I had hoped would apply to Madigan’s of O’Connell St when I sat down to try and write this piece, all of about two hours ago.

You’d think that a boozer sitting squarely upon the country’s most historically significant thoroughfare would be one that would be steeped in all sorts of ancient wonder, wouldn’t you? But a good hour or so of uninspired googling would suggest that there’s not too much to tell here. My poorly executed research would propose to me that the pub is housed in what was previously part of the Savoy Cinema (I’ll have to drop in on my Grandfather and confirm that) and was established in 1984. Personally, I was hoping that I’d find that the building was established in 1790, not because of any reasons pertaining to history, but just because it would have led nicely into my next paragraph.

€17.90 is the unfortunate sum that yours truly paid for the only round that three of us had in Madigan’s of O’Connell St. Guinness came in at an eye-watering €5.70; a drinkable pint, albeit with a bit too big of a head on top – we wondered if this was an intentional measure taken to safeguard customers against choking when they glanced back down at their receipts. Needless to say, there are far superior pours at infinitely more agreeable prices throughout the city.

Unlike the price of the drink, the appearance of this pub isn’t something that we could fault too much. Ubiquitous and pristinely up-kept mahogany characterises the overall look of the pub – dividers and hatches aplenty offered momentary distraction from the pain emanating from the pocket wherein my wallet was kept. Pintman Nº2, while agreeable to my positive assessment of the interior, was quick to knock off a few more points by wondering why a pub charging five seventy for a jar is still showing World Cup matches on a fuzzy, mid-2000s era, CRT-style TV. “Surely they can afford a flat-screen by now”, he protests.

The customer base is unsurprisingly mostly made up of tourists, and the staff are warm and friendly in their service. The bouncer was prone to nipping in and out to keep track of the score of the ongoing match during our stay – a humorous sort of man, he interacted well with the customers inside. He even suggested a few boozers to us upon overhearing our arguing over where to go next – advice we opted to take in lieu of another round.

This was the last of the many Madigans that we had yet to set foot in; ultimately, it disappointed. Undoubtedly, it’s a well-placed and good-looking boozer, but the price of the pint was one that was just too exorbitant for us to justify returning. This now means that Madigan’s of O’Connell St. is officially deemed to be DublinByPub’s least favourite of all the Madigans. And we include Killbarrack Shopping Centre in that!

July 4, 2018
Madigan’s : Abbey St.

We get some odd correspondence from time to time here at Dublin By Pub – as the community of people that follow us has grown on Instagram, so too has the volume of stuff that comes into our inbox. Most of what we receive is quite positive – we’re always delighted to talk shop with people who do inbox us, and we’ve had plenty that have taken the time to share some fantastic stories and memories with us over the last while. Invariably too we also get some spam and some odd requests. One thing we regularly get (and happily welcome) is people who get on looking for recommendations on what pubs to visit when they land in Dublin. Sometimes, though, someone asks a question that you never thought you’d ever be asked in life – One such question recently came in the form of this: Where do I bring me granny for a pint?

Now, far be it from us to suggest that our country does not contain grandmothers who would love nothing more than a few games of pool as they hammer a rake load of Jägerbombs into themselves over a bit of Metallica in Fibbers, but when a question alike the one above is asked of me, I can’t but help to refer to clichéd stereotype. So with images of woollen-clad, mass-hungry Coronation Street aficionados in mind, I could think of but one pub to recommend that this person bring their dear old Nana – Madigan’s of Abbey St.

We don’t want to, in any way, delegitimise Madigan’s by any means here; this is a true, out-and-out Dublin pub. But given that it’s a stone’s throw from the since-closed Clery’s and lies in close proximity to many public transport links, as well as being practically next door to Dublin’s premier purveyor of texts and tat relating to the catholic church – we’d argue that it’s a perfect spot for granny.

The pub is one of three Madigan boozers, which all sit within walking distance from each other on Dublin’s north side. We’ve only ever seemed to find ourselves in this pub before the fall of darkness for some reason, and in our heads, it’s certainly remained as an afternoon sort of pub. The most notable aspect of the pub that deserves comment upon is its appearance; there isn’t even the slightest of cases to be made on the issue of this not being an attractive-looking space. The pub’s aesthetic is well-curated and is a brighter and more polished one than that of those which trade nearby. Bright floor tiles and cream-hued walls illuminate the pub amply, dark wooden dividers contrast the brighter colours and are utilised to section off different seating areas – one of which contains a fireplace. The bar sits to the left of the room toward the back, but you’d nearly miss it given the atrium that sits at the very rear of the room. Panelled entirely in backlit stained glass depicting colourful shrubbery, this atrium, which houses low and cosy seating, is a feature that is, without doubt, the main talking point of the pub’s design.

We haven’t been in here in well over a year, but the pint is remembered as being an acceptable one because let’s face it – you never forget a bad one. We’re certainly overdue for a visit by now and must report back on how the place sits in 2018.

Now! Who wants to lend us their granny?

May 15, 2018