Luck of the Irish

My Springsteen-fan colleague had long extolled the merits of the local Irish pub before the call on Wednesday evening inviting me to join him and some friends and to try the Nikšić beer they had on tap.

Surrounded by white concrete Yugoslav-era apartment buildings and pineapple-shaped palm trees, the cozy, wood-panelled Dublin Pub could perhaps best be described as an incongruity. In observation of the summer months, green canvas chairs and umbrellas (all emblazoned with the Nikšić logo) were clustered around tables outside. My colleague and three other people occupied one of the tables; as I arrived, he leapt up with alacrity to give me his chair, pulling another nearby one over for himself. Inside, the walls were decorated with framed photographs of famous Irish-Americans, a map of Ireland, a fiddle, a Leadbelly and Dylan record, a garland of fake pine, some American license plates, and a copy of a proclamation. A version of ‘Whisky in the Jar’ by a group that I had not heard before was being played on the stereo; the group, it was soon divulged, is called the ‘Orthodox Celts’, a Balkan group that performs Irish folk music.

The bartender came by holding a tray laden with foam-topped mugs. He had the same dimples and green eyes as an expat journalist I once met, whose stomach was also rounded as testament to the number of hours it had spent in bars. He was introduced by my colleague as ‘the best bartender in the country’ (apparently, at several contests organized by the Niksic company, he had won awards for his skillful pulling of beer), and looked at me, puzzled, before asking what I really was, because my face did not look American. My colleague proudly said that I was Irish, and although I pointed out that it was several generations back, the bartender later sent over a round because I had Irish blood (never mind, apparently, that it has been somewhat watered down by German and English, I was still the one in the bar with the closest relation to the isle).

Despite such illustrious ancestry, I had seriously doubted whether I could finish the first 0,33l mug, since beer is not my beverage of choice (that honor goes to wine, or concoctions involving Campari or rum) and I had managed to avoid it for over a year, before coming here this summer. That in mind, I was rather horrified when the second 0,33l mug appeared, and dismayed at the third and at the realization that it would be the litre mark. I had finally managed to politely beg out of inclusion in any rounds to come when the bartender’s round appeared and I realized that not drinking any of it would be rude. The company was very enjoyable and the atmosphere also pleasant. It was not that the beer was bad; it was actually surprisingly good, given my usually low expectations for the beverage, but it nonetheless became a sort of endurance test to make it through the evening.