Tales from Dublin Pubs: Grace's of Rathgar Road
A great big barnyard at the top of the Rathmines road – a roomy place that serves a light lunch, the favourite of many a militant soak of a certain vintage. Formerly known as O'Byrnes and Hynes before assuming its current moniker. A seasoned team of father and son, Eamonn Grace Senior and Eamonn Grace Junior are the gentlemen commanders. Our first visit was spoiled by the sight of a drunken sot blatantly pissing himself while standing watching the horses, oblivious to the dark and disgusting stain spreading across his grubby pants. The spectacle was nearly sufficient for Coll’s recently eaten fish and chips to expel themselves from his gullet via vomit. Subsequent visits proved more amenable and it has since come to be regarded as an especial favourite, even a gem.
A superb pint of Beamish can be procured for €4.50. Tipplers Tip: Cash only - no cards accepted. A radio plays while a TV broadcasts which can be disorientating. Plenty of space to park oneself. A row of semi-private booths tucked away to the left of the bar are excellent for the sprawling of spreadsheets, conducting of interviews, or just wet-meetings in general. Curious bric-a-bracs are shelved at various spots including an Orwellian pair of pigs in police uniform standing upright, one thinks of Animal Farm; and a five-piece black jazz band which can be found frozen mid performance. A small unofficial smoking area is hidden beyond the female lavatories.
Crying babies occasionally irk the winos. It’s a ‘Liverpool pub’ but that doesn’t block other regulars from imbibing such as the Arsenal man big ‘Mick’ who sits daily and orders a pint of Tuborg and a pint of blackcurrant cordial – sensible very! He keeps to himself and reads a tabloid newspaper which he’s in the habit of banging against the counter at every turning page. This causes glasses to rattle, bottles to bounce and sleepy barflies to startle. Then there’s friendly ‘Seamus’ who walks two little Shih Tzu dogs by the names of Gucci and Pep. ‘The three mutts are back!’ remarked the barman when the pack shuffled in. When asked why he brings the dogs to the pub, Seamus replied: ‘you have it all backwards, it’s they that bring me here.’ When it’s not busy, both doggies get their own barstool where they become the centre of attention. Even the most hardened of boozeheads turn to saplings pleading for ‘the paw’ and taking turns to feed them snacks.
Dear reader rapt, let’s not romanticise overmuch, for when there’s a jovial patron in a Dublin pub, there’s often an evil counterpart hidden in plain sight. Some such sour soul is the regular’s regular wearing his grey-haired spiked, a bully who considers himself to be a legend still among the living. This alpha male reigns over a ratpack of one and marks his territory around the bar each day. Every second word out his loud mouth must be ‘fuck.’ He shouts up, he shouts down, he shouts left, he’s a moron. He gets off on winding people up with snide remarks which only he finds funny. His bitter comments (heard from all over the bar) are aimed at nobody but always meant for somebody in particular.
One winter’s night, when he was on the hunt to outfox his next victim, he ended up snaring himself. We witnessed this rotten presence being escorted [1] off the premises by the elder Eamonn for being abusive beyond belief. An argument had taken place with a woman at the bar which resulted in his shouting uncontrollably and even wishing death upon the poor lady.
Choose the room on the right for more peace and quiet. When in there, one will find generous light, a view of the ornate Four-Lamps of Rathmines through the window, and a chap called Derek. Derek is a big nosed, deep voiced, decent sort of man. He’s always donning a light blue jumper under an unkempt suit. He’ll either be talking to the floor, or at someone for whom he has bought a drink. Clearly a well-educated man with an active mind (albeit with a few screws on the loose), he has been heard waxing lyrical on a wide range of topics in a single conversation such as: the mathematics of gambling, the consciousness of computers, astrology, Mount Everest, Neil Armstrong and the Aran Islands.
Once, when he was explaining a theory about the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle to some simple bloke, he suddenly stopped, looked up at him to see if he was following, and said: ‘you’re lost there aren’t you!’ Derek has come out with the following pearls in his time: ‘Charlie was Bertie’s trainer,’ ‘money is no longer valuable’ and ‘everyone has cancer.’ He was heard to recite, without a single stutter, the entire English alphabet backwards to impress the new barman on the block, Donald.
Once, in the depths of a harsh winter when roads were treacherous and ATMs were empty, Stephens and Coll were on the verge of having to leave this pub due to lack of funds, when in walked pintman Nuncle Richard O’Carroll [2] to save the night. He got us a round of delicious Beamish and then slipped Stephens a crisp fifty Euro note which was worth more than money could buy. Fridays and Saturdays see boisterous traditional music sessions taking place in a corner. These include a large group of dedicated musicians capable of jigs and reels as well as a sing song. Poets are also welcome for recitations and the late Paddy Finnegan was oft seen and heard on the fringes of these sessions. The upstairs section is called 'The Loft' and is ostensibly used for music gigs, but has never once been open in our experience.
Staff are solid and willing to carry drinks to tables. Eamonn Jr is a reliable sort who has never been seen to smile. However, he is not adverse to the odd act of wholly unexpected largesse, kindly treating us to a rare free round to mark the new year of 2019 (it brings a tear to a glass eye and nullifies any previous carping) [3]. His father, Eamonn Sr, shares the same non-smiling trait but is friendly withal, distinguished by his massive hairy arms and spade-like paws that have earned him the nickname of 'Huston Hands'.
This bar, and Des Bond one of its employees, made headlines some years ago when Leonard Nolan, a fast food delivery driver who had fallen into fat, entered to buy a pint. When he attempted to pay for his lager with a fresh ten Euro note recently acquired from the local Post Office, Des the barkeep held the note aloft and cried ‘fake!’ Utterly ‘devastated’ at being implied as a cheat, Mr. Nolan took his deep thirst and hurt pride across the road to the Rathmines Garda Station to confirm the authenticity of the incommodious note. He was assured, and doubly reassured that he could spend the tenner anywhere he liked. On account of the very public assassination of his character, and his failure to acquire his badly needed brew, he subsequently invited Laurence Lounge Ltd (trading as Grace’s pub) of Rathmines, Dublin 6, to the Dublin Circuit Court where he sued the establishment for defamation of character and won five thousand Euro plus the cost of court.
Des, the barman in question, is one of the more amiable barkeeps and has no doubt learned a harsh lesson about Ireland’s ‘compensation culture.’ His co-worker ‘Sean,’ a trainspotter from the county Cavan, is approximately four-foot-five and a walking look-alike and sound-alike of president Michael D. Higgins (his physical and vocal peculiarities can also be likened to Yoda). This popular barman may be slight in height but he’s a giant to his customers. He’s an excellent barkeep, reverential and diligent, one of the best in Dublin. He has been known to stand on the other side of the bar and dutifully sample the quality of his own poured Beamish. Sean also moonlights in McCloskey's of Donnybrook (see very far below), but 'only the odd time' – Grace's is his sovereignty, and he rules it with a light touch.
Andrew Stephens once got chatting to a young solicitor at the bar who was trying to drown himself in hard liquor. He went on to confess to being ‘desperate to get away from the missus.’ ‘How long have you been married?’ enquired Stephens. ‘Two months’ he replied. Like most pubs in Dublin, humour is a sharp and constant presence. A drunk walks past the counter and cries: ‘enjoying your dinner?’ to a bloke struggling to open a packet of peanuts. The bloke looks around and says with familiarity: ‘Ah howya! Long time no see,’ to which the man replies: ‘the longer the better, says you, what!’ Says he: ‘Correct.’
FOOTNOTES
[1] This fool, we think, is either permanently barred or too embarrassed to show his smug face as we’ve not seen him since the said occasion.
[2] Richard O’Carroll, grandson of Cllr Richard O'Carroll TC (1876–1916), eldest of 15 children, uncle of Andrew Stephens, builder, amateur historian, singer, pintman, man about town.
[3] This was not a once-off – he repeated the kindness for us on Sunday 5th January 2020. O Eamonn Junior, may your shadow never grow less! An unsmiling saint, an annual dispenser of surprise freebies.
