Christine Dwyer Hickey laments the demise of the Irish pub as the school-room of conversation
I might as well start with Campari and soda. In Italy, where I have been spending quite a bit of time lately, I like to have mine before dinner. Just the one mind, but served in the correct manner. I've paid more than €3.50 for the privilege, and it always comes with a plate of bits: olives, pizzette, that sort of thing. Not that I would expect the good publicans of Dublin to run to such extravagance. In a city where it costs more than €4 just to open the door of a taxi, should I also expect to be fed? What I do expect is not to have to engage in a battle of wills across the counter whenever I go into a pub. Particularly since I'm usually the loser. Just for the record, Campari is not a spirit, but a fortified wine, legally classified as such - yes, I got so pissed off I checked with the Legal Metrology Service - and it seems that although publicans don't have a legal right to sell it by a spirit measure, there is no legislation to stop them from doing so. And so they do. A nice profitable loophole for the publican then. A glass of mouthwash for the customer, which is what a mean measure of Campari and soda tastes like. I could order a double, but at around €14 for a drink.
And just what makes me think I'm so bloody special that I can use this space to gripe over the size of my tipple? The Italians, actually. There, whatever restaurant or bar you're in, there is always a fuss if you're not completely satisfied. They want you to enjoy your food, and your drink. They want you to appreciate the trouble they've taken on your behalf. But most of all, they want you to come back.
I've gone off Dublin pubs anyhow. And I used to like them. A lot. God knows I spent enough time in them. Even in childhood, the pub crawl was a concept I understood. My father, whose family nickname was "glass-arse" because he couldn't stay on the same bar stool for more than one drink, was a champion at it. Most of his business (part-time contractor, full-time gambler), was conducted in pubs. Indeed, whenever I was asked that oddly intrusive question - "where does your Daddy work?" the first thing that used to pop into my mind was the interior of a pub. There were early-houses where he picked the men up in the morning. Suburban pubs where he paid them. There were pubs where he left wads of betting money behind the bar, cashed cheques, made phonecalls, and watched the English racing on the telly. In other places he sat in a quiet corner and read his paper. In all of these places he was personally greeted and always shown respect by the publican.
His own father had a short-lived career as proprietor of the Irish House on Wood Quay, and there, behind the bar, hung a notice: "If you don't like the pint, don't tell the fella beside you - tell me." This was a time when customer loyalty counted - a tradition which could well be on the wane. Publicans, hard-working as they were, always had time for their customers. Bar staff were trained. They knew their drink and how to serve it. You were in a home-from-home, unless you were what was termed as a messer, then you were barred. Nowadays two beefy bouncers at the door take care of messers. Conversation has been replaced by music. Staff are pulling pints on the first day of employment. The publican doesn't even have to show his face.
My father also had his town pubs: McDaids, Grogans, the Bailey, Davy Byrne's - pubs for conversation. Later, these would become my pubs, too. Was it Joyce who said, "The Irish are the greatest talkers since the ancient Greeks"? If that was the case, then they had to find somewhere to do it, and, more importantly, learn how to do it. The Dublin pub was the school-room of conversation. There people of all ages mixed with people of all classes. Occasionally these conversations could descend into chaos. But that was hardly the point.
As more and more pubs give way to brain-biting music, I'm beginning to have serious worries about the future of Irish conversation. Take Renard's, chosen as this year's Dublin theatre festival club, and where I happened to be last week, taking part in an RTÉ arts programme broadcast from the premises. The festival club is supposed to be a place where people meet after the show. To talk and gawk. To discuss, maybe even row about the plays just seen or yet to be seen. As soon as the broadcast was over, the music went up. And up, and up. Theatre-goers began to slip off, leaving the regulars behind.
And it has to be said, the Renard's regular is a young and often beautiful thing. In the upheaval of noise, they greet each other with enthusiasm. From the girls this comes across as silent Munch-like squealing. From the blokes, hearty backslaps and buddy-buddy hugs. But no conversation. Because what's the point if you can't be heard? At that level of noise there is really only one thing to do with your gob, and that's to throw drink down it.
I'm told by a 20-year-old in the know that she and her pals are now choosing pubs and clubs where there is some chance of having a conversation. So they do want to talk. I'm told by somebody else who takes an interest in such things, that the higher the music, the higher the profits. Ah the profits. So that's it. And to hell with what the customer wants.
Which reminds me - that's two cubes of ice, pour over two parts Campari, three parts soda. Take a good slice of orange. Squeeze. The orange that is, not the customer.
• The Gatemaker, the third part of Christine Dwyer Hickey's Dublin trilogy (New Island, €11.95) is out now