Pub Fiction: Something Special in McDaids - The Session #149

 

Seamie sat at the back of the small lounge bar, his elbows resting on the table as he nursed his bottle of stout, his third of the afternoon. They had draught porter here of course, and it was kept in good order in fairness, but he preferred the ritual pour - and the strength and tart dryness - of the stout instead. He’d take a couple of half-pint bottles over a pint of plain any day. And as for the shiny new taps? Well, he had no idea how they worked and didn’t much care. The so-called swingin’ sixties how are ya, everything was changing, and not for the better. And Watney’s? Those little red barrels of English piss were propped up on almost all the bars he frequented now. He didn’t care much for ale anyway, apart from the odd barley-wine of a cold night.

His stomach rumbled, but it was drowned out by the chattering of the men propping up the counter and the clatter of barmen behind it. At this time of the day the place was full of journalists and businessmen grabbing a quick pint before heading to their cosy homes. They were talking their usual shite of course, of politics and sport, both subjects Seamie had no interest in. Anyway, he was as likely to sway public opinion by getting involved in such talk about which TD should do what as he was to appear on the pitch in Croke Park.

He hadn’t eaten today. Not that that was an unusual occurrence, as most days he’d do without breakfast or lunch, partly because of disinterest but also because he needed to mind the few bob he earned from the council for sweeping the streets. Anyway, there was rarely any food in the little bedsit he shared with his brother Iggy near the canal. Iggy didn’t work, or couldn’t work, ever since he was let go from the biscuit factory for being too slow. Not physically slow but mentally slow, or maybe both. Since then all he did was sit in the big chair by the window, looking out at the rare barges that passed by and crying. Iggy cried a lot.

Seamie heard a commotion as two men walked in and were greeted by those gathered at the bar as if they were old friends. He recognised one of them, a spectacled so-called poet that seemed to often be in bother. Seamie had read some of his stuff but didn’t care for it. He preferred classics like those in a little treasured book of 19th century poets he kept in the breast pocket of his overcoat. James Clarence Mangan, now he was a real poet with a proper poet’s name to boot. He never wrote about stony grey shite …

His stomach rumbled again, louder this time and he coughed to cover the sound, not that anyone was paying him a blind bit of attention as the writer held court.

He counted the few coins he had in his pocket, he had enough for his favourite meal with a few pence left over. He raised himself from the bench he was sat on and hobbled to the side of the bar.

‘Peter?’

One of the barmen broke off from conversation with a customer and went to him.

‘Alright Seamie? Another bottle?’ he said as he reached for the shelf.

‘No, no. Can I get a Bovril and a toasted sandwich?’

‘God you can Seamie, sure. The toasted special?’

‘Aye, perfect. Lovely’ He counted out his coins and handed them to the barman. 

He paused. He had just enough left.

‘I will take that stout Peter, just don’t open it.’

He handed over the rest of his coins.

‘I’ll drop them down to you.’

Seamie returned to his seat and finished the last of his stout while he waited for his sandwich, trying not to listen to the insufferable bar talk that had reached a new level of pompous stupidity. Why were men so loud and obnoxious at times?

The barman arrived with the mug of Bovril and a toasted sandwich on a plate with a knife. He placed the bottle of unopened stout on table and went back to chatting with the now large throng that crowded the counter. Seamie carefully cut the sandwich in half and watched the cheese ooze out from the edge. There were lads that would eulogise about a pint of stout but surely a decent sandwich deserved some special words too? If Seamie could only write then he’d have penned an ode to the toasted special. There was something about the combination of cheese, ham, onion and tomato shielded between two slices of overdone toast that suited a public house, especially with a mug of Bovril. That, in fact, was your only man.

Seamie slurped his hot drink and nibbled at his half sandwich, savouring it, relishing it and appreciating how something so simple could change your mood. He finished his Bovril and sat back, staring out past the rounded windows into the darkening sky. He wanted to stay a bit longer, but knew he couldn’t.

Taking a hanky from his back pocket he wrapped the rest of the sandwich carefully and stored it in the deep pockets of his well-worn overcoat before slipping the unopened bottle of stout into the other. 

He headed for the door.

‘See you Seamie,’ said Peter.

‘See you lad,’ he replied.

He stopped and adjusted his overcoat before opening the door, his elbow just jutting out enough to spill some of the whiskey that the poet was raising to his lips as he leaned against the door jam.

The door swung shut on shouts and insults as he heading back towards the canal, with both hands in his overcoat, minding Iggy’s supper.

(The above images of McDaid's public house from 1965 were on the Dublin City Digital Library website archive, and I previously posted it on Twitter with a link. That link appears broken and the archive has moved but is from their collection and used here for non-commercial purposes. It was wrongly reversed in the archive so I fixed and enhanced it at the time.)

This was for a call to action on pub food for this month's The Session by David Jesudason here.

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