Ireland: How To Eat Guinness on a Shoestring Budget

Having survived my puketacular flight and mind-numbing trip through customs (see last month's episode) I arrived in Ireland: a land of captivating castles, amazing abbeys, majestic monasteries, terrific towers, and fantastic forts. The island nation , which is similar in size to South Carolina, is known for more than its crumbling bits of rock formerly owned by famous dead people (whose homes were shown by a direct antecedent of Robin Leach in the medieval version of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous , known as Step On the Groveling Serf On the Way Into The Castle If Need Be, Sire). Kind of a long title, but at least the peasants were made acutely aware of their social standing.
I just recently completed a week-long journey to the Emerald Island, as the nation is called, in part because of the rolling verdant hills and also because the citizenry were all born in May (obscure birthstone joke no one will get). Don't interrupt or stare at the copulating locals during the July breeding season.
Much of my week was spent amongst the ruins of places like Trim Castle, Aughnanure Castle, and Corcomroe Abbey. We also saw Dun Aengus, an ancient rock fort perched on the cliffs of the island of Inishm0re. My cousin threw her father over the precipice and into the water below during our visit. Well, his ashes anyway. The toss was carefully planned to avoid any "Big Lebowski"-like entanglements.
There were also natural wonders like the Cliffs of Mohr, a stunning scene where the land meets the ocean, with an eight hundred foot drop in between. We viewed the landscape of Connemara as well, a stretch of Western Ireland where melting glaciers created a picturesque combination of lakes and mountains that would have given even Ansel Adams a bit of a stiffy. The beauty of the barren was in evidence when our route took us through The Burren, an area which British conqueror of Ireland #75, an underling of famed Ireland raper and pillager Oliver Cromwell named Ludlow, complained, "It is a country where there is not enough water to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury him." There was just no pleasing that fellow.
I won't bore you too much with this portion of my trip, which as a former history major as well as a nature addict, I found fascinating. In a nutshell, Irish history is pretty similar to the plight of the Chicago Cubs in North American baseball. Eight hundred years spent trying to free themselves of the British yoke in a series of failed rebellions finally resulting in victory and independence. As a result, most traditional Irish music involves losing battles, family members dying, and getting drunk as a coping mechanism for the sad reality that everything seriously sucks.
Then, if you are lucky, a famine strikes, killing half your family and forcing you to move to America (Fun fact: Today there are more people of Irish decent in New York, Chicago, and Boston than in Dublin). Makes being a Cubs fan sound much less depressing. The lovable losers couldn't possible continue to fail for seven hundred more years, could they?
Anyhow I imagine the interest factor amongst the readers here at The Industry would probably run a little higher if I moved on to a more thirst-quenching topic. The aspect of Irish culture we are glad to celebrate each and every time March 17 comes around. No, I have to admit, I did not go to Ireland solely for the beer, but the black liquidation with the froth on the top certainly was a nice perk. Delicious Irish beverages of this sort include Beamish, Murphy's, Smithwick's, and Harp.
Then there is Guinness, which is seemingly everywhere - a pub without a tap of the stuff is harder to find than a bar without Budweiser or Miller Light in the States. I believe my big word dictionary says that makes it ubiquitous, but I'll have to ask a professional journalist for confirmation.
Anyhow the Guinness in Ireland must be consumed by all who have only had the North American version. After cavorting with leprechauns on two separate occasions as an adult, I have come to the realization that Guinness brewed in Ireland just tastes better. Whereas those birthed in Canada (home of the North American Guinness brewery) affect the stomach in a way not dissimilar from eating a loaf of bread, the ones originating within the St. James Gate in Dublin are easy drinking and quite poundable. I can't tell you why, maybe something to do with the water, but argue all you want, I have seen the mountain and all I can say is that it was well worth the hike.
Finally, a couple of quick tips for anyone planning on imbibing in Ireland in the near future. First, one for those who do not enjoy the local beer and would prefer another. I learned from the locals that Stella Artois is considered the beer of choice for the lower classes of Europe, the kind of folks we would consider "rednecks"/most of the people we know in our part of the world. Since I enjoy a Stella from time to time, this discovery made me feel a lot less classy, but I can't say I aimed all that high on the social strata anyhow.
Secondly, Budweiser and Coors products are imports over there and as a result, more expensive. At last some justice in the world! Despite that fact I saw some patrons at the pub on New Year's Eve choosing to have that dross instead of a pint of Irish stout. There truly is no accounting for taste.
If your personal flavor sensors vary so much that you would prefer another type of alcoholic beverage, you are still in luck. Ireland is the home of a vast array of wickedly wonderful whiskeys, including Jameson's and Bushmill's. If you fancy a trip to drink directly from the spigot, Jameson's is distilled in downtown Dublin, while Bushmill's is made just north of Belfast on the scenic Antrim coast.
Last of all, why does Guinness have such a dark tint? Rumors that the adult beverage had been engaging in adult acts with Sally Hemmings turned out to be false, beer color is actually a function of malt. The malt is roasted in a kiln, and the darker you roast the malt, the darker the beer. Clearly the brew masters in Dublin were under the impression that black is beautiful and chose to go with the soul glow.
I will part from you all for another month now, but before I depart, let's have a little Irish language lesson. Most inhabitants of the isle speak English, but the Irish language (or Gaelic to the locals) has made a huge comeback over the last century and is a point of national pride. Although for the most part 'tis an indecipherable bit of gobbledygook to me, I did manage to learn one phrase, which I will share with you now. Slainte (pronounced slan che, it means cheers). Have a great St. Patrick's Day and save a frothy pint or two at the bar for me, I'll be there as soon as I escape the filthy clutches of work!

Death Match

I was thinking the other day about the old MTV show from about ten years or so ago called "Celebrity Death Match." If you don't remember, or chose to avoid the graphic animated violence presented on the show, CDM brought together various claymation celebrities and sent them into the ring in a Thunderdome, two men enter, one man leaves format. Oftentimes neither side left a significant portion of their body parts intact. After running out of various ways in which to decapitate Michael Jackson, Madonna and other famous douchebags, the show went left the airwaves like a fart in the wind, never to be seen again.
The time has come to bring the show back for one final episode. A climax that would eclipse even the one you had back in 1992 with those Thai hookers. If you don't remember that particular experience don't worry, you were pretty wasted at the time.
Anyway back to my main point, which had something to do with MTV and a final cage match. What could be a more appropriate finale than to pit the guiding forces of our world against one another in an Armaggedon-like (well not really like, I guess it would be Armageddon) battle. Who should represent the forces of our lord and savior against the dedicated minions of the evil one? Clearly the Fairfield Four are the only possible choice. They have touted the power of God in their songs for years, most notable in "The Lonesome Valley," which was featured in the movie "O Brother Where Art Thou" and happens to be the only song by them I have ever heard. The time has come for them to put their money where their mouths are.
Clearly our contest would only be fair if the powers of darkness were represented by an equally talented musician. After much thought (maybe five minutes or so) I came up with two possible candidates, Peter Steele and Glenn Danzig. Danzig triumphed in the end over Type O Negative's Steele due to his impressive longevity, including stints in Samhain, the Misfits and, of course, Danzig.
The baddies' champion would face some long odds. Any gospel ensemble like the Fairfield Four is likely to possess many different members. Although common sense would indicate there are only four of them, my experience has led me never to trust these Christians. Check out the team picture above if you question my doubt. Even though Glenn is totally ripped, he is a pretty small guy, standing all of five foot one (he claims five three, but you know how that goes) and he wears fishnet shirts for goodness sake. Who would be intimidated by anyone with that kind of fashion sense?
The General Manager of Team Evil could get the rest of his current band to help out, but how much faith can you have in someone named Eerie Von or Chuck Biscuits? On the other hand, the singer's near encyclopedic knowledge of "The Necronomicon" may help him fight back against the horde. Plus, they appear to be extremely old, which may result in the Fantastic Four having trouble finding the arena or forgetting to show up at all. Does Glenn know enough spells to crush the waves of bible-thumping zealots headed his way? Only time will tell. Or maybe we could just have a good old-fashioned fiddle contest.

More Irish Photos

I just put up another fifty of my photos at the website listed below. They only let you put up that many at a time, so I plan to trade them out every couple of weeks. Let me know if you have any trouble accessing the site. Thanks - Alastair!

http://alastair1.myphotoalbum.com/

Whino

They say in vino veritas, in wine there is truth. Well that clearly is a dirty lie.

It's true that I don't write much in this space about my "real" job (the one that pays me actual money) - and for good reason. I would rather leave work at work and be done with the subject until my next shift. I don't live for my job, but rather the spaces in between. I imagine you have already gathered that something must have really pissed me off to cause me to break my long-held silence.
That being said, I work at a upscale steak joint by the name of Rick Erwin's, located in downtown Greenville. A large portion of our sales comes from the selling of wine. To me there is no bigger fraud in the restaurant industry than the idea that certain bottles are significantly better in quality than others. Sure, stuff like Franzia, Boone's Farm, Thunderbird, and Mad Dog 20/20 all taste like piss that has run off the side of some hobo's leg, but these are not the products to which I am referring.
Although it seems unfair to those few who want to dress up in a tuxedo and drink out of a brown bag, we don't even carry the aforementioned items. RE's does have an impressive wine list, boasting hundreds, perhaps even thousands of labels (okay so I haven't counted, but trust me there are quite a few). Accuse me of a barbarous palate if you will, but I can taste very little difference between the ones that I have tried, whether the bottle costs a mere thirty dollars or its attributed value lands in multiple Franklin territory. Obviously whites and reds (and certain varietals within these categories) cause different taste bud explosions, but other than that I would be purely guessing if presented a glass blindfolded, regardless of how many times I had tasted each of the samples.
Therein lies your scam. Why would anyone purchase the more expensive bottle if there is little difference in flavor? IMHO, part of your answer is prestige. A large portion of our diners want to imbibe and, more importantly, be seen imbibing, whatever is considered by the gurus that decide these things to be the absolute best.
Why else would our affluent customers care to partake of such an overpriced beverage? The process of tasting all these different varieties gives them a reason within the realm of social acceptability to get absolutely shit-hammered. Public drunkenness is considered a faux pas amidst many sectors of our society and the upper crust is not immune from this prejudice. Taking part in a wine-tasting, however, is considered acceptable behavior and is, in fact, 0penly encouraged as a manner of broadening one's cultural horizons. The same is true of regular diners in a large group - there will be no one to notice you slurred speech and palsyesque movements amongst the eight folks who just polished off six bottles of vino.

So let the counterattacks begin. I know the stuff has its defenders and I freely admit I am a beer man whose stomach aches from acid reflux after only a couple of glasses of red. I am certainly not likely to approach the exalted heights of the sommelier in my knowledge of the subject either. I will stick to my guns, though, so bring on your vicious smears you smarmy, wine-loving bastards. Think of the poor children pictured up above before you decide to support this vicious grift. What kind of future would they be living in if these whinos are not stopped?

Note: Apparently the blog is not allowing people to post comments on this article - if you have the same problem, just use the Ireland pics post to make any rash statements.

The Most Beautiful Map Ever Created

Had to share this one with you folks. A map of the United Kingdom, with the locations of all the odd place names marked upon it. I long to visit Penistone myself, while others may prefer an excursion up north towards the East Breast. Thanks goes out to the BBC for this invaluable piece of reporting! I anticipate that my friend Ken would like to visit Spanker Lane. Design your own vacation so you can tour them all!

Destination: Disaster

Most folks think that the life of a travel correspondent is a glamorous collection of fillet dinners washed down with champagne and caviar. Alas, I do not spend my time in a five star resort or have a secretary to make all my travel plans and foresee any difficulties that may impede the journey. The hard economic times have even forced me to let my personal masseur Sven, who usually accompanies me everywhere, move on to greener pastures. Sven, sad to say, is a figment of my admittedly twisted imagination/my need to get out of the house more.
Without the assistance of my fictional entourage, I am forced to make many of my travel plans myself, and at times I must deal with the hassle of actually being transported to the exotic locations I am forced to visit in order to bring you these reports. Although the destination will be kept secret for the time being, I will now relate to you the trials and travails I encountered on my most recent journey.
First off, there was a long trip via airplane involved. I don't have the traditional problems associated with flying. I have never experienced motion sickness in the air and I don't tremble with fear at the thought of a fiery wreck unless I hear the pilot mention how baked/drunk he is over the loudspeaker.
No, my main difficulty is being tall. Most American airlines nowadays have designed their planes to squeeze in as many people as they can. The catch is that these humans need to be about five foot three to fit in the spaces into which they are squashed. Being about thirteen inches in height over this arbitrary number, I am a wee bit uncomfortable during any flight, much less one of six hours in duration. If only my legs would fold up like an accordion so that I could stow them away in the overhead bins.....
Fortunately, our pilot was on some sort of mission to arrive at our destination (you would be too if you knew where we were going), so we recklessly cut off a number of planes and zoomed on out of the Philadelphia's airport. My sardine-like confinement aside, the first half of the flight was about as enjoyable as one could expect. I perused the year end Rolling Stone and prayed for sleep to carry me away in its embrace (even though I never sleep on planes I foolishly keep the faith that the next time is going to be different).
All of a sudden I was woken from my daze by one of the more wretched smells I have ever encountered. I looked around, wondering what could have produced such an impressively nauseating stench. I immediately, spotted the culprit, a two-year old boy who was showering his father with his love. Or, more accurately, a massive pile of vomit, much of which the child managed to cover himself with as well.
The parents, knowing how unlikely young kids are to purge themselves of various internal fluids, had neglected to bring a change of clothes with their carry-on bag. Therefore, the aroma of two hour-aged baby barf potpourri filled the cabin for a good half-hour before the stewardess managed to rescue us by covering the lad in US Air's high quality blankets.
The incident mercifully behind me and my seat mates, my brother and some random woman who never spoke the whole flight, moved on with our lives and waited for the long airborne nightmare to come to a close. At least there weren't any snakes on the motherfucking plane. I have had enough of those motherfucking snakes.....
As the sun rose in the eastern sky, breakfast was served and we came to the happy realization that we would soon land. Unfortunately, the barfing boy had a sister, who apparently was jealous of her brother's accomplishment and desired to get into the act as well. Her mom and dad decided to play catch with her as they fought for the right to disown their children first. Two vomit-covered parents later, this flight was beginning to resemble a certain scene in "The Exorcist" (no not the one where Linda Blair shoves the crucifix into her snatch).
Mercifully, after a thirty minute period spent with a broken Certs jammed into my nostrils, we came to a gentle landing at 9 o'clock in the morning local time. We had arrived! Just a short trip through customs, on to the baggage area, pick up the rental car, and the vacation has begun. There was one teensy problem. Half the customs officials had gone on a wicked bender the day before and had decided not to show up (guess which country I was in now). Their computers had taken the day off as well, although I can't say for certain that they were hungover as well. Add to these worrisome details the fact that four flights from the United States landed in the span of fifteen minutes and you have a recipe for disaster.
When we walked off the plane, the time was nine in the morning. Although that was the current hour, our bodies, not knowing we had switched time zones on them, disagreed, claiming the true time was the middle of the goddamn night. As we sat in a line that did move and seemed to have no end, our initial excitement at escaping the plane was tempered and our energy levels crashed to nil.
You wouldn't think that sitting inside a fuselage for six hours doing absolutely nothing but reading, listening to music, and watching movies could be exhausting. Sadly I felt as if I had just finished running a marathon. Check that, I probably couldn't finish a marathon. I felt as if I had just walked all the way to the mailbox.
Two hours later we finally trudged to the end of the line. At this point the line forked and we had two choices. Murphy showed up just in time with his law in hand and we picked the really slow queue. The official servicing the folks in front of us had the kind of sublimely slothful worth ethic that would make even the laziest slug or tortoise turn even greener with envy.
We watched with an ever-growing sense of disappointment as the people in the other line flew through immigration and on to freedom. Murphy, not yet done with us, sent our customs official to the bathroom just as we neared the front. Finally, as we neared complete physical and mental breakdown we reached the official's kiosk and were set free to wander the land.
Nearly ten hours of hell had finally come to an end. I hope whatever country I am in is worth the aggravation it took to get there.

Ireland pics

An illustrative version of events soon to be followed by a river flowing with prose. If only the dam holding back my literary capacity can at some point give way to the Hemingway that no doubt lurks inside.