Two rules when going to Irish pubs, both stateside and abroad: (1) shave the goll durn mustache off your upper lip before, and (2) throw the lifestyle calendar in the fireplace and ask Madeleine instead. The former rule is a recent one, brought into effect via a well-publicized statement from Guinness lambasting mustachioed Guinness drinkers for wasting $675,900 worth of the dark, cascading elixir every year because “a genuine mustache has been proven to contribute to a significant Guinness wastage, as a result of inter-fiber retention at every sip.” OK, fine, shaving’s easy enough, but more importantly, you got Maddy’s digits? That’s right, the phone number of the Seattle native-cum-County Galway barmaid who knows a thing or three about what it takes to put the Irish in pub. Well, I do, which means I’m way more qualified to dis and praise our city’s slipshod smattering of faux Irish pubs, with apologies to those that didn’t make it (Christ, I only had a week—how much you want me to drink?).
(Rating: one to five *, five meaning the bar could be picked up and moved overseas and the natives wouldn’t know the difference)
PUB | The Pour | Irish Waitstaff? | Liquor (Namely, Tillamoor Dew Whiskey)? | Drunken, Sing-Along House Band? | Rating & Comment |
Dubliner
3405 Fremont N, 548-1508 |
My neighbor Dan (the bartender here) has mastered the no-frills, let-it-sit technique of the Guinness pint pour. | Like one waitress is Irish, so score some points here. | Unfortunately, no hard stuff—and Sam Adams is on special (tsk, tsk—should be Beamish). | Occasionally—music is varied, with open-mike night being the signature modus operandi. | **
Sympathy points for staying a dive amidst Fremont’s yuppification. |
Conor Byrne
5140 Ballard NW, 784-3640 |
My neighbor Dan’s other bartending gig, but the whole crew does a bang-up job. | Irish owner, largely Irish staff—don’t come any more ready-made than this. | Nope, but if you really wanted to, I’m sure they’d let you nurse a flask. | Best Celtic music this town has to offer, almost every night. | *****
Despite its liquor and food shortcomings, this is where I hang on St. Patty’s. |
Old Pequliar
1722 NW Market, 782-8886 |
Three perfect pints, three different drawings in the foam (clover, peace sign, ying-yang). | No, but the bartender’s pour makes up for this. | Hell yes, and people are taking the bull by the horns. | Nah, but the meaty Ballard Firehouse-esque disco cover band is a hoot. | ****
A solid four shamrocks, if you appreciate Ballard’s prevalent drunkenness. |
Irish Emigrant
5260 University Wy NE, 525-2955 |
So-so—a little quick. | Enough Micks to merit the Seal of Blarney. | Yeah, albeit understated. | Not the night I was there, but Trivia Night with a mostly Irish crowd more than made up for this. | ***
Mostly due to the jovial crowd of foreigners and the fact that I couldn’t believe this was the old Sportsbar. |
Grady’s
2307 24th E, 726-5968 |
Dunno. My friends and I drank Black Butte Porter all night. | No, chicks with leather necklaces. But they were goddamn attentive. | Yup, a wicked Irish coffee, the cocaine of drinks. | Nope, a total sports bar setup. | **
Even though it’s mainly a Husky hangout that doesn’t come close to resembling an Irish pub, I still give it two-and-a-half shamrocks cuz I had a great time with my pals. |
Murphy’s Pub
1928 N 45th, 634-2110 |
I had to wait so goddamn long between beers that I didn’t really give a shite. | See Grady’s, except these gals held the very fact that I was a male against me. | Yeah, I did actually enjoy a couple fingers of Tillamoor here. | No, weird fusion folk instead. | *
Just because you’ve got a Rolls (this bar looks great) doesn’t mean you can neglect the engine (horrible service, bland crowd). |
Kell’s
1916 Post Alley, 728-1916 |
Fine, but waitress forgot to lay off the bong before her shift. | Yeah, when the owner’s son works. | Whiskey is Kell’s maiden name. | A couple cats, a guitar—whiskey in the jar. Helluva jam on St. Patty’s. | ****
The crown jewel of a chain that also rears its head in Portland and San Fran. |
Owl ‘n Thistle
808 Post, 621-7777 |
Round One: a little quick. Round Two: just right, sweets. | Irish waitress’ brogue made me weak at the knees. | Spirits galore—”let’s tear shite up!” | Ladies and gentlemen, the Owl ‘n Thistle Band! | ***
Would be four were it not for the meat/meet market factor on the weekends. |
T.S. McHugh’s
21 Mercer, 282-1910 |
No Imperial Pint, no good. | Nope, sorry. | Liquor’s the name of the game here, ‘specially when it’s 10 minutes till tip-off. | Wouldn’t want to interrupt everyone’s dining experience, would they? | *
F.X. McRory’s Lite—albeit with a great-looking exterior. |
O’Shea’s Casino
3555 Las Vegas Blvd S, Las Vegas, NV, 702-697-2711 |
I was drinking warm whiskey out of plastic cups and didn’t give a shite. | I don’t think the Irish live in trailers in the desert. | Long as you’re droppin’ Benjamins, they’ll serve you rubbing alcohol till sunrise. | George Thorogood and Steve Miller on the jukebox 24-7. | *****
Lose money? Then no shamrocks. But if you win here, it’s five shamrocks. Everyone appreciates a loose slot. |