J. Patrick's
Wherever you go, anywhere in the world, you will find an Irish bar, and by Irish bar, we mean a bar with a name like O'Somethingorother's with a bunch of Guinness ads on the wall, maybe a couple of Gaelic street signs, a distressed copy of the 1916 Proclamation, and a picture of James Joyce over the urinal. It's as good as a trip to Ireland, in the same way that going to the International House of Pancakes saves you from having to circumnavigate the globe. In a bid for authenticity, these places often employ an older Irishman, known in his specialized trade as a "sweater-and-shillelagh man," to sit at the bar and hold forth in a melodic brogue about the ould country and lecture on how to heat one's home with peat when the English have taken everything else. When his shift is over, he removes his Donegal tweed cap, sheds his unseasonable wool sweater, and heads to J. Patrick's, to relax in a real Irish pub.
