What makes a pub Irish? Is it a magically delicious Irish name (maybe with an "O" that never got dropped in the ocean) that makes one pine for the Emerald Isle? Perhaps it's a fine selection of whiskies for opening the eyes of all those transplanted sons and daughters of the Sod, or Bog, or whatever the gentle hills of Eire are made of? How about easy access to that pot o' gold via some fabled Irish Sweepstakes tickets? Maybe it's a nice dartboard? Handsome plaques with all those quaint Irish sayings about the wind being at your back and the devil not knowing you're dead, etc.? A jar on top of the bar for IRA contributions? A framed picture of Sinéad O'Connor ripping up that picture of the pope? Nah, it's none of that stuff, because a certain something on Harford Road fired up our long-dormant Hibernian hormones, something that might even cause some green genes to sprout spontaneously in anyone unequipped with them. It's right there on the bottom of the sign outside Jimmy O'Donnell's Pub: OPEN AT 6:00 A.M. Kiss us, we're Irish, and so are you if you make opening time.