martinoregan | Martin O Regan

The only way is up

Posted on July 23, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

“Hiya Chardonnay…”

I passed a comment on the way up the bare stairs on entering the building which houses this establishment “It’s like an extended McDonalds”, all tiled to the top floor, but even so running to the American diner on the first floor one is confronted by greatness – pictures of Rory Gallagher accompanying you to the first floor landing. To get beyond this, however, to Suas on the second floor requires a little more hiking, and it’s a lonely trek, the walls sterile, unwelcoming tend to intimidate. Well, okay I’m verging on demented exaggeration but, perhaps, it was the lack of oxygen to the brain by the time I’d reached the top step that had me in this delirium. On the other hand only ‘fit’ people drink here, that or people desperate to soak in the rays while the sun was flaunting itself.

You see Suas, meaning ‘up’ in Gaelic, is indeed just that but what is its forte, unless you’re a masochist or regular gym-goer, is that it is a rooftop bar open to the elements, and on this particular day this was a good thing. How could one resist – how could one even dare! To say that I had surrendered a Saturday afternoon, originally set aside for shopping, to this sheer decadence is to know the man.

I was sold. I would have sold my grandmother’s bones to have advanced my position but it didn’t come to that. A table for three directly under the sun was acquired and, waiting for the drinks to arrive, I sat back to take it all in. My reflection in the darkened glass, which divides the inner weather-proof pub from the garden area, smiled with approval. This is Cork but I would not be deterred by that, just because I oft times before lacked the confidence to embrace the beast. Dark shades on dark thoughts (would not prevail). I smiled even more broadly.

My friends, pints in tow, arrived. We chatted, allowing the heat and the people to wash over us. Put to task by one of my buddies we explored the finer art of charm, inviting a table of ladies to assist. Drinks flowed, time passed – and the pockets emptied! Upstairs, up market! But as was proffered, we don’t get weather like this usually so why not splash out a bit.

However, whereas I have also enjoyed an occasional night here in the winter it was with smokers and always outside. Ask me to revel inside and I would be loath to agree. There are much better places indoors; much better, much cheaper, and on the ground floor.

Food and DJs Excepted!

[Beamish: 4.50 euro]

My Site

As darkness fell

Posted on July 23, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Residing beyond the realms that once bound me

I’ve come to relish in the realisation more clearly:

The twisted remains, a memory,

A vacant enterprise, just dust.

Neither glory nor romance to entail

From the remnants of all that is lost.

The hollow shell, the creeping unease;

With corners and the shadows yonder.

Beyond the senses as perceived – They lie or –

There lies the spiralling notion – the wonder?

The crevice caused by day and night

In fading sense as brightness flickers.

Far away a burning line of earlier

Tends to flitter while the soundless beckons.

The vacuum, the sea sound echo,

In the emptiness a ringing enveloping.

Tightening jaw and loosening bowels compete.

Hair pricked, fear pecked, if this, the truth developing.

From an upstairs window, only desperation

A broken pane, cool air and promise –

The creak, the moan, the groan, the shuffle;

Downstairs and to escape but all this between us.

The final spurt, the tension, the ragged lurch.

The stumble; the bladder, unrelenting, pushes.

Into the yard – the broken bottles, bricks and mortar;

A mockery against the wall – false bravado flushes!

Patron of the Arts

Posted on July 17, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

The old torch — like a moth to the flame

“Do you have Tayto?”

“We do. Cheese n Onion, Salt n Vinegar, Smokey Bacon?”

“Cheese n Onion.”

“Right.”

“Choice! What a curse. But we’d be complaining if we didn’t have it.”

Situated off Morrison’s Island on the Southside, but more importantly on Douglas Street, this place is one of those which have managed development well. It’s taken to having a beer garden in a style which suggests savvy while at the same time keeping an interior which to all intents and purposes could still be old school. Beyond the first partition, just after the bar, it does tend towards a tidier affair than perhaps it was in “The Torch” days but then again Ireland back then felt different and not just upholstery speaking. These days leather, wipe clean, seats are much more in vogue and sensible to boot.

That a beer garden is bigger than a pub is either a sign of optimism concerning the weather or, more significantly, forward thinking on the part of those in charge when the smoking ban first came in. There is a covered area for those willing to sit it out in all seasons (in one day!) as well as an open to the sky section which can, however, be quickly covered over too by a tarpaulin when things really get rough. And when in need, these guys are like to the rigging, hoisting it all up in commendable time.

Now unless I forget to mention it this place is one of those thoroughly adaptive sorts, retaining the old style while moving with the times, and while this may sound repetitive, what I am alluding to here is the menu table-side. It has sandwiches hot & cold, soups, baked potatoes, pizzas, along with a selection of beers beyond the norm – the recently risen craft beers. It is refreshing to come back to a Cork forever on the up in terms of taste, but shur isn’t it also the berries to return and sink some of the old reliable Beamish too. You can take the man outta Cork but not the Cork outta the man!

The pizzas are offered at 10 euro for a 12 inch while the cheapest soup is 3.50 euro. There are cheaper side dishes, like wedges, which will suffice if it’s not posh you’re pretending at. And well speaking of posh, the Pizza and Wine menu is separate, and this, my friend is why I’m impressed. Not because it satiates my cravings to snobbery, which I do fear exist, but that again a place than can look like this, homely, Irish, still dares to serve it up. And so, nevertheless, here I sit crisp packet crumpled before me and a half a pint of Beamish remaining.

I always remember “Pub Grub” signs as a kid and was inclined to the idea that this was to be taken literally, the ‘grub’ part I mean, such was my impression of the fare on offer, but if this more recent lean towards taste is what the Celtic Tiger has done to this country then, even if I can’t resurrect the beast I can at least contribute to the remnants of the dream .

[Beamish: 3 euro before 7pm]

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Fionnbarras/105640392844006

One size fits all

Posted on July 17, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

The shoe shop — Drink is cheap, talk is free

“Here you are.”

“Thanks. D’ye have Taytos?”

“We don’t serve any food.”

“Liquid nourishment, then!”

I didn’t use to frequent this place as a teen or early twenties guy though there were occasions when I did grace here with my presence on one of my drunken escapades. I’ve even been known to find love, or something akin to it, between the walls of this establishment.

The entrance is the same but it has extended over the years and while including the old corridor to the bar, now the back bar, on the immediate left is the daytime, regulars, quarter. That it has undergone many changes in my time travelling only serves to confuse me every time I return, especially when in search of the Jacks.

Good old soul music creeps across the room, not out of place among a select group of settled individuals, and the seating is damned cosy.

It’s greatest failing is the stink! So oft before a semblance of stale beer and cigarette smoke, then body odour post smoking ban, these days it has surrendered itself to the illusion of cleanliness as only air fresheners and toilet trough soap can do. There could even be a compromise at furniture polish – this place is afterall a pyromaniacs dream, all wood and red leather (maybe plastic?) cushioned seats. The only thing to survive would probably be the bare shell, the fire brick, though considering the aging that has been absorbed through sweat, tears, beers, tar, these too may have found themselves more similar to the black seam these days. Now I’m not condoning arson and I’d be disappointed if it were to come to that cos this place does hold memories…and not only of the stink!

It is an institution in the minds of many’s the Corkonian, it’s a late night bar made popular by the hordes of foreign students that pile in over the summer months, and the gargle is cheap. But BE WARNED! This latter benefit is a daytime treat. Like some Cinderella-esque affair this place turns after 11pm into a pricey place; being downtown Cork and being one of the few late night bars, it can do it, so you’d better be able to afford it. That said, it could never be as dear as some, even after the fairy-god price has vanished. But if the pocket doesn’t seem as deep as it used to be then get in early, find a seat, phone a friend and let 11pm alone till 11pm comes. Then make your further choices.

Note: If hungry, even for crisps, avoid the place, cos you know how it goes: you’ll stay for one, pause for two and continue, not wanting to give up the seat and the comfort, and while you’re thinking over beer number three whether to run to the chipper, beer four and five will be pressing. Finally you’ll end up pissed, still hungry, but God willing you’ll still be able to get a feed in before 2 am, or at least wake up beside some it, a mess of chips and curry across the floor, the bed, in the face and in the hair. Now I’m only saying: This COULD* happen!

P.S. Crosswords are available, photocopied cut outs, on the tables for the early-birds.

[Beamish: 3.10 euro]

*(ref: Study your Modals)

http://www.anbrog.com/

Babbling esperanto

Posted on July 14, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

I have a language I do not speak

And speak a tongue that’s bitter;

I try to learn another one

But it merely makes me fickle.

Spread thin I realise

That I am not an expert.

Loosely able to convert

The basest of ideas!

Thick or thin, black or white

it doesn’t really matter…

In the jumble of my thoughts

Je probalok arís kai otra vez!

Low risk

Posted on July 14, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

There used to be a Casino here at one time; I know cos I sat on a stone bench opposite one night sipping beer and smoking cigarettes. In fact, I passed it many times when my friend had a flat in the area – the Soho of Budapest, or is it the Westend…Eastend. Now that I think of it, maybe it’s called the Broadway of Budapest. For alliterative purposes at least, this will here apply.

Nowadays it has turned itself into a cafe with the entrance located in the same spot, the windows merely peeled of the tacky white-out employed to allow the casino goers their privacy, or the casino owners theirs! Enough said.

At present the interior is a lot more visible but with its sparse decor it has all the feel of transition, something I didn’t expect from the street. With a mixture of low and high tables, and seating appropriate, everything is rather spacious. A more enterprising – greedy – businessman may have opted for more tables.

On entering, to the left, the short wing, runs four tables in across 2 windows adjacent to the sweet section. Off right the greater length of bar and floor space is set aside. Nestled in the back here is an open area which gives this, coupled with the light fixtures, a back stage feel. This is where the exhibition area is and if this sounds so matter-of-factly, note this.

Almost every bar in Budapest which has any aspirations beyond mere drinking den allots wall space to the greater endeavours in the pursuit of all that is arty. If the arts isn’t your cup of tea don’t be perturbed – the drink tastes the same, and sometimes better. The price impact on the pocket is still much less than in the ex-pat pubs which, in my opinion, do little more than encourage divisions between the locals and the foreigners, except, of course, where express financial status is on display. As an ex-worker in one particular bar I can say that it is odd to see locals with money blending with bousies over on a stag. Perhaps the former imagine this is merely the temperament of the aspirant classes elsewhere. The latter, it is sure, don’t give a _____!

In terms of location this is central and though the real centre is ever elusive as to whether to define it culturally, socially, gastronomically, or otherwise, this is A hub and with that one must note the importance of this cafe come bar come casual food-ery come exhibition spot. On the intersection with Nagymező, with all its splendour, and Mozsár utca, and Andrassy, the sort-of Champs Elysses of Budapest, in close proximity, this certainly is a contender for the place to be…but the competition is rife.

My advice is to find this spot and let its environs carry you beyond all expectations. A review, a guidebook, will tell you nothing as much as the streets themselves, but where time is of the essence then you would do yourself an injustice if you dared not venture into the heart of the sixth district and even perhaps in here.

https://www.facebook.com/MozsarKavezo

Full Stop!

Posted on July 14, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

On the road to the cool valley, temperture-ally speaking…well, on the way there there is here…phew!… and this is the Full House Pizza. As the name suggests it serves all things Italian, relatively, and whereas the pizza is tasty it does have the Hungarian tendency to over-emphasise the fatty, oily, salty.

Other dishes here include traditional Hungarian fare with goulash and other soups to start. A personal favourite is a variety of fish and chips; Trout – baked – served whole (head and all) in a light coating, only enough to hint at golden, the grey scale, however, still visible. This is not beer batter country and for that I am thankful.

In the winter the inside seating booths to the right on entry, tables back and to the left will suffice but on occasion it can get cramped. Somehow the families always choose the tables – space I suppose.

In the summer the outside seating, along wooden benches as well as separate wooden armchair –style seats, is abundant. And here lies the treat for said families; a swing and slide and sandbox. Heaven knows no modesty.

It’s not a central location; it’s a place away but if you’re into exploring beyond the realm of all that tourists do, or find yourself at the end of the Children’s Railway, bottom end – Hűvösvölgy- and feeling peckish on the way back into the city, and therefore much aligned to the spirit of this place, why not give it a try. On a personal note, the staff here are much friendlier than those around Hűvösvölgy…and by that I mean but one place, the garden where the lads would dare to go. Here, they not only smile and treat locals and foreigners the same (that works both ways by the way) but they truly pull out all the stops. Comparitively speaking Híd Cafe has one of the best Margherita’s and good service to boot but out of town and on the way back in if you wish this is one of the honestly homely experiences. Miss it and you miss a piece of the greater jigsaw puzzle which is the infinitely enlarging Budapest.

http://www.fullhouse.hu/

Home-coming or –going

Posted on July 10, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

In the taxi coming here

The mind allowed the traffic

And time

To inspire me.

I wallowed in the memory

As only those

Who’ve yet to feel emotion.

I held images,

Coined words,

Of which all this

Is a whimsical parody.

I left roads wash over me;

Some seemed familiar,

Some just wanted to be.

I’ve lived in the city,

You see,

For more time than

Every other, bar one:

And now I return to

That beginning.

A man, with a family,

But alone this time

On my travels.

I am a man who

Will soon become

A child, the youngest brother;

I am returning to

Start over…again.

Cafe to stay

Posted on July 10, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

“I’ll have a Cafe Latte, please.”

“Large?”

“Naw. Regular.”

(Cork Coffee Roasters, Bridge St. Cork. 8.45 a.m.)

Just off Patrick’s Bridge on Bridge Street this cafe sits at the foot of the famed Patrick’s Hill. At one time the Nissan International Classic* used to feature this (the hill not the cafe) in the Cork stage as a test of calibre for the cyclists who had already been in the saddle half the day. And they made them go up it three times!

The Cork Coffee Roasters, like others, are a group of concerned citizens who take coffee seriously and this is one of those places where one can meet locals and tourists alike in search of the good stuff.

When you hear the initial exclamations from the Italians or French who pop in it’s usually because they’ve seen the enormous bowls – perched on table tops – and thought to think that this was one of those places, like the American chain motif. It can be if one so wishes but it offers more. It offers variety, blends; it sells beans, and ground, and it’s all set in a brick work interior at points plastered over and pictures hung, at others displaying the product on offer.

An original old coffee grinding machine fills the interior immediately opposite the door and while removing this could give a few more seats, the high stools surrounding suffice. It also lends to the cosier feel, people sat to the left and low, while high at the window, street-facing, aswell. A central pole separates somewhat the waiting and self-service area from the rest of the floor though this could be a hindrance. In truth anything here which seems impractical adds to the character, and like a good coffee character is everything!

[No Beamish]

http://www.corkcoffee.com/

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nissan_Classic

A pub for all seasons

Posted on July 9, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

“I’m just trying to f*@kin’ work it out!”

(Evergreen Lounge, Evergreen Road: 15.55 p.m.)

High rafters greet you in the initial stage but it spreads beyond the “drunk steps” to the tables yonder. I remember Sundays here with the matches, vying for a screen. I remember when this pub was tiny, well smaller by far. Now there’s a beer garden out back; a short cut to the streets more homeward for me.

This has been, since my childhood, an institution. It has, like its name, always existed. I don’t have any memory of the interior back then; my parent’s drank, and still do, elsewhere but it was one of a line along the road of the same name. There always was The Evergreen, The Mountain and The Beer Garden here for as far back as I can remember. The Turner’s Cross Tavern having its flirtations with other names, The Corner House among them, was the only variable*. Landmarks of my youth, I remember passing these sacred places for many years before ever stepping inside. A particular Christmas Eve comes to mind – memory lane abounds.

This is the quintessential suburban pub. Its character revolves around the people, the telly when the customers are few, and the clink of the pool balls away in the corner. Pool is a game, like football’s become, unfamiliar to me without the slight quaver – alcohol induced. The smell here, too, the beer taps all in a row, the hint at yesterdays and the promise of tomorrows; if you need to create the authentic Irish pub it needs its scars and dreams. Without these it’s just another name, lost in a sea of sterility.

[Beamish : 3.10 euro]

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Evergreen-Lounge-Bar/187150777971384

*And has its own website (though not so thorough)

http://www.turnerscrosstavern.ie/

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