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.
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.
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.
(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!
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.
( Arthur Mayne Pharmacy and Wine Garden, Pembroke St. Cork. 2.45 p.m.)
Situated in an old pharmacy, much of the original display in Arthur Mayne Pharmacy & Wine Garden is still intact. Everything else, everything new, is actually styled to lend to that feel of the original. There has been a bit of money put into the affair and it really lends to the heritage pub feel, ideally from the glass counter at the front, itself sporting cakes as well as Simple cleansing lotion! Beside the counter there is a tall glass cabinet complete with bell jars and ostentatious servings of Lin. Camph. Ammon. (!) from the Cork Chemical & Drug Ltd. Nothing new there!
Opposite the serving counter in the next section wines are displayed from cooling cabinets, above which an impressive selection are lying horizontal (I later discovered that one can serve oneself from these same ‘machines’). Following on from that, and deeper into the interior there is the more pokey, pub-like quarter, more expected, and this leads onto the back and a door to the smoking area which it shares with the Crane Lane, a revamped and certainly more modern feeling pub.
The fact that this is a wine bar means that this is not your commoner gardener environment. People here make Apple Mac jokes – whatever they are!
Food-wise, there are fancy sandwiches, with feta cheese and basil oil drizzled. Soup is also on offer along with the sweets – scones and croissant, However, this is not ‘cukraszda’ country. And I’m not just referring to Mayne’s, or Cork here. Compared to a confectioner’s shop in downtown Budapest things lie a little more sparse on the ground in Ireland as a whole. Be warned.
The atmosphere in the chemist’s is reminiscient of a pub regardless of its pretensions – i.e. wine – and where the decor is old fashioned, quaint, this will be no better, or worse, a few drinks in. The only distinction is that if you step in for a Beamish you’ll be left squeamish! If you choose the wine, you’ll be fine!! So drink up and become European for a while.
Of course, wine and Cork are not, as may first appear, the oddest of bedfellows as indeed there is a history of import and re-export within the region dating back to the middle ages. It is, however, not the first word that rolls off the average Corkonian’s tongue when asked to name their drink of choice but with people trending away from pub-only tippling to the occasional night in with a bottle, the wine (no longer just plonk) is definitely after finding its feet. Having lived in Spain and France, and now Hungary, I have over the years developed a taste for the fruit of the vine and on the occasion that I am back in Cork and looking for something a little out of the ordinary I know I know a place, Arthur Mayne Pharmacy & Wine Garden on Pembroke street, in the heart of the city.
“Naw, I wouldn’t eat those things. They only make me hungry!”
(Cronin’s Pub, Crosshaven. 5.35 p.m.)
On our way to anywhere we stumbled across this place and allowed this town and its surrounds to enter into the legend that our lives would write. Teenagers at the time and curious as to our boundaries we set cycle along the highways and bi-ways that led us out through Rochestown, Passage West and on until we finally met Crosshaven. Being from Cork City this wasn’t exactly unfamiliar territory but we’d never taken it seriously before. It was sailing country and needless to say we were not sailors. Shur, we’d only just become cyclists!
Well moving out beyond the town towards Fennell’s Bay we hopped a ditch, bikes and all, and wound our way down towards the shoreline. Just above the rocks we found a patch of grass suitable to our requirements. Ten minutes later, tent pitched, we considered the possibilities, over a cigarette; this being the best of times. A weekend followed where we just moped about the rocky beach, wondered about the mystery of things –girls, and set ourselves to believing in the dream, whatever that may be. Otis Redding became a kind of theme tune, evenings whiled away down on the stones, facing skywards – were they satellites or UFOs?
On the occasion that our smokes became depleted we duly hopped the bikes and pedalled the short journey into the town to get some more. We were underage in every way back then so, not yet being drinkers, buying fags was the nearest thing to criminal that we could muster. It worked. We rarely sparked up in plain view of adults knowing that they must all know our parents.
On those visits we were left unimpressed by Crosshaven itself. It was coastal, it was boaty, and beyond the shop there were some pubs. Altogether, nothing. Not back then at least. Back then the adventure was about being away from it all. The tent, the rocks; they were our thing.
As an adult, and with more expendable income, this place has taken on a whole other perspective, though admittedly I’ve often been tempted to run through the town and up to Fennell’s Bay. I never have though. I’ve never seen that field, that place since. I’m a drinker now and I rarely let sentiment get in the way of a good pint – and these days too around these parts that includes good coffee.
Friday afternoon, teaching done for the day, I traipsed home knowing that the brother was keen to do something. Apart from being back in Cork to teach I, too, was up for a bit of craic. Life’s not all about slog after all so into the car and off we went. The original plan was to head out Gougane Barra way but time constraints (I needed to be back to Skype my loves in Budapest) kept us closer to the city.
Now the journey there these days, and directly, was nothing like that first cycle but it wasn’t about health and fitness that had us heading there this time. Funnily enough it wasn’t the first time round either!
Entering the town I always get the rush, passing the old yacht club wall. Beyond its claims to being the oldest yacht club in the world it has always represented for me the final stage, Crosshaven town just around the corner. The old shop site still stands, though closed down, where we purchased our first box of cigarettes, and moving into the square you see the extent to which change has come to this place over the last 10 – 20 years. The car park among them.
Car parked we took ourselves to heading in the direction of Camden Fort only to be shanghaied by the River’s End Cafe. Situated on the square with spectacular views to the water the notion to stop up was too much for us. A coffee before continuing up to the fort was agreed upon. After the coffees, with fruit tart and cream, we assumed we’d be fort bound, though the inkling to a pint to help us on our way was growing. What took us by surprise, however, was the food dished out before our eyes to two of the female clientele. My heart missed a beat and you may be inclined to allow that I was all a flutter on account of the ladies (pretty as they were) but in truth it was the plates of food set before them that tickled my fancy this time. A sizeable burger with baby potatoes on the one hand, something Panini-ish served with a generous salad on the other. It didn’t take much but we were hooked. Sitting there salivating we resigned ourselves to our fate and brought upon us the menu as a means to peruse. Being accosted at this point by the lady of the establishment, my camera phone clumsily in hand trying to hijack the menu’s soul, we had no choice but to commit. Which we did though to be honest I wish I had been brave enough to go for more. Writing this I still have the hankering for the burger which originally lampooned me and try as I may I think but a return to the place will suffice to cure me of what ails.
Our choices came down to a Goat’s Cross and a Funghi. The former, my brother’s choice, was a Panini filled with goat’s cheese, wild rocket, homemade basil pesto, and roasted peppers. I had a warm ciabatta filled with garlic mushrooms, crispy bacon, and Dubliner cheese. Both came well presented and indeed they were tasty treats. However, as mentioned, the burger had stimulated in me an appetite which if I had listened to my inner murmurings I would have understood as to mean…more! The baby potatoes which had me convinced earlier that the burger would have been an excessive choice now began to seem quite reasonable.
Virtually inconsolable I was shepherded across the road to Cronin’s pub as a means to alleviating some of my woe and let me tell you – this place can do that. Cronin’s has been standing for time immemorial, well at least since that first cycle trip down here all those years ago and from the outside nothing much has changed. The interior too spells of old, authentic. With the usual array of trappings that Irish pubs can be guilty of – old gadgets, old telephones, old everythings adorning the shelf space behind the bar – Cronin’s has atmosphere in abundance, and whereas at times I have been critical of the twee aspect prevalent in some of the County Cork bars, De Barra’s of Clonakilty comes to mind, I’m also a sucker for it. And I will remain so as long as said atmosphere can be maintained. Sometimes that is what’s lacking in the Irish pubs in Budapest. They too have all the dilly dally trinkets, pictures of Joyce and Beckett, G.A.A. jerseys etc. but they have found it difficult to capture any degree of character. Friday afternoon, 4:30 p.m. (16:30 CET!), and Cronin’s is buzzing. And the Beamish is flowing!
Perching ourselves at the bar, pints at the ready, a glance over my shoulder has me witnessing a downpour outside. Good timing, I think, as I draw the pint closer for that first protracted kiss. Hmmm, creamy. All around people are immersed in a sense of conversation which I find truly home. Everyone talks to anyone and the pub as an entity draws a breath and exhales reverberating with energy of the universe!
Serving us well as it did last summer I’m back, alone, and sitting, waiting for a pint, listening to a blend of music and chatter. It is definitely more a place for the aspiring classes – accents on the verge of posh, and people’s demeanours suggesting similar. If I were to make comparisons with Budapest, The Bodega would be to the trendy pub what the Vicarstown* would be to the kocsmas. One difference I’d like to note is that in Ireland old and young blend better and in more locations, be they trendy or not; the super-pub pre-club atmosphere excepted, which is the same everywhere.
The Bodega, itself, is situated on Corn Market Street but the market itself, now face-lifted – probably from local government coffers – tells a tale that goes back hundreds of years. To Corkonians this area is the Coal Quay, pronounced Kay, or Coal Quay Market, alluding as much to a time when the river would come in as far as here. “The Venice of the North” or so some people say, referring to the many waterways which once riddled this city. They still do, mind you, but all beneath asphalt and concrete.
Set in an old stone building, the high ceilings and fine decoration of The Bodega’s interior may be off-putting but with a fine selection of food as well as drink one must remember that this is not just a pub – it’s a fine food establishment. With barbeques on weekends and a full smoking area this is definitely one of the gems. The walls abound with local artistic talent and though it may be above the pockets of the artistic equivalents in Budapest it is the class in which both countries’ artistic elite flourishes. The patrons come aplenty, but abegging, in the gutter! I’ve sometimes accused Budapest and Hungary of artistic snobbery, but nevertheless it seems somewhat more affordable than hereabouts. Folk – now that’s a different story.
Sitting here, 1p.m. –ish, there is a healthy lunchtime crowd with 50% of the floor’s tables full. For a place with a reputation to higher prices this is quite good, and with the turnover lunchtime a steady flow this is no money losing enterprise. You’d hope!
Evenings and weekends do find this place brimming with revellers because it’s then that it forsakes its eatery for full-on pub/club potential. But again this is evening-till-late so come in afternoon time and you can have the best of both worlds. In the back there is a restaurant area which allows one to recline in the intimacy of an evening romantic meal, if that’s one’s wish.
On the whole a spacious environment full of the clatter and bang of a busy establishment. If I were to imagine a comparison I would say the coffee houses of Vienna and Budapest turn of the 20th century, but with the savoury and beer that gives it its Irish twist.
Lunch menu:
Potato and Leek soup 4.90 euro;
Beef and Mi Daza** stew 10.90euro;
Pan-fried sea bass, crushed baby potatoes, dill and butter 13.50 euro
