Few substantial meals, be grand
6pm: You arrive at the pub and spot your friend sitting alone at a table for two. “Ah, there she is!” you say. A barman hands you a menu filled with dishes you would normally never dream of eating in a pub. Think Thai fish cakes and stuffed mushrooms. He disappears and leaves you to decide which is the least worst option. As you examine the menu, you think about whether you can possibly order two pints at once.
6.10pm: After ten minutes, the barman returns to take your order. You settle for the cajun chicken burger and side salad. When you’re asked if you’d like any drinks, you pause for a second as though that’s not the entire reason you’re here. “Oh, a drink? You’ve put me on the spot here. It hadn’t even occurred to me because I’m actually just here to have a civilised meal with a friend but now that you mention it, I’ll have a pint of Heineken.”
6.15pm: As your drinks are prepared, you glance at the handful of other patrons in the pub. “This reminds me of something,” you think. Then you remember: it’s like being in an airport bar on a Sunday evening when everyone is riddled with fear and trying to calculate how many pints they can drink before they need to go to the gate. Lovely.
6.18pm: The pints arrive. You practically shed tears of joy at the mere sight of it. You and your mate clink glasses and exchange some mawkish platitudes about how there’s nothing like the pub. You even say “sláinte”.
6.25pm: You spy two people embracing one another. They don’t look like they’re from the same household. “They’re supposed to be bumping elbows, not hugging and kissing,” you whisper to your friend. You apply a thick layer of hand sanitiser and quietly judge them as though you yourself aren’t drinking in a pub in the middle of a pandemic.
6.32pm: Your food arrives. The cajun chicken burger is accompanied by three lettuce leaves, a single tomato and a ramekin filled with mayonnaise on the side. Salad! “I’ll have another pint when you’re ready,” you tell the barman, hoping he won’t notice that you downed the first one in 14 minutes.
6.34pm: You start reminiscing about when Tom Hanks announced he had coronavirus. “That’s when it really hit home for me,” you say. “I was like, ‘This is serious.’” You might already be a bit pissed.
6.36pm: The barman drops down your pints. You’re worried he doesn’t like you so you go overboard with your thanks. “Cheers, thanks a million. You’re a gent. I really appreciate it.”
6.42pm: “This chicken burger is actually not that bad!” you exclaim. You’re definitely pissed.
7.03pm: You’re finally getting into the swing of things when it suddenly dawns on you that you only have 27 minutes before you have to leave the premises. “Do we have time for a third pint?” you ask. “We could share one?” says your mate. A pint to share! What a tremendous idea.
7.05pm: The barman comes down to collect your plates. “Can we get a pint to share?” you ask. “You can’t really share a pint…” he replies. Then it dawns on you. “Of course! Because of coronavirus! What am I like?! We’ll just get two pints instead. Can you imagine if we shared a pint and got infected — ” But he’s already gone.
7.06pm: With time slipping away, you decide that you simply must go to another pub. You start racking your brains for other pubs nearby that might have online booking systems. In your haste, you Google ‘bok pib table dublin’.
7.12pm: The barman returns with two pints. “That’s great, thanks a million,” you say. “And sorry about before! How mortifying!” He says nothing and walks away.
7.25pm: It’s time to settle the bill. It comes to €58. Someone attempts to take your half-full pint and you tell them that you’re still “working away on it” as though it were the first draft of a novel. The cheek of them.
7.30pm: Time to leave. “We can get a table in McDowell’s in 45 minutes,” says your friend. It’s one kilometre away and regularly hosts funeral receptions. “Perfect,” you say. “I actually might get some garlic bread there.”
