Drinking With Men : A Memoir (9781101603123) by Rosie Schaap Page A

talked and eventually wound up at the Stag’s Head, a venerable old pub with a long marble bar and lots of weathered wood. The Guinness was good. We were having a fine time. And then—and I can’t for the life of me remember what precipitated this—he announced that he didn’t like Jews.
    â€œOh really?”
    â€œReally,” he confirmed, adding decisively, “I just don’t like ’em.”
    I knew that Dublin’s Jewish population had dwindled down to next to nothing by the end of the twentieth century. After the Second World War, many Irish Jews emigrated to America and Israel. I knew about Robert and Ben Briscoe, the Jewish father and son who had both served as Lord High Mayors of Dublin. I knew about Portobello, the small Southside district once known as Little Jerusalem, where long ago James Connolly savvily distributed election pamphlets translated into Yiddish. I knew about the synagogue there, and about the small old bakery that sold something resembling a bagel; both still stood but were relics of former times. Larry could not have had significant opportunities to find himself in the company of Jewish people.
    â€œHave you ever met one?” I asked, knowing by then that Larry hadn’t traveled much out of Ireland.
    â€œNo, I can’t say that I have.” He gestured to the barman for another round.
    â€œWell, now you have.” That was the last thing I said to Larry. I left behind a full pint of Guinness. I had managed to assimilate so easily in Dublin that it was assumed I was Irish-American. But never had I felt more like a Jew, or more thrilled to be one.
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    B ack at the dorm I ran into Ryan and told him what had happened. “Asshole,” he agreed. “Forget about it. Anyway, I found a pub I
know
you’ll like.”
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    R yan led me to South William Street, not far from Grafton. From the outside, Grogan’s Castle Lounge wasn’t especially promising or picturesque. But as soon as we entered, I knew I had found the bar that I had dreamed about in the months before my arrival in Dublin, and possibly my spiritual home. Aesthetically, it wasn’t much: the carpets were tatty, the walls were covered with questionably competent paintings by local artists, the upholstery on the banquettes and barstools was a little dingy. But it was smoky and cozy and welcoming, and buoyant with conversation. In the ’70s, a former barman from McDaid’s—a well-known literary haunt—started working at Grogan’s, and many of his writerly regulars followed him there.
    I took a seat while Ryan went up to the bar to order our pints, and I pulled out a notebook and pen. A man two tables away called out to me, “Are you a writer, then?”
    This is the first question they ask you at Grogan’s. I was twenty. Was I a writer? How was I supposed to know?
    â€œYes,” I answered.
    â€œThat’s good,” he said. “We’re all writers here at Grogan’s.”
    And that turned out to be pretty close to the truth. That night we met Peter, a handsome rake with jet-black hair and high cheekbones. In his bright yellow corduroys and pointy black leather shoes, he looked like a Mod filtered through David Lynch movies. Peter didn’t hesitate before taking out a crumpled sheaf of poems for me to peruse right there on the spot. With him was his sharp-tongued girlfriend, Kate—a student at Trinity—and their friend Michael, funny, awkward, self-deprecating, sweet, on the dole, in baggy sweatpants, a too-big T-shirt, and running shoes. He wrote, too, of course, but exactly what he wrote was anyone’s guess. It was probably good, though. I sensed that he was the smartest of the bunch.
    The lot of us shared a table, and for the first of many nights that summer I tossed my duty-free Camels and they their Marlboros and Silk Cuts on the