320) Hacienda (Market) Bar of Mary Street Little, Smithfield, D7

This is a unique bar, as strange as it is secreted. It has long been a favourite for private parties for worldly celebrities and the afters of book and magazine launches – The Stinging Fly clique have much frequented its doors. The exterior resembles a traditional Spanish white-stone cottage in the heart of the old Smithfield fruit and vegetable market. It appears to be continually closed, (and it typically is), save for when ‘living legend’ and eccentric proprietor ‘Shay’ unlocks whenever he wishes, (never before eight). All windows and doors at ground level are invariably shut and guarded by cast iron Spanish gates. The wandering imbiber should notice a small luminous Budweiser sign above the door, he must then press a buzzer marked ‘Bar’ and wait to see if Shay will open. After passing it by many times and waiting until the time was right, we tried our luck on a Sunday late in October with a fountain of pints already over us from the previous several hours in Stoneybatter. Our trepidation turned to delight when the narrow door opened to reveal Shay, (not dissimilar from Dr. Emmett Brown of Back to the Future fame), peering at us out of a crimson haze. After exchanging a few brief informalities he granted us entry and bade us aboard. 

Once inside one enters a sort of red-light district resembling the Martian bar ‘The Last Resort’ from the movie Total Recall. A maritime theme is prevalent and there’s an enormous ship’s wheel on the wall in the alcove to the right beside an upright piano. We were the night’s first callers and had the place entirely to ourselves. We sat at the bar and ordered a couple of Guinness observing the ‘Cash Only’ notice - Tipplers Tip. It was near impossible to see Shay between the Manhattan skyscraper-sized beer taps surrounded by a million curios, (a wooden crocodile, a tortoise, a hedgehog and a trio of monkeys seeing, hearing and speaking no evil, to name but a few). All of a sudden, a hand appeared through the thicket holding a pint, it vanished, and reappeared with a second drink and not a drop spilt. We directed our thanks over the taps in the hope that he heard us. Most curious is the large black and white TV screen at the end of the bar for all to observe. A perpetual live feed streams from the camera stationed above the buzzer outside. We imagined how we might have appeared slipping into view on the grainy broadcast trying to buck ourselves up to make a best impression. (Warning: after a short while this footage becomes compulsive viewing). 

The interior walls are adorned with photos of Shay (usually sporting a pair of purple shades) posing with celebrities, actors and musicians all of whom have imbibed here over the years. This array includes: Saoirse Ronan, Glen Hansard, Jonny Greenwood, Domhnall Gleeson, Bronagh Gallagher, The Strokes, Damien Dempsey, Erasure, Ed Sheeran, Kings of Leon, Hozier, Patrick McCabe, Brian O’Driscoll, and etcetera. Wearing a patchy white suit with a black print of unknown design was Shay feeding the jukebox coins and lining up a litany of music for the night, and, on hearing a bell chime, squinted at the TV screen and started for the door. It didn’t take long for the bar to populate. In between his performance as bouncer-cum-barkeep he managed to play a game of pool with a certain patron. Sam Coll congratulated the punter who appeared to have defeated Shay at his own pool-table, but he informed us that “the white followed the black” which gave Shay an unlikely victory at the every end, “sure, why else would he have that sort of smile on his face?” Artificial lizards and geckos are strategically placed so as to appear scurrying up the walls. A giant Atlas lies suspended in a tripod, and an open coal fire is an added bonus. The toilets are tiny, clean and come with Asian art on the wall. Bizarrely, one cannot exit without Shay’s assistance, which serves to bookend the occasion. (If one suffers from claustrophobia this is not the pub to visit). As he buzzed us out, we gave thanks and a drunken promise of returning someday. 

Images of shady ‘Shay’, enigmatic and starstruck proprietor of the Hacienda

(Shay also answers to the name of 'Paul', and claims his wife is called 'Linda'. Perhaps he hopes to add McCartney himself to the array of mounted celebrity butterflies on his wall? He gives the somnambulistic impression of being half baked yet somehow alert withal, the kind of stoner-cum-serial killer who might have done time in the Canary Islands in the sixties and sometimes thinks he's still back there. Yet sleepy and distracted though he may seem, cross him at your peril – no doubt his bite is far worse than his nonexistent bark, and never forget that he alone has the power to set you free, to let you in and let you out as the case may be. What a legend.) 

The Hacienda is one of the last remaining genuine speakeasies [1] in the city. With rules of its own it’s a law unto itself. As a public house it’s inimitable and somewhat of a Holy Grail on the Dublin pub scene. The entertainment is surreal, the setting is unique, and the method is not without madness. Taking a pint here is an experience worthy of the wait.

FOOTNOTE

[1] What is unique to The Hacienda is that while it’s a speakeasy, it’s also a traditional pub. Other Speakeasies in Dublin tend to follow the usual trend of being elegant, stylish and fashionable vintage cocktail bars with a 1920's vibe such as the: The Blind Pig which doesn’t even publish its address (although its location is somewhere underground on Suffolk Street), but rather states that they are ‘5 minutes from Trinity College’. One must first make contact via email to make a booking and receive specific directions. It’s named after ‘the police who turned a blind eye to the liquor rooms of the 1920s prohibition era.’ Their sister bar The Little Pig is off Wicklow Street (not to be confused with The Little Pyg pizza place in Pygmalion the nightclub-cum-cocktail-bar-cum-restaurant on William Street South). When booking one will receive a secret password to use at an intercom at an innocuous door bearing no signage. On being buzzed-in one walks through a narrow and filthy laneway called Glendenning Lane and up a flight of steps into the plush and decadence of the elegant speakeasy. (Both Pig bars are linked through a series of secret doors). Another bar of note is the secretive Vintage Cocktail Club in Crown Alley, Temple Bar. A blank façade gives nothing away save for just 3 letters on a black door ‘VCC.’ One must ring the bell and hope not to hear thou shalt not pass.

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