A pub under false pretences, now operating as a puffed up restaurant. A former grocers boasting a promising exterior, with old-world lettering and a vintage name; all contrive to set expectations high. But all these hopes are let down upon entry, for the citywide gastritis syndrome has taken over – customers dining are preferred (and usually expected to queue), while any spare pricks of drinkers (very much the minority) are denied any stouts, and must instead make do with pissy beers of the nauseating crafty variety.

Yes, that’s right, NO Guinness served here. In its place however, is a beer extremely recommended by staff entitled ‘Whiplash Bone Machine.’ It arrives pre-chilled for your convenience at no extra cost - just a mere 8 euro and 50 cents, fuck you very much. Or why not call for a can of ‘Castaway Yellowbelly Passionfruit Sour’? As this cloudy little pisstrickler is seductively poured it wolf-whistles at you from behind the glass. Bend over and drink its arrogance. Popular here is the fetish for food. Dodgy Dutch eggs are served on an inconvenient roof slate with a cowlick of some sort of sauce. Or why not shart yourself to their ‘Slow Roasted Highbank Syrup Marinated Irish Mushrooms with Crown Prince Squash Stuffed with Windfall Apples’?

Of course, before all this haughty cuisine becomes; first masticated, thence translated to feculence, one should first remember to take the obligatory gastagram [1] for the benefit of one’s online followers as proof of just how high one’s lifestyle truly is. (See: Tommy O’Gara’s for more). 

FOOTNOTE

[1] Gastagram: (noun), an Instagram photograph taken of one’s gastronomic experience. Copyright © 2021 The Dublin Publopedia.

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