READING BILL BARICH'S lament for the traditional Irish pub recently set me thinking about my own favourite drinking establishment and why I like it so much.
We'll call it "Murphy's", which is not its real name, because I don't want it attracting the wrong kind of crowd; or indeed any crowd. I know this is selfish. But among the pub's many charms is that, while permanently on the brink of becoming fashionable, it has averted that threat to date. Consequently it has the perfect balance between having enough customers to be viable but not enough ever to be mobbed. I'd like it to stay that way.
An estate agent would say Murphy's is "tucked away on a quiet side street, only a short walk from the bustling heart of Dublin 2". And clichéd as this is, it is also fairly accurate. The street has two other pubs: useful on those rare occasions when there are people in Murphy's you need to avoid. But it is something of a back-alley, just off the main drag: making it a popular refuge for men escaping shopping expeditions on Saturday afternoons.
Murphy's is a old pub, even by Dublin standards. Although there have been drinking dens on the site since about 1700, the current premises dates from 1882. The decor is classic Victorian - mahogany and mirrors, two snugs etc - and although the premises has been refurbished a few times over the years, most original fittings have been preserved.
Its various surfaces have the ideal blend of hygiene and shabbiness. The ceiling, for example, has been repainted at least once since the smoking ban. Yet somehow it seems to have retained the nicotine stains, which are part of the ambience.
Murphy's is a "literary bar", but not in any touristy way. In fact, it must be one of the few city-centre pubs that doesn't have a poster of "famous Dublin writers". Yet it is the perfect place to commune with literary ghosts. Patrick Kavanagh and Brendan Behan were simultaneously barred from it once after a row (Kavanagh got back in later, on appeal); and it's also said to be one of the places Dylan Thomas passed out in during his honeymoon.
It's historic in other ways too. Some of the plans for the Easter Rising were laid here: in the "back snug". An area of exposed brickwork still has a hole in it, believed to have been caused by a stray bullet from the fighting that missed one of the barmen by inches. But in a lucky break, the pub somehow avoided being mentioned in Ulysses. This was the making of it.
Murphy's does not itself do hot food. Even better, there is a very good restaurant immediately above it, with which the pub shares a creaking yet functional "dumb waiter".
In a mutually suitable arrangement, the pub's customers can order from the restaurant where they sit (and at a 15 per cent discount), while the pub sends draft beer, when required, in the other direction.
Incidentally, despite being old-fashioned, Murphy's is not in hide-bound by tradition. It serves one of the best pints in Dublin. But it also stocks a good, if basic, wine list. And it's one of the few pubs I know that also offers a proper range of bottled beers, with six Belgian varieties alone.
All these things might count for nothing, however, if it didn't also have the best barman in town. We'll call him "Mick", because I don't want to attract other pubs' attention to him; although I doubt he'd leave now anyway. He's been a cornerstone of Murphy's for 30 years and seems to live for it, working seven days a week without holidays.
What I most like about him is the way, no matter how busy, he always establishes eye-contact the moment you enter. His glance tells you: "Your call has been queued and will be answered in strict rotation, or possible sooner." However harassed, he is always friendly. But he presides over the pub like a benign dictator: nipping sing-songs in the bud or explaining to newcomers that they should turn their phones to "meeting" mode. Crucially, he also has a fine-tuned antenna for bores, swooping to rescue their victims, and sometimes even giving the offenders money to go and drink somewhere else.
Other things I love about Murphy's are the open fire, still lit in winter, and the book shelf, where solitary customers can pick up something to read, or leave their own books when finished. But the pub's single crowning glory, I have to say, is its beer garden.
The garden was a well-kept secret until the smoking ban, when the proprietors were forced to open it up. Now it is an idyllic public space, popular with smokers and non-smokers alike. It's a natural sun-trap on summer evenings; although there is nothing quite like being in it on a balmy, Shalimar-scented moonlit night, gazing into the fountain; or sitting in the corner under the orange tree. Bliss.
By now, readers will have realised that first, Murphy's does not exist and second, I ripped off this whole column idea from George Orwell, who described his perfect and equally fictional English pub in a 1946 essay, The Moon Under Water. Correct on both counts, readers, and I'm sorry. But I met Orwell's ghost in Murphy's the other night; and he was the one who suggested it.