Vagabond Sketches

“The Angel’s Share”

The previous episode set the pattern for our entire Irish visit. For if we learned to expect the unexpected, we also discovered that we could count on the kindness of strangers to repair the wounds of the unforeseen.   One of the delights of Dublin for locals and travelers alike is the “hop-on, hop-off” double-decker bus. While Den slept off the effects of his “crash” landing and jet lag, Dave and I proceeded with our sight-seeing plans, as we had but one day in Dublin before hitting the ancestral trail in the rent-a-car for west Ireland, and a hoped-for reunion with thirty of our long lost Irish cousins.

First stop: The Dublin Castle. Its grumpy, grey exterior belied the opulent, Victorian radiance of its colonial rooms, breath-taking in their British grandeur. The whole castle was a monument to the Empire on which the “sun never set.” We were still murmuring from the grounds of St. Patrick’s Cathedral around the corner, whose thirteenth-century spires pretended not to notice the kisses and caresses of the young lovers on the lawns below, turning a blind eye on them in favor of the old Dubliners feeding pigeons from an iron bench.

The spectacle of the Castle’s opulent rooms reminded of the contrast between the British, who are wont to stand on ceremony, and the Irish who are not. Hence, the in-you-face, radiant  extravagance of the “throne room, which looks like a blue and gold interior version of the Parthenon. It’s an ornate, rectangular monument to The Knights of St. Patrick, whose walls are lined with the ancient coat-of-arms of each Knight. During the British occupation of Dublin, this room was used as a grand ballroom. The captions under each portrait spoke of “viceroys” and “peerages.”

I was pleasantly surprised to find handing among these old peers of the Empire one of my favorite paintings by Yea’s brother, J.B.: “We Are Leaving You Now.”  The heart-breaking subject was the “American wake” Irish families held for brothers and sisters on the eve of their departure for America. It brought me that much closer to Grandma Naughton, who at 17, was torn from her Galway family when she embarked for America (whether voluntarily or not we don’t know). Had a similar wake been thrown in her honor in her small west Ireland town-land, Fartagar? Yeats’ downward brushstrokes reinforced the girl’s downward gaze, even as the glimpse of the sea through the window bespoke her lonesome destiny.

It intrigued me that the Irish had let stand, in the middle of Dublin, this monument to their colonizer’s opulence and centuries-long occupation—perhaps because in tearing it down, they would tear down something of the Irish self, which had suffered so long in its shadow—and was yet imprisoned in its grey stones.

Onward—on the way to the Guinness Brewery, we ducked into the Dubliner distillery, next door to the Teeling distillery—ostensibly so Dave could quench his curiosity (and his thirst) regarding Irish malt whiskey. Ireland’s Red Breast whiskey (12 year-old) had recently been designated as the number one whiskey in the world ($23).

We bellied up to the wooden bar, immediately put at ease by the wood and brass interior of the tasting room, seemingly roofed with a rounded wooden keg. Unlike American bourbon, which is 51% corn based, Irish whiskey is made from single malt barley. This and the wild, fresh Irish water are (in my humble opinion) what gives Irish whiskey it singular taste.

The young bartend-ress set before Dave a wooden platter with a sampling of three whiskeys. I opted for a Dubliner whiskey liquor called “honeycomb.”  With the first sip, every alcohol I had ever tasted was forgotten.  It had the smooth, trickling fire of a favorite liquor (Grand Marnier, say), but without the sweetness. Brilliant!

I bought a liter on the spot ($24, the Irish don’t deal in “fifths’). The jolt of malt whiskey, even at 11a, was just what Dave needed to cure his bleary-eyed jet lag (compliments of a red-eye from Chicago) and my wound-up urban nerves.

We were schooled on the contentious history between the Irish and the Scots regarding who “invented” malt whiskey. To distinguish their brand from the Scots, the Irish added an “e” to whiskey.  A jesting rivalry still exists between the two cultures, the Irish referring to the Scots as “Irishmen who crossed the Irish sea and forgot how to swim.” “Whiskey” is Irish for “water of life”—a variation of an old Gaelic word, “Uisce beatha’).  

Local lore has it that monks were responsible for bringing it to Ireland as a consequence of their traffic with Arabic perfume traders in Spain. Thus, I began to realize that Ireland’s love affair with Spain goes much deeper than the Catholic religion and the Spanish Armada, dating to their shared heritage regarding the “water of life.”  It is an ancient bond forged not just in religion and war, but whiskey! From what the monks brought back from Spain, the Irish farmers made Poiton (moonshine). At some point, some of these barrels were tossed into a peat bog. When discovered years later, they were found to have aged into an amber whiskey that when tasted set Irish lips licking.

No surprise that with a drink known for the delightful “whiskey fire” it kindles as it flows down the throat on its way to the soul, that the most notorious event in the history of Dublin distilleries should be the “whiskey fire” of 1875. 5000 barrels of burning whiskey created a river of fire through the cobbled streets of Dublin—from which many an impoverished soul unfortunately drank, as if bellying up to an outdoor bar at “happy hour”—as if God (or the Devil) was shouting,  “Drinks on Me!” The incendiary flow was described as “lave like.”

After his third “sample” of Dubliner Irish whiskey, Dave was moved to treat the small crowd to his own version of an Irish jig, or “whiskey two step!” As we discovered later that night on our promenade through the Temple Bar district (think adult Disneyland, or Bourbon Street), Dave wasn’t the only one who’d been given as case of the “hops” by these Irish hops.

Before Prohibition, the US market for Irish whiskey increased 500% in ten years. Then overnight, the demand dried up due to Prohibition. All 35 Dublin distilleries went bust. The Teeling distillery next door was the first to open in Dublin 125 years. Now the old cobbled streets of the Liberties District are once again teeming with artisans and activists, food co-ops and weavers, reviving something of the old Irish renegade spirit of the neighborhood that sprang up in the 13^th century outside the old city walls—where there were few rules, lots of fights, and plenty of gambling. This is a very old part of Dublin whose old spirit has been “refreshed”—seemingly voiced in the raucous, pirate cries of the gulls.

Malt whiskey connoisseurs also attribute its distinction to the “soft climate” of Dublin, which gives a becoming softness to this hard liquor. The City of Soft Grey Skies, I came to call it.  

 As I listened to our young female guide through the Teeling distillery, I found myself falling under the spell of her Irish lilt. Instead of “out,” she said “”oot,” instead of “kiln,” she said “killin;” instead of “country,” she said “coontry;” Instead of “bubbling.,” she said “boobling.”

She described the “legs” the whiskey made on the inside of my glass as the “tears of whiskey.” This made me think of Willie Nelson’s “Whiskey River” and his “cry me a river.” It reminded me of the soft spot in every Irish heart, which can be as quick to tears as to laughter: a nation that wears its heart (proudly) on its sleeves.

Our guide was studying to be an actress in the School for Film and Theatre, and was currently a member of the Bully Pun Players. Her orange-red hair and white freckled arms were straight out of Gaelic central casting.

We kept exclaiming over the Irish warmth toward their American cousins, as spontaneous as it was sincere—as if meeting you was the highlight of their day! How could a people who had suffered so much and for so long, under the boot of British occupation, have such a sense of light-hearted fellowship toward perfect strangers? It proved infectious.

I learned that “grist” is the malt ground up in spring water. When heated and extracted, it produces  “maile.” The waste is used as livestock feed.  I learned that the vapor produced is conveyed to a cooler by a piece of machinery called the “swan’s neck.” The three giant vats were named after Teeling’s daughters, ala the three muses of ancient Greek inspiration . . . or the sirens that lured thirsty, sea-crazed sailors to their doom—underscoring, perhaps, the tendency of a good whiskey to inspire thoughts of a good woman.

I learned that a whiskey’s flavor and color comes from its barrel. I learned that since Scotch whiskey is aged for a year, Irish whiskey is aged for a year and a day! It’s also aged in a red wine barrel, a rum barrel, or a bourbon barrel.

The loss of ¼ of the barrel to evaporation, the Irish magnanimously regard as the “angel’s share.” No wonder they’re such devout Catholics—event the angels are fond of whiskey! Hard to fear dying when an angel is waiting with a harp and a snifter of Red Breast. 

To Be Continued . . .