A last supper in Dublin

Last evening in Dublin. Mr. Lynch and I have a drink at the hotel and then walk down to a restaurant I’d noticed last night along St. Andrew’s Street called Salamanca. A tapas joint. You’d think for my last evening in Ireland I’d want lamb’s liver with bacon or a nice lamb stew but already I’m thinking of moving on and so it’s time for something different. Something spicy and exotic.

I joke around with our waitress as we order a jug of their house sangria but she’s either in a crabby mood this evening or just way too busy with other tables to be enjoying my humor. Maybe both. Don’t really blame her although it is a bit more fun when you can joke around with the wait staff. Oh well.

Mr. Lynch must be feeling famished. He orders a bowl of olives, calamari fried in chili batter, chorizo sautéed in red wine with peppers, and a chicken dish. Rather than a bunch of small plates, I’m thinking something a little heartier like paella. So I order the gambas al pil. But when it comes, it’s not paella at all. Just prawns sautéed in olive oil with garlic and chili. Not at all what I ordered. Our waitress comes over and I tell her she’s brought me the wrong dish. I ordered the shrimp paella, I tell her. Her face gets red. She puts one hand on her hip and with the other points at the menu she’s holding. You said you were thinking of the paella but then you ordered the gambas al pil, she says, a bit of anger in her voice. I asked you twice if that’s what you wanted and you said you did. It’s not a shrimp paella. We don’t do a shrimp paella. The gambas al pil is just listed below the paellas because those are the house specialties.

What can I say? She’s right, I’m sure. And not the sort of waitress who feels obligated to give the customer what he wants. Even if he inadvertently ordered incorrectly. Well, never mind. Mr. Lynch has enough food for the two of us.

Afterwards, not wanting to go back to the hotel, we wander around the neighborhood looking for a good bar. Every place seems too crowded or too seedy or just not what we’re looking for. Let’s go back to that bar we were at when we first came to Dublin, says Mr. Lynch. Do you even know where it is? I say. He doesn’t even answer. Just starts marching up the street. Gawd it’s lovely out. Still a hint of light in the sky. A bit of a chill. Up Grafton which is just chock-a-block with strollers. Down a little side street and there it is. Some anonymous little pub. A clean, well-lighted place. We order a couple of Power’s, neat, and stand outside the bar watching the people laughing and telling stories and just generally having a good time. Something the Irish know how to do well. One more round of whiskey; the sky darkens, the night gets a little colder, and, since neither of us bothered with a jacket, we agree it’s time to head back. The evening is over. As is our stay in Ireland.