The Best Bar Is One With A Typewriter In It

Brendan Behan typing on a Remington Model 2 portable in

Mulligan's bar on Poolbeg Street in Dublin  in 1952.

Vogue magazine has been spruiking what it calls ‘The World’s 50 Best Bars Association’. Is there really such a group, or it is just part of William Reed Business Media Ltd’s paid PR for the bars listed? Whatever, with the list expanded to 100, I was surprised how many of the bars I had drunk in, in cities such as London, Paris, Amsterdam, Madrid, Barcelona, Hong Kong, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Tokyo, Seoul, Sydney and Melbourne. Among those I have had a few tipples in is the Connaught Bar in Mayfair, London, which Vogue says is rated the No 1 bar in the world. Having spent a few nights in the Connaught, I can neither rate the hotel nor the bar as anything special, so this naturally made me wonder about the validity of the rest of the list.

For all that, the best two bars I’ve ever been in are not, unsurprisingly, mentioned: the Kokatahi on the West Coast of New Zealand (in the days when Gary McGill was mine host) and Mulligan’s on Poolbeg Street, Dublin. Décor counts for very little in my book, conviviality for heaps, and there never a more convivial publican than Gary. What’s more, there was always Gary’s uncle’s old Brother typewriter safely stored away for me to use if I needed to knock up an obituary in a hurry. Plus an All Black scrum coach to chat with. What other bar in the world can offer all that?

I’ll always remember the Kangaroo Bar in Seoul, primarily because I had to shout the bar (120,000 won) after I accidentally tugged on the bar bell to regain my balance. Luckily I’d been paid 120,000 won for a newspaper interview during the 1988 Olympics, so I had sufficient readies on me. And enough left to buy a gin sling in Raffles in Singapore a day or so later.

The Royal Exchange in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district brings back fond memories, as does Cincinnati’s Nicholson's Bar and Tavern (where the bar staff wear kilts). In that same city I noted in Arnold's Bar & Grill that a 2013 ‘Esquire’ magazine article on the Best Pubs in America said Arnold's was ranked No 4. ‘Esquire’ wrote, "If Arnold's were in New York, San Francisco, Chicago, or Boston - somewhere, in short, that people actually visit - it would be world famous … But it's in Cincinnati, which means that despite its history and tradition of intelligent, respectful ownership, Arnold's is still primarily a no-bullshit local bar. It's got regulars, traditions and customs, but at the same time the bartenders are friendly and the regulars are - well, they're not hostile. In other words, thank God it's in Cincinnati."

Mulligan’s has been on Poolbeg Street since 1854, seven years before Arnold’s even opened, but they have similar stories. And Mulligan’s has a permanent place in my heart because I was in its postcard (left). Being next door to The Irish Press, it was where I spent many an boisterous evening throughout the 1970s. One on memorable Sunday afternoon, after an Irish rugby team training session at Lansdowne Road, I was instrumental in the Irish scrum packing down in the back bar. Happy days! In 2015 The Irish Times said Mulligan’s had “woven itself into the very fabric of the city and remains a loyal anchor for anyone adrift on its shores.”

Part of Mulligan’s proud history is that in 1922 it was raided by the Black and Tans. James Joyce and Flann O’Brien (aka Myles na gCopaleen) wrote about it, Brendan Behan typed there, and a book has been written about “the Grand Old Pub of Poolbeg Street”. John F. Kennedy drank there, as did Nat King Cole and Judy Garland, who also sang there. U2 plotted their future there. When I was last in Mulligan’s, about 10 years ago, I asked the barman if he had any left of the postcard with me in it. They’d sold out. Ah, such is the price of fame!