A visit to Guinness

Tuesday’s Short Take from Niagara Express

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The next several days will be an indulgence of sorts, a travelog chronicling our visit to Ireland. I missed Tuesday because we were leaving Dublin, heading for Galway and I had to take public transportation to the airport and drive to Galway on the left side of the road which is incredibly stressful if you’ve never done it. Why do I feel me self typing with a Newfoundland accent. Somehow Wednesday slipped away too. Today, I’ll lift a glass to Guinness.

In the Swift Bar outside the Guinness Storehouse Beth said “I am Beth, as in Elizabeth” and Sean said “I am Sean, as in Sean.” He and his muddy Mike were day drinking. It was 3-something in the afternoon but a trio of stouts in and a couple whisky’s to boot they were glowing brightly as we ordered Toasties (that’s Irish for grilled cheese). We had some catching up to do. “How can you drink all day if you don’t start in the mornin?’”

First world problems (an American in Dublin)

Look right, because that's where the bus is coming from when you get creamed as you step off the curb.

There are no top sheets, just a cushy comforter. It’s normal to Ben, who always slept that way. Don’t look for a washcloth, there are none.

There is a Keurig-like espresso-maker but it makes an ounce at a time. The only thing I forgot, besides a razor? A French press. Que sera, sera.

Guinness

We walked to the Guiness factory at James Gate for our self-guided 11:30 a.m. tour.

This place is old. They checked our tickets outside. Then they checked our tickets inside. We queued up because that’s what everyone was doing. Then a young man checked our tickets again and handed us drink tickets.

We struck up a conversation with a German named Joachim (more on him later.)

The tour itself was the Disney of beer only better presented. The queue was for crowd control. By only letting so many people in at a time, they control how fast you walk through and make sure you have an optimal experience.

They manipulated us more efficiently than our Google search history or even the microchip we got with our Covid vaccine. It’s OK. There is no covid here and ears heal in 3 days. Remember Corey Comperatore ended a way no hero deserves.

Every step of the Guinness way is narrated, set to music, lit with video screens and even scented so the mighty stout experience becomes mystical.

There are four ingredients in a pint: Barley, water, hops and yeast.

The barley is shown in a field with a message about regenerative agriculture and ecological responsibility.

They have used the same yeast since 1903 and it is stored at -196 C.

Then there was a discussion of the roasting process. Interestingly, there didn’t seem to be discussion of malting, the process by which barley is sprouted to increase sugar content.

Beyond roasting comes water. A discussion of water is animated with a backlit show feature creating a curtain before you in the shape of the iconic harp as well as spelling words with a curtain of water which originates in the Wicklow Mountains.

Hops get their time as well, with vertical displays evoking climbing bines.

There is homage to the technological advances as well, from the mash tun to the pumps, roasting ovens and even cooperage.

Guinness made its own casks for most of its history. A cooper was a respected, sought-after trade passed from generation to generation in families.

Since so many surnames repeated, craftsmen had nicknames, ‘Tapeworm’ Murphy, ‘Electric’ McMullen, ‘The Sheriff’ McMullen and ‘General’ Ryan.

Nitrogen got its own display. It is the noble gas that gives the 119.5 second pour of a perfect Guinness its creamy head.

“A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” It is profound, and the star of the advertising at the Storehouse.

The tasting experience started in a stark white room with olfactory tureens wafting mists of scent from the wort to hops, roasting barley and malt. Everyone left the room with a short sample. The tasting room was modeled after Arthur Guinness’s living room with pillars stacked throughout as a comfortable resting place for beer samples in the tasting regimen.

We rose above, on the escalator, of course, to the top level where there was free beer.

Well, not really free, we paid for one as part of the tour. We ascended to the Gravity Bar and waited patiently for our careful pour. It came with perfection.

We wandered and looked into the mist. You could see little but cranes everywhere in the distance. Poverty and nonsense aside, this place is bursting.

As we milled about, Joachim reappeared.

“I’m looking for my wife,” he said.

“Where did you leave her?” Beth was by my side, Gertrude was missing.

We moved on to lighter things.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I work for a private equity firm based in Dublin,” he said. “I had meetings here last week. My wife traveled to join me.”

The top-floor bar is circled with windows. Surveying the distance, construction cranes are everywhere.

“Why is there so much construction here?” I asked. “The economy must be booming.”

“It is. It’s because it is a tax haven,” he said. “That’s why all these companies have moved here.”

The bar was scientifically designed to have spectacular views and only enough seats for half the people to sit. Stalking and grabbing a chair is a tough game. I went for one simultaneously as a big Northern Irishman named Eoghan.

“This is mine” he said.

“I’ll fight you for it,” I said.

“I’m bigger than you,” he said.

“But I’m tougher,” I said. “I might not be able to beat your ass but I will die trying.” I let him have it.

We laughed and chatted a spot. A woman watching the feigned animus handed me a ticket for another beer.

10 minutes later, Eoghan and his wife gave us their chairs and he took a photo of the 4 of us.

As if on cue, a couple from West Seneca struck up a conversation with Joe and Ben over the Bills because the mafia is everywhere.

Thank God for Beth planning this trip. I could never.