by ALICE AND YANKA

When the choice is no choice, the bolshie brain must be tricked. Right now, we’re not on Crescent Street. We’re a tourist in Tuktoyaktuk, hoping for gold. The only golden stuff to cross our path are big letters. By chance, these nuggets spell out “pub” and not “teeth extraction.” Tout de même, as with extractions of all kinds, one must get drunk good and proper to deal with it.

16h40 The ship’s empty. No rats! Just a friendly waitress and five men of snowplower proportions. Clustered at the bar, they talk shop, plottes, pucks & transmission. It’s a big place. Spin to the right, it’s a sunroom; spin to the left, it’s a dark pit. We spin around and sink.

16h45 Ruttish minds require palliative care. Procaine is off-limits, but pints ($6.96 each) are readily available. The black stuff tastes like peat and the postman. The dimmer’s set to the most perfect low level. Constructive blackout ensues.

18h20 An older couple near the fireplace radiates over-loving. Maybe it’s the Claddagh ring curse. The story’s written in the menu. It’s about Richard the Irish fisherman, crazy Spanish pirates, African slave masters, stolen gold pecks, some virgin chick, a ring and ostensibly popular sentiments such as loyalty and everlasting love.

18h26 All this stuff about pirates makes us very thirsty.

18h30 A huge chunk of the Rolling Stones discography replaces Yan Dorisson & Sisiare on the stereo. There’s more bleeding and sticky fingering than steel wheeling, alors ça va, on s’ferme le clapet.

18h45 Humans swarm in. We switch to one of the baby booths. Un ostie de bon move. It’s one tiny banquette, two chairs, a stained-glass window and a coat hook, all nestled between two wee walls. It’s knee-to-knee, elbow-to-elbow, forehead-to-forehead. C’est le confessional de Satan. Bref, it’s so cozy, it’s our home. We’re drafting up a lease for the owners as soon as we’re done with the red tape.

18h48 We spot our hero. His picture hangs above the bar. Il est magnifique. This jolly fellow is Steven Boyd’s grandfather. He was going to make the trip from Ireland to christen the pub but he died four months before the opening. C’est pas juste mais c’est comme ça. Now he entertains and drinks Guinness au paradis. And watches over barflies and the grandkids from his frame above the bar every day. He’s a happy man, c’est sûr. Cheers, Grand-papa. T’es un vrai.

19h10 Chaque pose du coude sur la table fait dangereusement basculer les pintes vers le sol. Le sol n’est pas un endroit pour la booze. To balance things out, Danielle, la belle waitress, suggests food plates. She’s fond of the leek & potatoes pie ($10.22). Ok. Et un–deux lb de whiskey & olive banshee sticks with BBQ beer sauce ($11.52), whatever that is. Turns out it’s a pile of chicken bites bayonets. It’s chewy as melted fire hose. It actually tastes like olives, though none are present. Maybe they sprayed it on. Veggies roll up as French fries, mushrooms and sliced zucchinis. Ugly, limp zucchinis. Mous, comme le willpower qui sacre le camp dans une flaque de robine. But they’re good. Comme quoi y’a pas yeink le look dans la vie.

19h11 The pie’s bigger than lasagna and, possibly, Alaska. An endless duvet of puff hides leek & chicken chunks. C’est bon et c’est crissement chaud. Cependant, we suspect the cooks might be high on Cheminaud ’cause this beautiful pie came with seven breakfast-style potatoes. Ça va pas ensemble. Non.

21h30 Downstairs, near the bathrooms, there’s a DIY alcootest ($1). Scores = designated driver: 21 out of 80 after 2 pints. Alice: 82 out of 80 after 3 pints. Yanka, well, Yanka beats all machines.

21h35 On s’en va s’coucher dans not’ booth, bonne nuit.

De la vraie purée cheapmotel@hotmail.com

Claddagh Irish Pub
ADDRESS: 1433 Crescent
TEL: 287-9354
HOURS: Noon–3 a.m.
HAPPIEST HOURS: 4–8 p.m.
CARDS: Yes
VEGETARIAN FRIENDLY: Veggie burger & sandwich, deep-fried cheese sticks & mushrooms, fish & chips.
IRISH SPECIALTIES: Bangers & champ, Paddy’s lamb stew, steak & kidney pie.
BEST FEATURES: The baby booths & the staff.
BAD FEATURES: It’s on Crescent. Bottled beer selection kinda sucks.
MOST UN-IRISH FEATURE: No brown sauce! Ah!
RATING: 8 out of 10 pour le pub.