What is the coronavirus equivalent of a first-world problem? Trust me, I know there are much bigger things to worry about in the world, and I could probably use a hefty dollop of perspective.
And yet.
I’m absolutely bursting for the pub right now. Queuing for knickers and “bits” in Penneys? Not for me. Craving a Billy bookcase in Ikea? Nah. Counting down the days until I can look a bit human again with a haircut? Meh.
I’d rather the warming benevolence of getting a round in than having a fringe again. I’m missing paying well over the odds for a terrible quarter bottle of pinot grigio. I see beermats and sticky floors in my dreams. I want to be handed a plate of food not prepared in my own kitchen, or one I have to wash afterwards.
The funny thing is, alcohol has been freely available for the last few months. Our local off-licence has evidently been doing such a brisk business that its owner looks like the cheeriest man in Dublin 7. You can walk into a convenience store and immediately convenience yourself with a half-decent bottle of wine (don’t think that I haven’t. I’m more of a regular at the bottle bank than I have any right to be). So it’s not about the alcohol, as such.
Quibbles galore
Yet why am I desperate to hand over upwards of €7 to a stranger for a glass of wine, in a room full of other strangers? From next week onwards, the Irish drinking establishment is likely to be a different beast altogether.
There will be table service, no queuing at the bar or socialising away from your table. You must book, you must eat as well as drink, and you can keep your table for only 1¾ hours. There have been quibbles galore about what constitutes the meal that customers will be obliged to order alongside alcohol (a substantial meal, costing at least €9, appears to be the gist of it).
Leaving aside the considerably problematic element of it, the Irish pub culture is pretty much baked into our bones. It’s synonymous with celebration, bonhomie and being out in the world with others in a way that, say, your local Centra isn’t.
And for me, there’s been plenty to be a bit wistful for, little of it to do with the actual alcohol. There’s getting ready to go to the pub, for a start; the first ritual of the night. When you’re a young woman, gussying yourself up with your friends is probably even more fun than the act of frequenting the pub itself. There’s the cheery anticipation of a great night out and the appraising of outfits, like you’re in an 1980s chick-flick montage.
Me: “Does this look okay on me?”
Friends, in heated chorus: “Honestly, I’ve never seen you look more ravishing/luminous/ridey/stunzo, etc.”
Me: “No, but do I look okay?” (Subtext: “Will I get lucky tonight?” An absolute deep-dive for compliments, this.)
I miss the whoosh of opening the pub door, the eyes of strangers settling on you for a second. The towering wall of gleaming glass bottles. Oh, the triumph when you manage to catch the barman’s eye; the juggling of ice-cold glasses back to your table. The ripping open of a communal packet of crisps (do you think we’ll get away with ordering €9 of King Salt & Vinegar crisps in this new world order? Don’t believe for a second that I won’t try this).
I miss the first sip of a glass of ice-cold white wine at an outside table. The jostling of bodies at the bar; the fluid way that Irish people have about them as they move through a pub. I even miss the cheering small talk with regulars, which gets more nonsensical as the night goes on.
Giddily chaotic
I miss the swift lunchtime drink that somehow turns into a lethal, in-the-chipper-at-3am bender without you even noticing. I miss the smugness of finding yourself in a lock-in. I miss how conversation starts to feel a bit like white-water rafting after a certain hour: giddily chaotic and unbroken. I even miss the post-pub kebab.
(I don’t miss that awful “the night’s gone off a cliff” feeling when you realise you’ve overdone things and you need to leave the pub, LIKE RIGHT NOW. Brrrr.)
Mostly, I miss how “going to the pub”, whether you are going the full spit and sawdust bit or mingling with the hipsters under Tungsten lighting, means pretty much the same thing. Once you’re drinking responsibly, it almost always feels like a good time. It’s a refuge from real life. Whether you consider it right or wrong, it’s a way to park our anxieties and the daily grind and our issues and lose ourselves, even for just a few hours.
It’s not likely to feel the same anytime soon, but I’m still looking forward to meeting friends, family (anyone I don’t live with, really) in a neutral, familiar space. My friends and I have said it to each other over Zoom, time and time again over the last three months: “just picture us sitting in our local again, sharing a bottle of wine”. It’s an image that has kept us vaguely sane. A mountain of celebratory King crisps: optional.
