120) McDaid's of Harry Street, D2

The onetime go-to in the forties for the literary likes of Brendan Behan, Flann O'Brien and Patrick Kavanagh – their antics and altercations are documented and celebrated by Anthony Cronin in Dead As Doornails (Lilliput Press supposedly has the film rights, but who could possibly embody them in all their elusive vainglory?). The pub has been trading on such past glory ever since, but maintains its vintage charm, if one is willing to cough up for it. A filthy €5.60 is needed for a Guinness. The four stained-glass windows over the entrance are cathedral-like in the right light, and the walls are chock-a-block with portraits and mementos of the great and good. (Indeed, the cloistral atmosphere, accentuated by stained-glass and high curving ceiling, is apparently no accident – the building was originally a Moravian church established in 1779 on the grounds of the former city morgue).

A creaky stair leads to the toilets and to a second bar open only at weekends. One may also sit outside and contemplate the nearby Phil Lynott statue, whose bass guitar is often vandalized. Dave - the McDaidian barman of 13 years – is in the habit of speaking to Italian tourists in their own language whenever a gaggle flood the bar. In order to save time, he once asked a large group, in fluent Italian, to nominate a single spokesperson to give everyone’s order as opposed to everybody ordering one by one. This, he acknowledged, was ‘a bit cheeky’, but was very effective as the Italians did as they were told. When asked where he had learned to speak Italian he replied: ‘Spain!’

McDaid’s regular Paddy Kavanagh scribbles down some doggerel between sips

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