196) The Old Orchard Inn of Butterfield Avenue, Rathfarnham, D14

Pricey very and character void. A sewer with a fake smile. Faps for food. Surrounded by restaurants. A cold hexagonal marble bar is misplaced. Previous manager and part-time baldy barman ‘Tim’ is an arsehole. Atmosphere reeks of affluence, pretentiousness and champagne farts. To keep amused one may doodle on a napkin. The aforementioned Peter Conlon was recently forced to drink in this little pisshole due to there being no other local during Covid-19. His remarks expounded our experience: insufferably slow service mixed with undrinkable pints of Guinness. So untakeable was the stout that he switched to a costly gin and tonic. 

Michael Coll, father of the aforementioned Sam, used to come here annually on December 18th/19th, having just played Santa Claus for the benefit of his college chum Kay Towey's creche – as a reward, she would treat her Father Christmas to a pint and a slap-up bacon-cum-cabbage dinner (the latter of which, to be fair, this establishment makes a decent, if financially ruinous, fist of). This is, let it be known, very much a Charlie Chawke bar. In 2018 they reported earnings of 1.1 million. One is born every minute. 

An Old Orchard napkin with pornographic doodle. The number, if dialed, will put you through to the bar

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