the law firm of Strongbow and Jameson

Quick recap:

Me. Jeff. Dublin. Ireland. June 16. Twenty-ten A.D. Just finished the walking tour. It's about, oh, two o'clock in the afternoon or something. Cillian (our tour guide) has released us at St. Stephen's Green. We've been told to come to the tour-sponsored pub crawl at 7:00, starting at the Purty Kitchen in Temple Bar. ("If you don't have plans, come out," he said. "If you do have plans, cancel them.") We've toured St. Stephen's Green and Grafton Street with Harry, our Australian roomie. We've split from Harry and are now on our way west, through Temple Bar, to explore all the stuff we saw on the tour that we want to see more of. Plus we're trying to make up our minds whether we want to pregame with Guinness or Jameson before going to the pub crawl (meaning we're trying to decide whether to tour the Guinness brewery or the Old Jameson Distillery). That yellow-hued DUKW with all the screaming Viking tots is still driving around, yelling at pedestrians.

Got all that?

Okay, on with the show.

I wanted to see the inside of Christ Church Cathedral. I'm ain't the religious type, but I've got a thing for churches. The bigger and older they are, the more I like 'em. Nothing beats standing 'midst the pews in an ancient cathedral, the holy light of ages beaming down from the stained-glass windows above the worn pulpit...even if the pews, windows and pulpit are just replicas. There's a quiet sort of grandeur about a place of worship, one which I like to sample even if I don't buy into it.

Jeff wasn't in the mood to stump up the requisite €6 to get inside, however, so I went in by myself. The ticket agent took my money, politely ordered me to take my cap off, and handed me my pass.

And then I was in.

It was something else in there, folks.

The cathedral has some pretty intriguing history. It was originally built by a Catholic Viking king, about a thousand years ago. It was made of wood. A couple hundred years later, the Normans showed up, led by a fellow named Strongbow (there's a cider named after him; we drank heavily of it in Newcastle). Strongbow and his buddies oversaw a complete rebuild of the cathedral, including the construction of a choir, transepts (whatever the heck those are), the crypt, and chapels to several saints. Strongbow himself has a tomb now in the upper chambers of the cathedral.

No, I wasn't whistlin' Dixie: I said "crypt." This cathedral has a crypt. How cool is that?

After I got done touring the main complex, I went down into it.

Besides having some breathtaking tombstones (speaking of "quiet grandeur")...

...the crypt also houses a golden tabernacle and candlesticks used by King James II; the oldest-known secular carvings in Ireland; and "the Cat and the Rat," the mummified bodies of a cat and a rat which a janitor found stuck down an organ pipe.

I wish I could show you pictures of these goodies, but they didn't allow photography in that bit of the crypt.

I don't know about you, but I think that was well worth the six euros. Damn skippy.

I emerged into the bright Dublin sun (man, did Jeff and I get lucky or what? It was sunny the whole time we were in Ireland, gorgeous weather), rendezvoused with Jeff, and together the two of us struck out again. We decided that we'd had enough Guinness for the nonce; me being a hardcore whiskey fan, we elected to check out the Jameson distillery.

For the record, I think Jameson is tasty stuff. And their commercials are hilarious.

So, following the map (Jeff's Lonely Planet guide, no two-bit tourist map this time) we marched over to that part of town. We stopped off for a bottle of water at a nearby supermarket (it was actually quite warm outside). While I waited for Jeff, I perused a nearby fence, which had this mysterious missive attached to it:

And thence we strolled boldly into the distillery.

The tour was costly...I think it was twenty euros each or something. The next tour didn't start for about twenty minutes, so Jeff and I killed the time by browsing around the gift shop. Such treasures you've never seen: Jameson hats, Jameson overcoats, Jameson hip flasks, Jameson golf balls, Jameson pens, even a charming collection of tweed driving caps. But the worst was the booze. They had every single Jameson variety in that gift shop. Signature reserve, twelve-year-old special reserve, gold reserve, eighteen-year-old limited reserve...even the coveted rarest vintage reserve, one bottle of which costs more money than Donald Trump makes in a day and comes with its own serial number. The buyers put their names down in a master registry, along with the number of the bottle they bought. Seriously, a bottle of Jameson RVR is more like a pedigreed dog than a measure of booze. I was just sorry I didn't get to taste it, and judge for myself. It was sheer torture being in that room.

The tour fortunately started before I went totally stir-crazy. Our guide, a handsome girl named Georgina, plunked us down in a small theater and has us watch an introductory video. It explained (a little) about the history of the Jameson family (their family motto is Sine Metu, "Without Fear," because the early Jamesons made a name for themselves fighting pirates) and the uniqueness of John Jameson's whiskey. It didn't go into too much detail, but it sure got the juices flowing.

Then we went on the tour. Each exemplary piece of equipment used in the distillation process had been preserved. Some (like the wash back) were still in operation, eternally sloshing some display wort around a big wooden tub so we could see how it worked. We learned some surprising things about the creation of the spirit. As the whiskey matures, a surprisingly large amount (thousands of bottles' worth) is lost through the casks to evaporation. This has been nicknamed the "angel's share." (There's only one way it goes, after all: up.) I'll bet St. Peter's job satisfaction went through the roof once John Jameson started up his stills. We were able to sample this effect ourselves. There was an upended cask with a hole cut in the top for us to sniff. We took a whiff and BOY, a hefty punch of whiskey goodness wafted out of the barrel and into our nostrils. That was cool.

I won't say too much more (a) because I don't want to spoil the tour for you, and (b) Jameson representatives, clothed in black, will probably come banging on my door, and (c) I'm lazy. So I'll just say that it was an interesting tour. The creation of Irish whiskey is a much more intricate process than I'd imagined. The big thing that Georgina tried to impress upon us was that Jameson's (and other Irish whiskies) differs from Scotch whisky in that it's lighter and smoother, and better-tasting, due to the grains being merely baked in the kiln instead of having the devil roasted out of them.

And just to prove to us that she meant what she said, Georgina gave us a taste-test. She asked for eight volunteers at the start of the tour, and (well, you know me, don't you? I'm a booze-hound) my hand was one of the first in the air.

Georgina took us upstairs to the tasting-room (which looked like a rather classy restaurant, except instead of kitchens, there was just a bar and a whole lot of tables and chairs). She sat the eight of us down at a table and brought us each three plastic shot glasses. One was American whiskey, one was Scotch, and the third was Jameson's. We weren't blindfolded, and we were told which was which. Then we were invited to taste each whiskey in turn. First we took a sip of the American; then a sip of Jameson's to compare it with. Then we had a swig of Scotch, and a swig of Jameson's to chase it. Then were asked to slug that last bit of Jameson's back and make a final decision: which was best?

The vote was 7-1 in favor of Jameson. We all got signed certificates with our names printed on them that said we were now qualified, bona fide tasters of Irish whiskey. (That old gentleman next to me in the picture said he liked the American and Scotch whiskies better, just to be contrary. Georgina gave him a certificate anyway, telling him that there was "plenty of room for improvement.")

Now, before you accuse me of being a suck-up, I answered the survey honestly. I said before that Jameson is good stuff. It is rather smooth and easy and flavorful, I'll give it that. But the American whiskey used in the test happened to be Jack Daniels. I HATE Jack Daniels. I have no earthly idea why Jack & Coke is the most popular cocktail in America right now. I honestly don't know why it gained prominence over all other American whiskies. Over bourbons, for Pete's sake. I think bourbon is a lot better than Tennessee whiskey. (Old Crow and Wild Turkey 101 are my two picks.) The Jack Daniels company has a few good brands, like Double Barrel, Single Barrel and (to some extent) Gentleman Jack, but their Old No. 7 is barely passable. I wouldn't drink it straight.

And the Scotch whisky they used in the test was Johnnie Walker Black Label. Now, Black Label's the first Scotch I ever had. It's one of my dad's favorites, and my dad is a picky, picky man when it comes to booze. He won't drink any gin but Broker's (maybe Bombay Sapphire will do, if there's nothing else). He's a martini-man, and never touches rum or vodka. Hardly ever trucks with tequila, even, unless Jimmy Buffett's on the stereo and it's margarita time. I'm rather ambivalent about Johnnie Walker. Doesn't taste bad. But the fact remains that it's blended whisky. Blended whiskies just aren't on the same level as single malts. I think it was kind of a cop-out by the Jameson company that they didn't pick a good all-'round Scotch single malt to test side-by-side with their product. Johnnie Walker really isn't up to the challenge.

Mmmmmmm...challenge...

So I answered honestly. Of those three whiskies, I liked Jameson the best. Scout's honor.

And I got a little certificate for my trouble, which says that I, the Postman (real name withheld) is now a qualified whiskey-taster. I'm going to frame it, but it's printed on metric paper, so I'll have to get a custom frame. Bugger it all...

And that was that! Jeff, who hadn't signed up for the free taste-test but was sipping his free cocktail at another table, managed to snag some pictures of me in hog-heaven.



Before I hear any smart remarks, I'd like to assure you that my face was that red BEFORE I started drinking. 

Then we got up and headed out. It was time to regroup at the hostel, get cleaned up and step out to Temple Bar for a pub crawl en masse.

What happened next is a bit blurry, but I remember it as being rather fun at the time. Don't miss dancing with the Australians, coming up next.