Even at a fleeting glance, The Hut’s flawlessly appointed period facade betrays not only the pub’s traditionalist bona fides but the position of veneration it occupies in the locality. Shimmering stone facades dripping with gleaming, gold-adorned detailing and overflowing hanging baskets don’t just happen on their own – there is no small pride displayed in The Hut’s exterior, and with good reason. The Hut remains one of the City’s finest Victorian bars. Established as a greengrocers in the 19th century – little has changed about the establishment’s interior. They might have curbed the grocery sales but the plethora of cabinets, ornate stained glass and brass gas lamps that dot the bar ensure the establishment’s history never drift too far from the minds of those lucky enough to darken the door.
These backward-looking flourishes might not seem like too potent a USP when you can’t take three steps in Dublin without passing a repurposed Georgian septic tank trading as Thelonius F. Shaughnessy’s Ol’ Time Cocktail Corale. Yet, where so many of these blighted outposts wholly miss the point, The Hut feels like an institution in conversation with its history as opposed to paying, baldly trend-driven, lip service to it.
My companion and I visited on the Saturday of All-Ireland Final weekend and it’s safe to say we were in the extreme minority of customers who weren’t on first name terms with the rest of the clientele. This is a true local, but entirely stripped of that term’s negative baggage. That is to say; just because you’re a newbie, one needn’t feel like an interloper or voyeur. The room hums with jocular repartee – middle aged ladies with tight haircuts trade well meaning barbs with the refrigerator repairman posted up at the bar. Everyone wants to know if everyone else will be back in tomorrow for the match.
With its tiled floor and limited booth spaces – this is not a warm blanket of a bar that one sinks into. The Hut’s undeniable cosiness is born of its ambience rather than decor. Over the course of our stay, one older, round-faced gentleman bobs throughout the pub like fleshy, maroon nose’d balloon. Briefly halting at each and every stool. Without fail, he is met with a warm greeting and a hand on the shoulder.
Atmosphere goes a long way, so The Hut has plenty going for it before one even considers the quality of its wares. That said, as might be expected from a pub so in-tune with tradition; The Guinness is beyond reproach. Served in an unmarked tulip glass, satin-smooth, devoid of metallic overtones, simultaneously robust and weightless, I could go on. In summation, you’d be hard pressed to find any finer ambrosia for an overcast afternoon.
As we depart into the overcast evening, buoyed by pints of plain and bonhomie by osmosis, Balloon man arrives at the stool of a patron sporting slicked back, grey-flecked hair and a push broom moustache:
Balloon Man: How are ya gettin’ on?
Moustache Man slugs pint to denote consideration
Moustache Man: Absolutely Fantastic.
Agreed, Moustache Man. Agreed.
Words – Danny Wilson
Photo – Killian Broderick
The Hut
159 Phibsborough Rd, Phibsborough, Dublin, 1
01 830 2238
