Anton texts me to say has just finished his first week back at work as a dog-catcher, and is eager to celebrate. Signed with a (:r) and a parenthetical “<- me smokin a joint” by way of explanation, it prompts from me an invitation to the Shelbourne, and we meet outside, Anton in full dog-catching regalia, a grey boiler-suit and a necklace with assorted canine teeth threaded onto it, along with a telescopic net in his left hand. Oddly, and to my disappointment, no remarks are made by the doorman or by any staff as we enter, and we take a table towards the back of the cavernous bar.
The Shelbourne’s vaulted ceilings recall a profligate and aesthetic approach to wealth and the display thereof which is troublingly pleasant, though a hideous monochrome, ersatz-paisley wallpaper brings to mind more the interior decoration of a hypothetical Come Dine With Me contestant, who perhaps also has a leather headboard. And while my head is beaten against the fact that money cannot buy class, my hind-quarters are bothered by the price-list, which skirts into obscenity by the standards of anyone’s mother or, God forbid, grandmother. A decent bottle of Syrah is a more reasonable €27 (second on the price-list, naturally enough), and arrives with a triptych of spicy and honeyed nuts and pretzelettes, which come in the usual assortment of shapes save the fish-shaped one: a fond memory from my childhood perhaps individually and carefully removed by some unfortunate soul behind the bar for whom in turn fish-shaped pretzelettes are forever ruined by virtue of their ubiquity. The wine’s waxy initiation gives way to a calm tartness as we take in our surroundings in greater detail, the depths of the bar occupied variously by professionals enjoying the end of their working week, theatre-goers loading up to boost their endurance, hotel guests savouring the immoderate pricing as an indication of sophistication and respect reflected, etc.
In spite of its reputation, floor staff are thin on the ground, and it took a good five minutes before our table was served by an abrupt gentleman waiter the reason for whose apparent distaste for his customers I can only guess at without a degree of journalistic responsibility. An absurd playlist wheedles its way through the demure atmosphere, featuring both Eagle Eye Cherry and a catastrophic remix of Rosemary Clooney and Perez Prado’s Sway amongst other similarly unremarkable nuggets from your dad’s mate’s WMP library. Cocktails are ferried from bar to table with the monotonous haste in which most customers’ actions are undertaken: social interaction is shaped by its metasocial context in this “posh bar”, in which you may not eat fish-shaped pretzelettes nor raise your voice, though no sign explicitly says as much. The appeal of the Shelbourne as a cultural artefact is unquestionable, and not so simple so as to be extrapolated in the space of a single page, though it is difficult to feel at ease in its obvious comfort, if such a distinction can be made between the cognitive and the physical. Just as the triptych of salted snacks is emptied with your drinks purchase and not refilled, exiting the hotel’s huge doors and walking back into a winter night seems like an irrevocable gesture.
Anton’s eyes light up halfway to the Luas stop, as he spies a St. Bernard dog sniffing through foliage just inside the fence of Stephen’s Green. With a whip of his wrist, he extends his telescopic net and tosses it into the park, climbing the fence surprisingly skilfully after it. The net does not look sufficiently large to capture the huge dog, and Anton beckons him over through purple lips as he raises his hand higher behind his head, higher, with knuckles white, higher.
No. 27 Bar and Lounge
The Shelbourne
27 Stephen’s Green,
Dublin 2.
