Dee walked back to the bar and stood in front of me. “You settled in?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I knew thema’ampissed her off, and maybe that was why I was planning on overdoing it.
She sighed. “The special tonight is Irish beer stew with dumplings and Cadhla’s soda bread. For dessert, Ronan’s made a bread puddin’ with whiskey sauce.”
I nodded and looked around. “You got a menu?”
“No.” She tilted her chin toward a wall-mounted board listing the two items she mentioned. “When I said special tonight, I meant that was all we were serving tonight.”
“Right. No vegetarians in Ballybeg?” I asked.
“Oh, my Lord, are you one of those vegan people?” Dee exclaimed in mock horror and then went back to speaking dryly, “If you are, you’re gonna be one hungry puppy.”
“No, I’m not.” I grinned. “I’m good with the stew and the bread pudding,ma’am. And to drink…whatever you recommend that’s on tap.”
She huffed. “We don’t have any of that fancy IPA shit you Yanks like.”
“Something local,” I suggested, and that softened her.
“Well.” She pulled a beer for me and set it in front of me. “This is a Dooliner Irish Lager. It’s brewed right here near the Cliff of Moher.”
I took a sip and nodded appreciatively.
“Lass, get me another Smitticks, will ya?” Liam asked.
Dee pulled him a pint, and as she watched me staring at the red liquid, she arched an eyebrow. “It’s an Irish red ale, spelled Smithwick but pronounced Smitticks.”
I nodded.
“It’s smooth, slightly sweet, and a classic choice for those like Liam Murphy who can’t handle their Guinness anymore,” she explained with sarcastic saccharine sweetness.
Liam growled. “Now, don’t be insultin’, Dee. Every Irishman worth his salt takes pride in drinkin’ a perfectly poured pint of Guinness.” Then he looked at me as he rubbed his chest. “It gives me heartburn these days.”
Dee went to the other end of the bar to take care of a patron, and another older man, who was wiry and wore thick glasses, and was sitting at a table near us, walked up and thumped Liam on his back. “You sly bastard, Liam, back at it with Dee, are ya?”
Liam let out a snort of laughter, and then the man looked at me. “You the Yank with the Porsche?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who are you callin’,sir?” He turned to his companion at the table. “He’s callin’ me sir,” he complained.
“You can callmesir.” His companion, who was balding and wore suspenders, came up to where Liam and I sat. He pulled at the suspenders, leading with a pot belly. “Sir Fintan, I like it.”
I was introduced to the other two men:SirFintan and Liam Ryan.
I learned that the two Liams and one Fintan were the Three Musketeers of Ballybeg. After he finished his pint, Liam joined his friends at the table to play cards. As I looked around, I realized that The Banshee’s Rest was a community center of sorts for the village. There were families, people young and old, and a sense of camaraderie that was probably prevalent in small towns and villages.
Definitely very different from Charleston.
The server came up behind me. “Pardon my reach. Here’s your stew.”
I moved to let her set the big bowl, a plate of thick soda bread, and a small bowl of whipped herb butter in front of him. “Enjoy. Ronan makes the best stew in all of Ireland.”
I glanced at the steaming bowl, which smelled likeheaven. “If this tastes as good as it smells, I might just move in.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “You should,” she said breathlessly.
