The Post's new Canadian staffer goes on a pub crawl to initiate himself in the ways and wiles of the big city.
e. We were fatigued from the previous night, when we’d sat at the Drum under a layer of smoke that would make even Tom Waits cough; it had occurred to me the Drum actually imports secondhand smoke into the premises. We’d started off arguing Canada’s constitutional problems as regards federalism and then we’d run around town with a bunch of drunken German artists, trying to find another bar.
Anyway, we were paying for it now, as we huddled around a table at O’Brien’s. The night didn’t seem promising.
O’Brien’s Irish Pub near Maidan Nezalezhnosti is that slice of the UK or North America you can drop into if you ever need it. In fact, you can completely forget that you’re in Kyiv when you’re inside.
The night we were there, an uninspiring band was playing pub standards on a synthesizer and an electric drum set. They lurched into some bad country song – it was as if they were working off our group’s energy. Hesitantly, we looked over to the open pool table. Eight ball, corner pocket – I jokingly called off of the break. Of course nothing went down. The gods were spiting me.
My friend laughed and fired in his next four shots as he lit up another smoke. We seemed to be regaining a spark as we polished off the first round – time for the next target.
The band started abusing the Beatles as we left. “That was the dullest rendition of ‘Love Me Do’ I’ve ever heard,” a girl in our group blurted. She said it too loudly; we all made pained faces.
Smoked at Sunduk
Our tired systems absorbing the first round, we made what seemed an incredible journey to Sunduk just down the street, which by reliable accounts is actually just a short stumble from O’Brien’s. The clock struck 10:15 p.m. Time wasn’t on our side, since – as we found out to our chagrin – Sunduk closes at 11 p.m. The best of Sting and the Police was playing as we limped in. We grinned and all sang “Englishman in New York” – everybody else in the place was singing it too.
The King looked down on our table: that is, a bunch of photos of Elvis, in his better years. To the right, Marilyn Monroe gazed on a lonely old fellow nursing a whole bottle of wine. Wine drunks, as everyone knows, are the worst.
A cute waitress brought beer, cognac and tea. Someone lit a cigarette, which brought the waitress back, gesturing at the butt like it was a handgun. We were in a no smoking section. How novel, here in Ukraine.
But we all laughed – the energy had somehow returned.
Blindsided
Blindazh, that likable dump on the hill atop Mala Zhytomyrska, was next on the list. The crowd was tight, so it was difficult to move around when we arrived. We liked the camouflage and the old Soviet crap on the walls: the propaganda posters, the pieces of military hardware. The place had much more character than the previous two bars. Beer was cheap and the clientele was friendly – there were pierced eyebrows and lips, tattoos and long hair. Definitely not a place to take your mother. Someone overheard our English, and we drew attention. One patron told us stories in his halting English, spilling beer around as he carried on. Some girl with a labret piercing pointed directly at one of us and demanded, in Ukrainian: “And what’s his name?” But were heading out. A great place, though.
Already well on our way into the world of inebriation, we paid our Hr 10 at Art Club 44 and stood by the bar. Bodies wallowed around in the smoke to the sound of pre-arranged techno. A girl in a tank top flailed to the music. Her whole body moved, while everyone else’s feet seemed nailed to the ash-littered floor. One in our group started to dance just beyond our table, all by his lonesome, and we all laughed. Everything was swirling around. With a few more rounds in our system a few members of our group started shaking it. Still, we were getting tired.
Watch the Shrooms
We were hungry, strung out. We staggered down Kreshchatyk toward Eric’s Bierstube; the cool early autumn air cleared our heads and made us shiver. We made it there just in time to order a couple of baskets of fried mushrooms and onion rings, along with a bowl of green borscht, all of which tasted good at 2 or 3 in the morning, or whatever time it was. Glazed smiles shone from around the table as we polished off our final drinks. I tossed a mushroom in my mouth: burning oil, pain. I reached for the Jag, and all was good.
Dawn
The morning came rather late in the afternoon with the midday sun piercing my closed eyelids. Accompanied by a rather dull pain behind the right-eye I set out for the day. Next time we’ll string together seven dives instead of five. And I’ll mind the mushrooms.
