Newly opened To Dublin Irish pub offers tasty fare at affordable prices.
Oh Danny boy, the emerald isle is calling, but you’re in the land of the Cossacks. Moreover, the internecine strife of your homeland, orange against green, and Sinead O’Connor against the Pope, has abated, but a cold war continues in Kyiv. Half of your friends go to one Irish bar and the other half to the other. But now there’s a third option for the wandering Celt or anyone else who wants a romantic excuse for overdrinking. Go left, lad, and get off at Livoberezhna metro station.
Just a wee bit up the road from Joss Casino, you’ll come across a fine and proper establishment called To Dublin. You can’t miss the place from the street. Once inside, you have to go down into a basement, which is nothing new in this city, but the interior is pretty pub-like: lot’s of wood, Irish mementos hanging on the walls and bawdy alcoholic humor laced into the menu.
My companion during this particular foray into the world of Kyiv eateries was one Mr. Buttercup. No he’s not Irish but Welsh. In fact, Buttercup isn’t even his real name. The purpose of inviting him was to test the rowdy rating of the place. If anyone would get beaten up at a pub it’s Buttercup.
I ordered a pint of Harp for Hr 22. It was cold and clean – in other words: not stale. Buttercup had one of the less expensive Ukrainian beers on tap. Less expensive is the key phrase in To Dublin, as they really seem to make an effort to keep the prices down. The “Farmer’s Salad,” consisting of Romaine lettuce, bell peppers, red onion and tomatoes, was fresh with just the right amount of oil and parsley. The soup of the day, “Vegetable,” was even more of a bargain at Hr 12. For the main course, I chose the Goose Breast at Hr 38, which was ok, but then again I don’t know what a goose’s breast is supposed to taste like.
Buttercup went for a cold plate of fish and another pint. This suited my plans just fine, as I knew that after the alcohol kicked in, he would start criticizing the place in mealy-mouthed fashion, and surely someone would give it to him. The problem was that everyone in the place was pretty darn respectable. There were some harmless hipster kids in one corner and two middle-class couples who looked like they were taking a break from the kids.
The only other patron, in the smoking section where I was seated, was a 40-something German-speaker with long blond hair, who vaguely resembled Fabio. He was sitting at the lengthy half-circle bar making loud comments about a sports match being shown on the big screen TV. Fortunately the sound was turned down, and the place was filled with Irish music – just the kind that Buttercup doesn’t like. The waitresses were nice and efficient, suggesting inexpensive menu items to my companion, who sourly refused, without lifting his bulging eyes from his beer. My food was fine, but Buttercup insisted his fish could have been fresher. I even sneaked a sniff at his plate when he went to the men’s room and could detect no irregularity.
All hope of witnessing a real Irish fisticuffs, with Buttercup taking a beating, was beginning to fade, so I decided to console myself by ordering the apple pie, which was delicious enough on its own, not to mention with the shot glass of cold sweet cream that accompanied it. Add to this a coffee, and you’ve got reason enough to go To Dublin. The calm in my stomach matched the atmosphere of the place perfectly. There would be peace in Ireland today, I mused. But Buttercup didn’t let me down completely. Coming out of the Men’s Room with his jowls all pink and his tummy tucked over his belt, he began complaining at the bar that the beer nuts, at Hr 10, should be free. The wait staff was more bewildered than offended, but Fabio stepped in, brushing his long blond hair aside with one hand, while menacing Buttercup with the index finger of the other. This wasn’t about religion, but Irish honor had been upheld – by a German. Buttercup was forced to acknowledge that Wales couldn’t be considered a separate country and that Irish as well as German brews enjoyed much greater international popularity than anything from his country. Like most Irish pubs the world over, To Dublin is broadly expatriate, and the crowd makes – or breaks – the place.
To Dublin (4 Rayisy Okipnoyi, metro Livoberezhna, 569-5531). Open daily 10 a.m. till midnight
English menu: Yes
English-speaking staff: Yes
Average meal: Hr 100
