I had a lovely pint of Guinness last Saturday. It was made all the better by the fact that it was the middle of the day, it was cold outside and the bar was warm and cozy, and my bartender took care, pride, and time pouring my lovely pint. It was like arriving at a doctor's office on a day when all the rest of his appointments have been cancelled, and the good doctor—in a fit of nostalgia for the days when he actually cared—decides to sit and chat with you, give you a thorough going over with tests your insurance doesn't cover, and tells you authoritatively that you do not have, and never will have, an infectious disease.
If I'd had a camera with me, I'd have taken a picture of that pint. I've been thinking about it a lot since, not because I'm an alcoholic, but because I've been awakened to the fact that I drink a lot of mediocre Guinness. There are (roughly) gazillions of self-proclaimed Irish bars in New York City, and yet a decent pint of Guinness is a rarity.
Seems someone should rise to the occasion of rating them.
Okay, I twisted my arm.
I've wanted to document my impressions of Manhattan's Irish bars, and the quality of their Guinness, for ages now, if only so I could confidently tip off visiting Irish friends and family (who inevitably want to hang out in an Irish bar while here!) It seems I've found myself a resolution for 2010, and one I'm actually eager to get a head start on!
I'll take Manhattan, one pint at a time. Watch this space...