From Dublin to the Gaslamp

Reliving an Irish holiday at The Field

On a Sunday evening, I found myself downtown at an hour when I should have been doing homework. A reunion dinner with fellow students prompted me to leave my dorm room and join them for a plate of potatoes and rashers over picture albums. They were my comrades in the wild and unpredictable streets of Dublin, and fellow passengers on the coach bus that wound its way through the Irish countryside last summer. People in Chargers jerseys amassed on street corners, leaving the bars in a satisfied stupor following a victory and a few beers. Coming upon the blue storefront of The Field Irish Pub and Restaurant, we escaped the road noise and filed inside.

Our 20-plus party nearly overtook the place, reminiscent of most group dinners we had during the trip. We seated ourselves at the wooden table between support beams and the wall, where pictures, antique whiskey jugs and agricultural artifacts shipped directly from Ireland rested proudly on a ledge. The rusty color of the walls and the dim lighting gave me the feeling that we had somehow impinged upon the spot of some hard-working farmer, long overdue for a pint of Guinness. The TV screen above the bar was off and the hum of conversation filled the room, which provided a comfortable atmosphere for us to visit ... until the music started.

The short blast of the Irish tin whistle directed our attention to a tiny stage elevated at the back corner of the room. The svelte dancer with a black skirt and tights began clicking her heels determinately on the stage as we marveled at the rhythmic pace of her feet. A man of about her equal height and fitness joined her in a complex jig with lively, angular movements and a stiff carriage of the upper body in the recognizable fashion of a step dancer. They performed an amusing waltz with half smiles of enjoyment and concentration as they executed their routine, almost perfectly in sync. A short staircase behind the stage led to an upper room, where several other dancers waited their turn to showcase their talents.

After picking through my house salad, the main course was served, a hearty portion of shepherd’s pie. I poked my spoon through the mashed potato topping and dug a spoonful of ground beef out of the middle, surprised to find it deficient of vegetables. I was full after sampling my neighbor’s Boxty dish, a grilled chicken breast wrapped in a potato pancake and marinated with a creamy white sauce.

Black shoes with buckles continued to strike the stage as we looked on from our tables while the waitresses cleared room for dessert: a choice of apple crumble or bread pudding. The Irish aren’t known for their desserts, but they were sufficient to finish off the meal. The thunderous beat continued in the background as we recalled our experiences in crowded hostels, and laughed about my crisis with a European outlet, a flat iron, and melted hair. It was as close of an experience that San Diego could offer to the authentic Irish House Party we attended in the back parlor of The Lansdowne Hotel in Dublin, without the live bagpipes and the “true” version of Irish history. But it wasn’t hokey, and I recall hearing an Irish accent from the waitresses a few times.

The dancers continued on through the night. Their weekly performance was scheduled from 5 to 9 p.m., the intensity of which began to show as sweat dampened the hair around their faces. Touristy as this night out may have sounded, The Field truly does offer a slice of authentic Irish culture on Fifth Avenue.

The Field Authentic Irish Pub and Restaurant is located at 544 Fifth Avenue. thefield.com.

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