Claddagh Irish Pub

So, tonight we went to Claddagh Irish Pub in Greenway Station. Greenway Crossing. Greenway something, anyway. I’d been there once before for pub trivia, but it was a long time ago and I remembered exactly nothing about the food.

Probably the only thing really worth mentioning here is the service. When we were seated at a very wide table (read: shouting distance away from each other), our server approached the table with a giant grin. “How are you guys tonight?” she said, so happy to see us.

“Good,” Josh said

“Fine,” I said, “How are you?”

She paused and smiled. “I’m… divine.”

I looked at her and said, “Wow,” and ordered a Guinness. This was the first Guinness I’d had in a while, not for any particular reason, but mostly because there are so many new and different craft beers to try in Wisconsin that I don’t usually go to the old standards. Guinness is a special beer to me, though, because it’s the beer that taught me to like beer. I was in Ireland, proclaiming left and right that I am just not a beer person, when someone finally put a pint in my hands and I realized what all the fuss was about. Josh had Murphy’s, the stout he drank in England when Guinness wasn’t available. (I love, by the way, how this makes us sound like we’re such world travelers. Which is not necessarily true.)

Divine checked back with us a bit too frequently, always with the same dreamy smile that made me wonder if she was dipping into something in the back or having some sort of communion with the other world that I wasn’t aware of. Josh had Corned Beef and Cabbage, and I had a Jameson Burger. The food was okay. Nothing I’d go back for, honestly. I was surprised how empty the place was. It was maybe 6:00 PM when we got there, so sort of early, but it is a Saturday night.

Overall – fake Irish pub atmosphere, “Divine” service, okay food. But at least it got us talking about Ireland, and had me reminiscing about how Irish people are the easiest people in the world to talk to. I am one who tends to get a bit stressed out in conversation with strangers, but in a small town pub in Ireland, talking to a stranger was like falling down a hill (without the broken bones).

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