Ah, the power of a pub.

History lesson: the pub, or “public house” was a place created so the common man could go have a pint.  The landed gentry had their “gentlemen’s clubs,” and in fact, their castles, but the pub was a place where any Joe could go and bemoan the fact that his last pence were just spent on a couple of dogs who’d just run away.

So was my state of mind as I wandered into opening night for the downtown Tacoma Paddy Coyne's Irish Pub, desperately sad that my gate was left open to allow my puppies out; desperately sad my puppies hadn’t returned. 

The place, smelling freshly of varnish and upholstery, had the low-light, high-backed-booth appeal of a lover’s secret.  Wood was two tones of dark, a fire flickered enticingly, and art was tastefully Irish, with some of the best Guinness ads ever, in the ladies room.  Even the bartender’s brogue made Paddy himself sound like a Yank. It was authentically lovely.

The menu, boasting such marvels as Pulled Pork sandwiches, Guinness Braised Irish Stew, and Shepherd’s Pie (no kidney pie, thankfully) was running “limited”; my own wedge salad might have been better had I not ordered dressing on the side (eventually, I will learn) but the massive Turkey Club Sandwich my girlfriend ordered was enough to feed three of us â€" and was tasty, to boot â€" while the significant one had chicken wings that looked ever so slightly paltry on the plate but smelled like Heaven and served to satisfy him.

I can’t wait to go back and try some of the heavy-on-the-whiskey desserts, can’t wait to dig into the Irish soda bread, and the pub chicken salad description had my salivary glands working overtime: rotisserie chicken, celery, green onions, tarragon mayo, and greens with roasted asparagus, red onions, tomatoes, and eggs.

And yet, the piece de resistance of any pub: beer.

I forewent my standard “red wine” order to enjoy a pint of Harp, because when in Ireland, do as the Irish. The cold, tingly elixir, a full 20 oz Imperial Pint, hit me in exactly the right way.  Evoking memories of afternoons spent in the Pub, poring over letters home when I lived in England, the beer soothed my troubles and worked like a Calgon bath for my psyche. 

Good friends helped, and pretty soon, I found myself among five favorite people and working on my third pint.

Because even beer can get ugly, the next day, the third pint was a half â€" and happy me, Paddy Coyne's DOES serve half pints, and lager shandies. (To the uninitiated: the shandy is a beer, ale or lager mixed with “lemonade” in the UK â€" lemon/lime soda, in the US â€" it’s sort of the British pub-girl’s version of the white wine spritzer, and I drank quite a few of them when I lived over the pond.)

I walked out the door transformed, lighter in mind.  I still went home to an echoingly devoid-of-dogs house, but for a moment that evening, I was in a different place, where people spoke in a lovely, lilting melody, where the music soothed the soul, and where the pints were good. â€" Jessica Corey-Butler

[Paddy Coyne's Irish Pub, Ninth and Pacific, downtown Tacoma]