The Palace Bar: Starring Barbara Streisand
At its surface, The Palace Bar seems like it would be just a standard tourist pub. It’s situated right on the corner, right in the center of the Temple Bar district. There’s nothing remarkable about its facade, the faded brick mimics that of almost every pub on this side of Dublin, the illusion of history, the promise of a good pint. It’s positioned almost like a mini Temple Bar, wrapped in the same familiar twinkle lights and dripping with pink flower baskets. At night, when I first found The Palace, the light from inside glows dim out into the street, blending in seamlessly with the other store fronts. In reality, The Palace is able to capture the true essence of an Irish pub, hiding out beneath the hubbub or tourist traffic.
The inside of the pub is small, a narrow hallway stuffed with an old, heavy bar
and stained glass shades. That’s something I’ve noticed about pubs here, the weight of them all, everything appears heavy. The walls and floors blend seamlessly into one another, complimentary shades of mahogany wood blurring the lines between floor and wall. The patrons are few in this entryway, two burly Irishman with their arms crossed over their chests, eyeing me and my two companions with a look that is simultaneously grumpy and welcoming. The barkeep is of a similar disposition, though he cracks a smile slightly easier, pointing us towards the back of the bar, towards a more open space. There’s more tables here, some of them small and cramped, others large and spacious. The real gem here is the curved dome ceiling, filled with stained glass in varying shades of red and blue. The trad music is louder back here as well, and me and my two travel mates find a small table against one of the glass panes separating the two rooms.
The man with us, a 27 year old Rhode Islander named Lucas who we had just found at the previous pub, orders us each a pint of Guinness. Earlier in the night he had regaled us with stories of his quest; he was here on a 20 hour layover, and he had made it his goal to find the best pint in Dublin. Now, at 11pm on a Monday, The Palace was his final stop. Sammie, the red headed high school friend I brought with me to Ireland, is leaning into his story, eyes running everywhere, up and down Lucas, around the bar. I can’t help but notice the walls, the vintage Guinness advertisements, the neon signs for spirits both found in America and foreign. After a few minutes of conversation, another man approaches the table. He’s older, with glasses perched on the tip of his nose, an aran knit cap on his head. He comes up to us with wide eyes and approaches me, placing a hand on his chest.
“Miss, I hate to bother you, really I do, but I just need to tell you, you look so much like a young Barbara Streisand.”
I blink at him a few times before breaking into a smile, and at my response he lights up and pushes farther.
“No, honestly, I was telling my mate over there, I swore up and down Barbara had a relative and she was here, I swear, you look just like her.” The four of us laugh at the interaction, he wishes us a blessed night and leaves our table with a knock of his glass against mine and a “Slainte.” Shortly afterwards, Lucas, Sammie, and I peel out of the pub, having successfully finished the pints right at last call. Lucas gives us a hug before heading off into the night while Sammie and I walk towards our hotel, crossing the cobbled streets and wrought iron twists of the Ha’penny Bridge.
