Ta Se's

While watching An American Werewolf in London for the umpteenth time the other night, I was reminded of a pub here in Ireland. Not so dissimilar to The Slaughtered Lamb in the film. Of course, there were no underlying secrets of werewolves to speak of (at least not that I know of). I think the only underlying secret you'll find in Ta Se's, which really isn't much of a secret, is that the patrons are all regulars and all most likely chronic drunks.

When you walk into Ta Se's, there is a sort of antechamber before you actually enter the pub. It's almost like you walk into a closet before you can actually enter the bar area. Shrouded in mystery you say? Like a Shriner's convention? Well, this was my first (and only) encounter with Ta Se's, it was a bit of a mystery to me anyway. I asked my husband what the little room was for. Trev, usually being the eternal tour guide and explaining such mysteries to me. But even Trev didn't know. Normally, I'm not shy about asking questions about all things mysterious or baffling. Although, upon entering the bar from the closet (reminding me of something straight out of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe), all the questions in my head made a great cacophony then were silenced. It was quite like the scene of the two foreign travellers entering The Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London. All conversation ceased and they all just stared at us. I would have half expected to see a pentagram on the wall with two candles lit on either side of it. There was music playing on a jukebox. I waited for the music to scratch to a halt as well. Although, if it had, I might have turned around and walked right back out into the closet I came from right then and there.

It is no unnatural occurrence for everyone to take a moment to look up and stare at you upon entering any pub here. It's unsettling at first, but you tend to get used to it. The difference in Ta Se's, they never stopped looking at us. Daggers, that's how I would tend to explain it, they were all giving us daggers. That is to say, they could have killed us with their stares.

Now I must stop to explain the company I was in at the time. Trev, my husband, a true Irishman, medium height, slight build, gorgeous, with freckles. Trev's brother in law, Will, English, a Londoner, very tall, medium build. Then myself, an American, short and pudgy. I won't deny that we were probably and odd looking trio, with the obvious distinction in differing accents. In fact, every time the three of us went out, I always felt like we were the epitome of some bad joke in ourselves: So, there's an Irishman, an Englishman, and an American girl.... Right, back to the story.

So, this is the kind of pub where you just stick to the usual, nothing fancy. Guinness, Cider, grand... You don't start asking them if they have things like white wine spritzers, cosmopolitans, women's toilets, water, etc. You know the answer is going to be, ' We don't have no fancy lark like that.' Followed by a dirty, judgemental look that resembles someone examining a piece of poo on their shoe. Trev and Will ascertain the bartender to be of sound standing before they even order. This is based on the fact that he is donning a Liverpool jersey. Any fellow Liverpool supporter is a friend of theirs, or so they think. They also know him for whatever particular trade he does aside from pulling pints at mysterious Ta Se's. So, Trev, with his Irish accent, orders a pint of Guinness. Me, with my American accent, orders a pint of cider. Will, with his London accent, tests the boundaries and orders a pint of Heineken (he got the dirty, 'poo on my shoe' look). No Heineken. So, he gets a pint of Foster's instead. Meanwhile, the daggers haven't abated in the slightest.

We sat very near to the door of the closet/entrance. It was subconscious I suppose. But I think it had a bit to do with the intimidation of walking any further into the daggers. We all quickly gulped our pints in a rather uncharacteristic silence. I had burning questions on my tongue that I was highly tempted to ask the bartender: What's with the cloakroom and daggers? Is there actually a women's toilet in here? Is there really poo on the bottom of your shoe? I tried not to look around at all the people still staring at us, but I couldn't help it. I humbly looked back at my pint, then at Trev, with a glint in my eye, like a dog waiting for you to throw the ball. I knew he knew that I was dying to start asking anyone questions about these enigmas we beheld. He halted my silent struggle when he said, 'I've never felt like a tourist in my own town before... until now.' He then made it a point to remind Will and myself that it was our idea to come Ta Se's, that we'd never been here before and we just HAD to come and see what it was like, are we satisfied now.. Blah, blah, blah.

We downed the rest of our pints. I had to pee really bad and there was no women's toilet in sight. I wasn't about to ask the bartender if one existed, and if it did, where it was located. I was full sure that everyone would start laughing at me or that he'd point me in the direction of a patch of nettles outside or something. Instead, I looked at Trev and Will and said, 'Let's go, NOW, before the daggers kill us and before I pee my pants.'

I later found out the answers to the mysteries of Ta Se's, by our coal man. Our coal man is a very nice man. He always has a chat with me when he delivers the coal. Apparently, his brothers own Ta Se's. The closet, when you walk in, is still there from the days when that's the only further women could go into a pub. It was the only section women could be served in. He also informed me that the former owner (Ta Se's namesake) knew English, but would only speak to people in Irish. He refused to serve women as well, whether they were in the closet or not. His nickname was Ta, his surname was Shea, hence the name, Ta Se's (the Se is pronounced, Shea). Our coal man also told me that they are a 'good' bunch in Ta Se's. He reckons the only reason they all stared at us was to see if they knew us. All I know is this: If a real pub too closely resembles a fictional pub in a film, called The Slaughtered Lamb, it's best to stay out of it. Most importantly, I don't have to worry about it anymore, because I'm never going to Ta Se's again!