Ya Like Dags?

Lassie, Rin Tin-Tin, Ole’ Yeller, man’s best friend.  Dogs are loved the world over and their connection with mankind in social circles and working relationships is ubiquitous.  How we see this relationship and how we adapt it into our lives changes from culture to culture, sometimes that happens because our needs change, our living conditions differ, or sometimes it simply comes down to our mentality towards our animal companions which shape them and us both.

Here in Ireland, people treat dogs very differently to how I’d grown accustomed to in the states.  At first I was astounded as the distinctions are so wide my brain had trouble grasping just how it could all seem to work so fluidly.  In the states a dog is perhaps the oddest member of the family, like a five year old it must be looked after constantly, fed special foods and bought the best toys, never allowed to stray far from a parent’s watchful eye, even put into doggy day care and obedience classes so that it knows always how it is supposed to behave.  We all too often make the dog fit itself into our world on our terms, with doggy beds and crates, with tethers and invisible fences, our leashes and harnesses seem to convey that we have tamed this animal, that we possess it and while we love its personality and playfulness we will only abide it as long as the dog understands that we rule it.

As with many things American, I have come to realize that we do not exactly do things the wrong way, but merely we find a harder way, a more complicated and expensive way, to arrive at ends which would have sorted themselves out.  Here dogs are no less loved, no less part of the family, but they occupy a more specific place, that of an honest to god dog as opposed to an especially furry and illiterate child.  I have read, and accept, that in the very early ages of the dog’s domestication that it was the canine which chose us, feral animals finding safety and purpose in the tribal life of herdsmen, it was the dog which adapted itself to our lifestyle all on its own.  In Ireland, that fact seems to not have been forgotten.

The dogs I know fall into different categories, there are Country Dogs first and foremost as I have gotten to know them the best.  Regina’s family has three dogs to their home and each fills a specific role, you will first meet Rambo, the guard dog, as he spends almost all of his time outside on their land, watching the comings and goings of cars on the road and barking to alert the family of any visitors.  He is the doorbell and the butler, vetting anyone who approaches and following them while they go about their business.  He’s a full coated Collie dog and almost all guard dogs are some variation on that breed, keen, loyal, quick and tireless they lope after anything that comes into their territory but are happy enough just to chase cars off down the road.  This habit, however, can be quite disquieting when driving-especially at night- as the sight of a dog lunging out of a driveway halfway onto the road as you cruise by at speed can make your heart skip a beat.  In the States you might say to yourself that that dog needs to be kept in the yard but here it’s the dog’s prerogative to now his own boundaries and dodge the traffic he jumps into.

Guard dogs get their fair share of affection and appreciation, their work is essential and they all seem to take their job seriously, a pat on the head and a plate full of chow are all the thanks they need, at the end of the day they make do with a doghouse or maybe a bit of a bed in the shed.  House dogs, on the other hand, live almost exclusively in the cozy confines of living rooms and kitchens.  Rocky, a white West Yorkshire Terrier, sits in the lap of luxury in the family house.  Allowed up on the couches and chairs, having not one but two beds available to him, in just his size, and gets the little lion’s share of table scraps tossed to him.  He has adapted several begging strategies which are variously adorable in order to get the handout he has his heart set on.  He is constantly underfoot or on a lap, possessing no sense of personal space, he has learned just exactly what he can get away with.  Like a precocious grandchild he is doted on and knows any sin will be forgiven with the right combination of cute facial expressions and innocent whimpering.

Most houses I’ve visited have a companion dog, never more than knee high, it is the lap dog or purse dog without the prestige.  Often from the working Terrier breed their origin as a pest control pet isn’t forgotten, Yapper, the old family house dog, started out as a vicious killer of all kinds of varmints and only retired to the cushy couch life in his last few golden years.  On the other side of the coin are Field dogs whose entire existence revolves around hunting or herding, their instincts given precedence to socialization they live in pens almost exclusively, being let out only for exercise or to fulfill their expressed purpose.  The unfortunate truth is that if a working dog spends too much time in the company of humans or other, fully domesticated, dogs it will begin to ignore its instincts and training, thus becoming another mouth to feed while not providing to the wellbeing of the homestead.  It is not the easiest life for a dog, and for those of us who know only fully domesticated animals it may seem cruel, but these are the hard ways of the world and of mother nature, and those laws still must be obeyed on the farm.

As you travel further from the fields, into the neighborhoods where dogs don’t have to earn their keep, you’ll see a sight all the more alien to American eyes.  For far from our conventions house dogs are allowed to roam the streets completely unaccompanied by their owners, yes, it is not at all uncommon and rarely if ever a cause for concern to come across what yanks would look upon as dogs gone loose.  This is not to say that stray or feral dogs roam the streets terrorizing the locals, but rather that households let their family pet out in the morning and let them go wherever they please throughout the day.  Typically these dogs keep to themselves, barely even bothered to give you their attention, never begging for treats, staying on the sidewalks, and distaining to root around in trash cans or in any other way cause trouble.

You would think this would cause trouble for the responsible people out walking their dogs on leashes but you would be even more surprised to see that most dogs walk with their owners unfettered and sans tether.  A trip to the park is almost guaranteed to include the sight of dogs playing fetch or jockeying with other dogs while their owners watch placidly, unconcerned with the potential for fights or run-aways.  I try to explain why this is strange to my Wife, that in the states we have universal leash laws (typically enforcing a 6’ maximum length) and that dogs are only allowed off leash in specialized dog parks, fenced in and regulated, some even requiring membership passes to get into.  She shakes her head at the folly of it all, Irish dogs are raised to behave, expected to be responsible, they’re all so well behaved not because of some rigorous obedience school with compulsory attendance but rather because they have known no other life than loyal but free. 

This adherence to obedience doesn’t just end at the park, dogs walk off leash in the busy city centers sometimes with their owners but also just on their own.  These dogs know how to keep out from underfoot and will even use crosswalks correctly, they don’t steal food from tables and perhaps most amazing of all will sit quietly at the entrance of shops waiting for their masters to conduct their business and emerge once more.  Sights like these give me that ‘not in Kansas’ feeling on a regular basis but it’s not so much a case of culture shock as much as a recalibrating of my expectations. I’m seeing more and more that the way things have always been done for me represent less of an ‘only way’ and more of one choice from many.  Ireland once again encourages personal responsibility rather than zero tolerance, because the own gets to decided for themselves just how far their dog can be trusted so among the free wheeling carefree canines you see the occasional hound leashed and muzzled. 

Because there are laws governing dogs here, it’s not a free-for-all, but the restrictions are put on dogs which have been known to act dangerously.  If the breed is known to exhibit ‘lock jaw’ a trait associated with Rotwiellers, Dobermans, German Shepherds, and others characterized by a strong, clamping bite then it must be muzzled in public.  Similarly I’ve seen electrified fencing put up around houses where aggressive and powerful dogs reside, and the penalty for a dog known to bite a person is to put the animal down without a second warning.  Now this may seem cruel, or unduly harsh, but that is the dichotomy of dogs in Ireland.  The dog is a servant to the house but also a beloved family member, it is given every advantage of its own independence, and that is only possible when the dogs who would jeopardize the safety of others are regulated and tightly controlled.  A dog here is allowed to be its best self, a little domestic, a little wild, and all around man’s most loyal companion.

The new kid in town

It has been said that even bad pizza is still pretty good.  The person who said it wasn’t me and they probably weren’t even of Italian origin yet it still seems to be a fairly popular opinion as most people get excited at the mere mention of a pizza pie regardless of its individual merits.  For those of us who well and truly appreciate Italian food, the pizza is a gold standard, a level playing field by which we judge restaurants and by association the people who recommend them. 

In my time I have tried many a parlor and found that even if no pizza is truly bad there are some which are certainly better than others, you have your Domino’s, your Papa Johns, your Pizza huts, the many chains that provide a consistent, if underwhelming product on a mass scale.  These pizzas represent what I would consider “C” grade pizza, adequate in that they are edible and to some degree enjoyable but certainly they do not stand out in the pantheon of Parmesan.  The myriad of frozen foodstuffs available in your grocer’s freezer tend to occupy the “D” range of the scale, if you search enough you may find one or two that breaks out of the pack and at an affordable price with an ease of use with enough drink in your system one can actually look forward to eating it.  That is not the norm however and in the opinion of this author we’ll all be better off not mentioning them further.

Thus we come to the “B” range, probably the widest ranging category for it encompasses the great wealth of pizza shops one can find in any American neighborhood.  These are the places with family names on them, ones which pop up in ones or twos, ones that have a long running but good natured feud with another pizza shop in the same area.  If a franchise is the ‘bread and butter’ of pizza, then these shops represent the ‘steak and potatoes’, each in and of themselves ranging from fair to exceptional but wholly satisfying and bestowing upon the diner a very real satisfaction with what is in front of them.  That moment when you take your first bite and say to yourself ‘I have made a good decision’. 

A good “B” range shop looks largely unchanged since the 1980’s, proudly displaying their lack of upgrades as if to boast that they’ve been doing things right for decades, that the original recipe is the only one they need and that the worst business decision possible is trying to improve on success.  They understand what anyone who truly meditates on the qualities of a pizza comes to know, that a good pizza is not defined by enormous size, loads of toppings, or sides of garlic bread.  A good pizza is focused on the synthesis of its most basic elements; Crust, Sauce, and Cheese.  One needs only to make these three main pillars strong and your house of pies will stand the test of time.

In Galway, and as far as I know the island as a whole, the scale is a bit off, for by and large the only pizza you can find comes either from a freezer or a take away shop.  By this point the Irish are not so isolated as to be afraid or standoffish towards this Italian invasion, but by whatever missed connection the people here do not take their pizzas-let alone Calzones or Stromboli- as seriously as I do.  Your average pizza is stuck firmly in the ‘C’ category and, not to be insulting of the locals, they simply don’t know or care that this is the case.  There was in this city one shining example of a pizza done with care and crafted with that steady hand that does not waver in the face of convenience, Pizza Cabin sits on the far end of town, tucked discreetly into a wall amidst the clubs and pubs of the town’s party district.  They do not deliver and they do not serve anything but reliable and uniform quality pizzas which come in two sizes and offer you the choice of just cheese or with toppings, a mix of onion, mushroom and green pepper which cannot be altered in any way.

They were, for me, a faint beacon of hope, though far flung and inconvenient there was always the possibility that this yank could get himself a proper slice in a foreign land and for the length of one meal, not feel so out of place in his appetites.  Enter, The Dough Bros.  My wife had been telling me about them for a month or more impressed by a presentation they gave at a small business conference she’d excitedly told me their set up;  Two brothers and one friend selling made to order pizzas out of a food truck at the local market on weekends.  They intrigued me from the outset because their scheme was bold, it was unprecedented, it was wholly unlike an idea which I would expect from the Irish and furthermore, it stunk of the kind of madness that only the confidant and capable are willing to aim for. 

And so it went on for a few weekends, I thought about heading to town and seeing if they lived up to the expectation but again and again finding reasons not to go, be it the rain or chores or just general laziness.  Finally, last Saturday I walked in to do errands armed with a coupon for a free 10” pizza and a growing hunger in the depths of my gut.  I wrapped up my business and walked through the busy market, past the felafel stand, the creperie, the guy who fries doughnuts one at a time, but didn’t see the Dough Bros anywhere and figured they were busy in another town or at a private function as they do.  Coming back into the heart of town, however, I spotted a new façade it was simple, striking, straight to the point, green and white with a sign reading The Dough Bros above the entrance. 

Stepping inside it was much the same, a Spartan seating area composed of bare wood and simple chalkboards displaying your menu choices, black and white tile floor, green trim on white tile walls, and a small section just off of the cash register where three lads whip together each pizza with rhythmic efficiency.  A slot in the back wall reveals the all critical oven, logs glowing at the back, where a constant stream of cheesy bubbling creations enter and are retrieved minutes later.  Still, the shop doesn’t feel cheap or shoddy, it could benefit from 50 euro’s worth of bits from Woodies and a few touches of paint but as it stands there a charming ‘make do and mend’ attitude to the décor that fits with the start-up idea. 

I order the daily special “Marioghertia” and take a moment to check on the other patrons, it’s the end of the Arts Festival and almost every seat is occupied, the diners are mixed in age and background, everyone seems comfortable and a low pressure atmosphere is maintained.  Among the fare on offer are a Tandori pizza with lemon chicken and herbs, a Pepperoni and Jalapeño, a take on the Cesar salad which is topped with rocket and croutons, and a couple of classic staples like the Marghertia and Neapolitan.  Some of the combinations are daring and tending towards the “curry chips” area of the scale, but seeing them come out one after another it’s clear that these are balanced and topped with a careful consideration given to each element.  Clearly there was forethought put into their invention and it’s easy to imagine many tasty nights spent in the test kitchen getting the portions just right.

My pizza comes up and I got a bottle of cider to go along with it, keep in mind this isn’t a glass of Bulmers but a proper 500ml of craft cider, which is available alongside bottles of Galway hooker and other local brews and bottles of Peroni and Sol with plenty of sodas to round out your selection.  I decide to eat in their upstairs section and find a converted beer garden, tent covered with a fair shake of sunlight coming in from the open wall.  It’s one of those charming spaces you couldn’t know existed as its sandwiched between the surrounding buildings, and while it is again, simple and a bit roughshod, it’s an easy place to settle in and enjoy a nice meal while a fine mix of modern and classic tunes are piped in from what I will assume is an employee’s Ipod. 

Now all of this doesn’t amount to much if the product which I have come for, the sought after pizza is substandard.  Mine is a simple affair because I want to judge their workmanship without distraction by the bite of an olive or the sweetness of a corn salad, adorned with sprigs of Thai basil and two types of succulent tomato it is the essence of a pizza amplified by one degree.  The Dough Bros pride themselves on their crust, as it is advertised to only contain real 00 flour, water, salt, and yeast, no oils and no fats, and proofed for three days in the refrigerator before baking.  That may not translate for everyone reading this but in the shorthand of the Pisano elite, they got it right.  It is crunchy, and chewy, and sweet, and satisfying in all of the right ways, it holds up well but does not overwhelm, it provides without stuffing you to the point of lethargy.  Their crust is just the right vehicle for a solid sauce-not overly sugar laden or watery- and the well spoken mozzarella as a cherry on top.

It is an altogether pleasant experience and dare I say a revelation to eat something created with this much care and attention.  The art of a good pizza is in its balance, between what a trio-formaggio lacks and a penta formaggio overdoes is the perfect blend of a quattro formaggio, it’s understanding that a sausage pizza is not improved by the addition of pepperoni, ground beef, Canadian bacon, ham and barbecued chicken, and an imbalance in the trinity cannot be fixed by a side of chips.  I finished my plate and relaxed with a good book while finishing my pint, I even reflected on how nice it was to be asked while I was eating if everything was alright, a custom which seems often to be missing from the Irish hospitality industry.
And so the question must arise, where do the Dough Bros rank on the great scale of pizza supremacy?  I did not mention before the “A” range of pizzas, for perhaps that is a place of rarefied air occupied only by theoretical pizzas, a condition that is possible only under exact circumstances which cannot ever be replicated in the lab.  Maybe that “A” grade only came from your grandmother’s kitchen, or from that one café in Rome which you couldn’t pronounce and will never find again in a million years.  It is the pizza you share with your biggest crush across a linoleum table over a deep conversation. 

The Dough Bros are, in my humble and completely objective opinion, quite high “B” grade, and now share a spot in my esteem with the venerable Pizza Cabin.  I can’t quite say if one is better than the other, that question may become the ‘New York style’ vs. ‘Chicago style’ of western Ireland and hopefully the Dough Bros will be around for years to come so that future generations of college students and affable drunks can debate it at length.  With the energy and ingenuity of youth behind them I hope the lads will go far and keep the promise posted in chalk inside of their ten week pop up restaurant experiment to stick around if it works out.

The gnarliest thing I've ever driven.

I am no stranger to motor vehicles, I’ve driven cars and trucks, delivery vans,  box-trucks, RV’s, boats, motorcycles, jet skis, snow mobiles, go karts, dune buggies, fork lifts, scissor lifts, boom lifts, lawn mowers, tractors of various size and spent enough time on horseback to know to fall off of one with the greatest of ease.  On top of that I’ve been a passenger on a few fairly harrowing journeys such as the ‘Road to Hana’ in Hawaii, a truly cliff side drive that negates the warranty on your rental car agreement and risks plunging you into the ocean at every turn.  There was also the spin I took on the Silver Lake sand dunes, where I leant my goggles to my brother, the driver, and was subsequently blinded by a spray of muddy sand, continuing on in my ride up and down 40 foot hills dodging 4x4’s and ATV’s in near total darkness.

But despite all of that it was, of course, the job of the bog to give me the most nerve wracking, and surprisingly short, drive of my life.  As I usually get into these situations, Basil told me that we needed to move a tractor from one part of the bog to another, as the turf is growing dry and was ready to be collected.  There were a few hiccups from the outset, the first being that the battery of the tractor was dead and we needed to lug out a replacement, the bog itself was still too soft from recent rains so we would have to walk part of the way, and finally Basil’s back was a bit banjaxed so I’d be in the hard metal seat when it came to the actual moving.  No matter though, since I’m a Yank I figure it’s nothing I can’t handle.

We borrow a battery out of a spare tractor, grab the jumper cables and head out to the very end of one fork in the bog road and there, at the far end of the field, the tractor in question sits.  This is where things start to get a bit difficult as the industrial battery has to be lugged out by hand only to discover that our spare battery also lacks the power to provide a satisfactory jump so it’s hauled back to the bed of the truck despite complaint on behalf of my hands.  We consider next to take the battery out of the truck and use it as a surrogate, only we lack the proper wrenches to extract it.  So it’s decided that, with no other easy option, that we’ll risk getting literally bogged down in the muck and reverse the truck in for a direct connection.  With fingers crossed the truck is backed in and by god it does not get stuck and leave us painfully screwed, walking back towards the house to arrange a tow out. 

Lo and behold the tractor turns over with the help of a two Euro coin in lieu of a key and I’m given a quick run down on just how to handle the beast, it has three gears and reverse, a throttle, a clutch, and brakes which I suspect are mainly for show.  It is windowless, rusted, moss covered, and feels less like a tool of agriculture and more like a bygone machine of war and from atop its steel seat it sounds like a pack of deep throated and angry dogs inhabit the engine compartment.  First gear edges it steadily forward though, and soon I’ve left the security of the open turn and am on the unpredictable bog road. 

Now the tractor may be a bit out of date, not perfectly maintained, and slightly unwieldy.  But off of the soft turf and onto the stony ruts of a road it is the trailer I’m towing which really starts to put me on edge, you see the trailer is in fact wider than the doubled up rear wheels of the tractor making it just ever so much more liable to slip off into one of the ditches on either side and pull me down towards an ugly wreck.  I have to hold my concentration as strongly as possible on correcting the tires off of the uneven and ugly ruts, bumps, and potholes, but there is one slight distraction, for added to the din of the rough old engine turning, the trailer is conveyed along on a pair of steel drums which produce a sound like grim, catastrophic death echoing just ten feet behind me. 

First gear is all well and good, but it’s only prolonging the suffering, throwing it into second is achieved after a fair amount of grinding and shoving and now we’re fairly flying.  The howl of metallic churning intensifies and the worrisome shaking continues as I try to drive thoughts of one ill timed slip of the steering wheel out of my mind.  I’m following behind Basil in his blue pick-up truck but we’re not alone on this road, for others are collecting their own turf and have parked their cars on the shoulders of the road, I can feel their stares of apprehension as I carefully navigate my oversized load around their relatively new, shiny, undented cars.  A fender bender under these circumstances is not the first impression I want to make on my new neighbors, not exactly because they’ll hold it against me forever, but because they’ll never let me forget it no matter how long I live there and how many rounds of pints I buy them.

I navigate the parking lot without incident and look ahead to the one, last, decisive obstacle to overcome.  At the turnaround in the road there is a narrow bridge, with a low wall on one side and nothing to keep things from tumbling over the other it is the literal embodiment of a rock and a hard place for me and my contraption.  But with a combination of nerve and those brakes of suspect effectiveness I creep over the span, holding my breath and saying the shepherds prayer.  We’re in the home stretch now, heading for the far end of the bog again I throw caution to the wind and shift into third gear.  This may have been a mistake I quickly realize, because while the speedometer is pegged permanently at zero I estimate I’m now traveling somewhere in the neighborhood of 35 miles per hour.  That speed may not seem all too unsafe and when you’re in the security of an enclosed and safety feature equipped vehicle it is nearly a grandmotherly pace.

But when the wind is blowing rusted bits of metal into your face as they fall from the deteriorating roof of tractor, you can look down to see the stones flying by underneath your feet, you’re trying to figure out how best to free yourself from the wreckage if it rolls over, and behind you trundles a great mass of angry metal and wood, 35 miles per hour may as well be the speed of sound.  There’s no going back now though and the finish line is in sight  I pull past the turn in for our bog with its rows of footed turf waiting to be transferred to the big pile around the back of the house and begin the process of backing into place.  After the 8th or 9th point in the turn I’m finally in position and can shut up the irritable motor, angry at being called into service for yet another year. 

We’ll leave the actual loading for another time and head back home.  My constitution is just starting to settle as I tell Regina about the experience, how it was the hairiest thing I’ve ever driven and how it took everything I had to keep it on the road.  I show her a picture and she laughs, “Oh, the turf cart.  Yeah, when we were kids we used to ride in the back of it, it was loads of fun.”  Yet again I am humbled, for as often as I think this country is trying to kill me, the locals see it as one big playground.