Murder Most Fowl

‘Tis the season once more.  No, not Christmas, not quite yet despite the fairy lights and commercials you may be starting to see with increased frequency.  Not Halloween either even though that one is a perennial favorite among my clique of twenty-something revelers.  The season to which I refer is like both of those holidays combined for me with a healthy dose of thanksgiving thrown in for good measure, I find my anticipation building as I can’t wait to wake up in the early morning hours and climb downstairs as if to open my presents.  I will don my outfit and trek tirelessly though the cold eagerly awaiting my next prize, and after all of that I will sit down with unparalleled satisfaction to a hot meal which fills me with such gratitude for everything I have.

Yes my friends, it is nearly hunting season once more!  Those of you who know me personally know that I a bit nuts about guns and try to take up every opportunity to head to the range or into the field for a shot.  There’s something so relaxing about being out on a hunt, the way your concentration become absolute, your senses heighten, and all of the problems of the world melt away as you wait poised for your quarry to make its presence known.  Hunting to me is meditation and I can’t find anything quite like it for that feeling of pure, uncomplicated oneness with my surroundings.  Plus I get to shoot things, which is fun.
In honor of that most wonderful time of the year I’d like to share with you some of the stories of hunts I’ve had while here in Ireland, the highs and the lows and the funny things that happen when afield.

My very, very first actual hunting experience in Ireland was an interesting one, some years back, knowing that I had a fair appreciation for the finer arts of firearms Regina’s father said we should wander out across the fields behind the house and see if you could scare up a pheasant.  First went on the wader boots, up scaled wellies that reach up to your thighs and are fastened up with a belt, then there was the ammo belt itself, lined with dozens of shotgun shells-enough to hold off a small army- of varying loads, finally there was the gun itself, a well worn and traveled side by side 12 gauge that was probably made around the same time I was.  We let the gun dog, Shadow, out of her pen which may or may not have been a poor decision as her training had gone a bit lax as of late.  Off like a shot she bounded into the field and proceeded to run and root with no sense of restraint.  It was obvious that my experience in Ireland was going to be much different from the States.

When pheasant hunting in the states you could easily wear sneakers if not a sturdy pair of sandals on a good day, the terrain is largely flat and often cultivated into rows for easy navigation, wheat has been planted specifically to give the birds cover and attract them, and since in most places in the Midwest game birds have been hunted until they’ve practically disappeared most of what you actually hunt is farm raised and planted before you set out.  The first obstacle we faced that day was the electric wire used to keep cattle from roaming, placing the butt of his shotgun against it and stepping over Basil warned me that I’d get a mighty shock if I inadvertently touched it.  Not enough to do me permanent damage, hopefully, but certainly enough to put a damper on the day.  After that we had to take a short hop across a water-filled trench and into the marshy, uneven, shrub-filled areas adjacent to the river that we’d be hunting through.  It quickly became apparent that the biggest challenge I was going to face was not in hitting a bird but rather in simply navigating the ruts successfully and not ending up face first in some dirty water.

In retrospect the challenge of hitting any birds was non-existent as Shadow, the gun dog, did her best to run a good 50 or 60 yards ahead of us in a completely unpredictable pattern while ignoring any commands we futilely barked in her direction.  What she did manage to scare up was thus well out of our range and was probably not even aware of our presence as it took wing towards the safety of the far treeline across the river.  We saw no pheasant that day despite the numerous occasions when I’d seen them in local fields, crossing the road, or startled them bursting out of hedges while I walked by, we did, however, kick up snipe during our safari.  Snipe are one of the odder birds I’ve happened across in my travels, although I did not get a very good look at any of them that day I estimate that their bodies are about the size of a baseball and they move like a combination of hummingbirds and electrical currents.  When disturbed they immediately shoot up to shoulder height and dart in an erratic zig-zag pattern away from whatever is perusing them before disappearing back into the bush like Vietcong.  About three quarters of the way through the hunt I decided to take a shot at one of the snipe just to be able to say that I had, I think my chances of hitting it would have been the same as if I’d discharged my shotgun directly into the ground in front of me but at the end of the day taking a walk where you fire a gun beats taking a walk and not firing a gun any day.

I think Basil knew that we weren’t going to actually get any pheasant that day but just wanted to see how I handled myself in the field and for myself it was a good opportunity to try out a new experience even if it was nothing more than a trial run.  This year has been the first one that I’ve been in country for the entirety of bird season and with my entry into the family in a official capacity I’ve been brought out on a couple of hunting excursions that have been a bit more formalized.  I haven’t done much (any) duck hunting in the states but my understanding of it is that the common method is to build a duck blind-a camouflaged shack in the water- set out decoys and use specialized calls to bring the unsuspecting targets in for a landing.  You are welcome to watch some Duck Dynasty for a more elaborate run down.  Duck hunting here involves a Jeep (truck) apparently and I found myself riding in the back seat next to a pair of 12 gauges in the predawn hours one morning. 

The method for duck hunting we employed was based around driving to different locations, ponds, rivers, flooded fields, where ducks could be expected to be resting, getting out of the truck, sneaking up on them, and opening fire at will.  I’m not sure if this is more or less sporting than sitting in a cold metal box employing subterfuge but I will say it was a bit more entertaining, especially as it allows you to see some more exotic sights of the country.  The sun was just coming up as we drove down a back road adjacent to a farmer’s field when we spotted it, a fox, the first fox I had ever seen in the flesh in my whole life.  I had expected a small and somewhat adorable animal, I expected it to have a nice red coat and perky ears and a fluffy tail.  The animal I saw was big, I’ve seen many coyotes in my time and this animal rivaled them, for the first time I understood how one could kill a sheep as I’d been told they do frequently.  It was black as well, or at least predominantly so as it seemed patchy and mottled, a wild animal in every sense of the word it must have sensed our intention as it bolted across the field away from us.  Basil mashed the gas pedal and we lurched forward into pursuit.

Even with the engine at full rev we barely kept pace as the fox had the better line towards cover, we bounded around a corner and it was explained to me that foxes are considered a pest and it is always open season on them.  Pulling to a stop we piled out of the jeep and took up positions on a small stone wall, even though we had the whole of the briar patch covered it was neigh impossible to get a bead on the beast.  At most I would glimpse a set of ears and a second later a swish of the tail could be seen some feet away, it’s cunning and guile was evident as it flitted between hiding spots with the ease of an apparition, we called out to each other to little effect trying to anticipate its movements and designate who would have the best sight should an opportunity present itself.  Evan, my brother in law, had perhaps the best chance but it was gone in the blink of an eye and within the span of 30 seconds our window was passed and we saw the fox bolting back up the field making time in a way we could not hope to match.  It was for the best, Evan said, he wouldn’t have felt right shooting it.  If we had gone out hunting fox that would have been a different story, but we were there for ducks and it seems as though nature itself shared his sentiment.

The fox eluded us that day and if he stayed cagey he may still be out there today in his den or out causing trouble, and if our spirits are up to it we may meet him out lamping one night and we’ll truly test his luck.  That’ll be a story for another time though, as the one I want to finish up on is a story from the end of the season, the story of the last duck of the year.   It was, in fact, the very last day of hunting season and we resigned ourselves to one more attempt at the fowl as it would be many, many months before we’d get another crack at them.  Basil, Evan and myself loaded up into the jeep once more for an evening hunt and motored our way off to an isolated field which was reasonably flooded and in many places impassable.  Somehow I’d drawn the short straw and was suited up in the standard issue, mid-calf wellies while the more senior partners were clad in the two pairs of functional waders we possessed and thus at a reasonably stranded spot out in the swamp I was told I would have to wait there alone while they went ahead across a deep drain and into the more secluded sections of wetland.

Sure, no problem, I perched myself upon a protruding hill of mossy earth and waited for them to start shooting, the plan was for them to locate a flock and start the assault, theoretically the birds would circle somewhere in my vicinity and I’d spring a secondary ambush on them.  It seemed like a solid plan, or at least a solid explanation as to why I shouldn’t feel bad about being left behind.  I heard their first shots some ten minutes later after they’d walked out of my view and waited patiently for my first chance at a kill, in short order I saw a pair of mallards winging my way.  I pride myself on being a crack shot and with confidence I unloaded my barrels in quick succession, but to my dismay the birds kept flying and as I ejected the shells and fumbled for replacements they first two birds broke away and were out of range in seconds.  Birds kept coming sporadically as shots rang out from my hunting companions at odd intervals, yet time and time again my aim was untrue and I managed to miss birds coming at me from all angles and altitudes.  On more than one occasion it seemed as though the drakes knew I only had a double gun and would cut directly towards me as I tried desperately to reload after throwing up ineffectual volleys.  It was a chronic case of “I should have hit that” that played out over the next couple of hours.

Darkness began to settle upon us and the efforts of targeting took on new dimensions, what had been dark silhouettes of game outlined against a grey sky became undefined shapes out the corner of my eyes.  It was thus that as the light faded I relied less on my eyes and more on my ears to track inbound ducks, an exercise which was chaotic at best.  The sound of a large bird in flight is quite distinctive, the whooshing of wings on the beat can be heard at some distance, combine that with the gentle, low quacks they emit regularly and you have a reasonably sure sign of ducks nearby.  What makes tracking them difficult is the fact that they fly two or three at a time in unpredictable arcs and trajectories.  So what you perceive is less “Aha!” and more “Huh?” as your mind figures out: A, If that really is a duck I’m hearing; B, Which way is it heading; C, How fast; and D, Is it worth shooting at?  All of that before trying to aim and shoot passably, which I mentioned before I had been struggling with all day so far.

The light kept fading and I soon found myself thinking that if a duck didn’t make itself obvious in the next five minutes my chances for the season were effectively kaput.  I crossed my fingers and hoped, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other, like an air raid marshal during the blitz on London.  Seconds turned to minutes, I willed ducks to come my way, so many had seemed to swoop by almost in arms reach, I was sure a small flock had landed nearby yet across the insurmountable drainage ditch.  If just one more would give me a clean line I would take it and be satisfied that I had tried my all and the odds simply were in the birds’ favor that day.  The five minutes passed, it became impossibly dark and I resigned myself to failure.  Yet I couldn’t head in until Basil and Evan returned and I was sure they had given up hope just as I had.  Five more minutes passed and somewhere off in their general direction I could hear a faint slogging of boots possibly heading my way, it was then that I heard ducks incoming. 

Heading straight for me I did my best to track them without any sight whatsoever, I poised myself to trap them between myself and the only slim hope of light left to me, a weak glow of streetlamps coming from a distant hill.  I could hear they were just a few yards from me, coming in low and oblivious to my presence, putting everything else out of my mind I focused in on my target zone.  In a single instant I saw them, three perfect black outlines of ducks against the hazy orange glow on the horizon, I moved my barrels by inches to mimic their flight pattern and pulled both triggers in quick succession because there is no reward for bringing home the most ammo.  I cannot say today which shot stuck home, I could not say then either for all I cared about was the solid splash of a dead duck hitting the water.  I whooped and hollered and danced on my little dry mound as I reached for my flashlight, the duck had fallen across the way and I could do nothing to reach it but I diligently focused a beam on where I heard it fall so that Basil or Evan would be able to collect it for me. 

They come to me after a time, apparently their eyes are better than mine or they are simply more stubborn in their habits, but they did no shooting after me, and after they picked up my duck presented to me their only success of the evening, a woodcock Basil had shot with great skill and luck.  I suppose our take that night was not so impressive and by rights I should have made half a dozen shots that went wide, but I felt confidant that no hunter out later than us could have made a kill without the aid of night vision goggles, so when that bird was roasted and basted I took extra pleasure in knowing I was eating the last duck of the season.

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.