I'm a student of pubs. Maybe it's because my dad owned one. Maybe it's because they smell so good, especially that front-door bouquet of stale beer, hamburger, air-conditioning, and disinfectant. The flavor profile at my dad's place included the unmistakable overlay of nicotine, but even without that, the pub smell is a sensory experience beloved by the truly cultured.
Many pubs display framed Irish blessings. “May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back”—that kind of thing. Here's a good one: “May those who love us, love us. For those who don't love us, may God turn their hearts. And if He doesn't turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles, so we will know them by their limping.”
The best pub toast ends thusly: “May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead.”
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