Chasing the White Rabbit Barbecue

I know how crazy I sounded.

Yes, barbecue.

We had already visited all of the cities we wanted to visit, and we were heading back to Dublin for the last few days of our trip, and not a single time had we seen a barbecue place.

Some places specialize in potatoes, and there were breweries and distilleries, sometimes right across from drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, but not once had I seen a barbecue place.

Luckily, I can always count on America and its American imports.

People complain imperialism is a terrible thing, but those people don’t remember what it was like to live without Yelp.

I pulled my phone and input “barbecue,” my search threw back hundreds of results, and none of them was an actual barbecue except for one result.

The name was White Rabbit. I don’t think that’s what people mean when they say, “To chase a white rabbit,” but I was going to chase it nonetheless. This was a place in downtown Cork; I knew St Patrick was smiling down on us since Cork is halfway to Dublin.

We finished packing the rest of our luggage, which included no less than 5,000 pounds of baby travel gear and warm clothes that we didn’t need because Ireland was unseasonably warm. Even if the friendly Irish people kept approaching us and apologizing for the dreadful weather, that wasn’t dreadful at all.

Then we got on our way.

Driving through Ireland is an adventure in its own right. The roads are narrow, the shoulders nonexistent, the precipices a plenty, and the sheer amount of bikers logic-defying. But the most insane part of it all was the names of the Irish towns.

I couldn’t figure out if the Irish were making up these names to amuse themselves or to show everyone they don’t care what anyone thinks. I saw towns called Ballymum, Kilcock, Ballylickey, and Ballsbridge. I mean, can you imagine the size of the balls that you need a bridge for?

It only makes sense that they need a bridge for their balls. These ballsy nation has stood to the Brits for centuries with no more than cowdung, potatoes and molotov cocktails.

My wife tells me I’m an eejit, that she thinks that balls mean something else, but what else could balls mean?

We finally made it to Cork and parked our car a block away.

We walked to the restaurant, and the first thing I saw was a banner with a dog drawing on it.

It is a dog I have seen before.

This dog is the Lagunitas dog. This place not only serves barbecue but also carries the beer that made Petaluma (the town where I live) famous.

Locals might argue Petaluma’s claim to fame is their eggs and milk, but you can find that anywhere.

But Lagunitas is Petaluma through and through.

We walked in, and it didn’t disappoint. A bar full of bourbon and whiskey, beer on tap, and a buffalo head hanging from the wall.

We sat down and ordered every single item on the menu.

It was a good barbecue!

And I’m just not saying it because I was sick of potatoes.

I am saying this because I know barbecue, and this was good barbecue—a brief reprieve from the potatoes and a ray of sunlight in my search for something to remind me of home.