Whenever my friends and I go to the pub, something strange occurs. Though we all go there together, the second we arrive there is a separation of the sexes: the women sit at one table and the men at another. It’s kind of like the Red Sea, but instead of Moses it’s a peculiar, old-fashioned standard that parts us.

I suppose no matter the culture, women have their bond with other women and men with men but I still find this automatic, consistent division very hard to understand. While I’ve never been one to pay much attention to social expectations or opinions, I feel self conscious when I move over to the men’s table (and I find I’m almost always the first to make the crossover!). As the evening goes on people eventually mix but there’s always the core male table and female table enforcing the divide with talk of football on one side and babies, handbags and clothes on the other.

This morning I had coffee with my friend Trevor and I realized that he is the only male friend who I spend time with alone. I’ve been friends with both Trevor and his girlfriend for over 13 years, so it’s no big deal for us to spend time together without other people. I do have other male friends in town, but for some reason I think they’d find it strange or perhaps even get the wrong impression if I invited them out because as far as I can see, nobody around here does that. Granted, most of these men are in relationships but back in Los Angeles I had plenty of male friends, married or in serious relationships, that I spent time with – either with them and their partners or just on our own. It wasn’t an issue with the women (they all know and trust me and are secure in their relationships) and none of my guy friends would think anything untoward if I extended an invitation to grab a drink or a bite to eat. I don’t need to preface an invitation with, “Don’t get the wrong impression…” when asking if they want to hang out.

I’m not exactly sure why this would be considered taboo around here, but I have a few ideas. We live in a small town where rumors spread quicker than a bacterial colony in a warm Petri dish. There’s a palatable hunger for gossip around here, and even the most innocent gesture can be misconstrued and broadcast for all to judge. It’s totally possible that my friends worry about this, and I can’t say I blame them; this anxiety is catching and it has affected the way I approach such matters. The other night I was in the neighborhood of a male friend’s apartment, and I thought I’d drop by and see if he wanted to pop into the local pub to grab a beer. But as quickly as the idea came to me it was seized by a rash of concerns: Would people in the pub think we were on a date? Will he think I am asking him out on date? What if someone got the wrong idea and told others? By the time I reached his street I was so frazzled with all the potential misinterpretations of an innocent drink between two friends that I just kept driving, ultimately deciding it just wasn’t worth the trouble.

I suppose it could also have something to do with the fact that I’ve only known these people for six months, which isn’t really that long. But at the same time this is exactly the point where I’m feeling the desire to cultivate these friendships further, which requires time beyond the big group outing where it’s nearly impossible to have a real conversation with any one person. With the women it’s fine; it’s nothing to ring a girlfriend on a Wednesday night for a quick bite and a catch-up. With the guys, there’s a lot of potential for misunderstanding thanks to this old-fashioned but prevalent social convention. Since that’s not going to change any time soon, I know I need to ignore my fears and just do as I normally would. A lot easier said than done.

*Illustration credits: jscreationzs/FreeDigitalPhotos.net; Filomena Scalise/FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

In a place like Los Angeles, most Irish bars try especially hard to capture the essence of a real pub in Ireland. There are the dark wood accents, the Guinness on tap and the thick-accented Irish bartenders (or at least struggling actors pretending to be Irish). It’s a bit like the theme restaurants at Disneyland; while they’ve manage to capture the look and feel it lacks the  spirit of a true Irish watering hole.

There’s probably no Irish drinking establishment more authentic as the auld country pub in Ireland, and I’m lucky enough to have found one where I’m becoming a semi-regular [cue the theme song from “Cheers”]. The place is Mathews, which is bewilderingly pronounced “Mat-te-tis” and it’s an old pub in the middle of tiny Collon village, about a 15-minute drive from my place. On any given Friday or Saturday night, I know that my friends Bushman and Richella will be behind the bar, and that at least a few people I know will be wearing holes into the old barstools. On the weekends there will be some choice covers (think Garth Brooks and Air Supply) performed by a well-meaning and painfully earnest musician and by the end of a long night there might be a drunkard or two being thrown out on his ass by James, the barman you just don’t f*ck with.

What I love about country pubs and especially Mathews is that people of all ages come here. From 18 all the way up to probably 90 years old, everyone mixes together and enjoys the craic – as they say. My friend Sinead’s mom is always there on Saturdays and Sundays, sipping her vodka and white lemonade. Her husband Niall is there every night for his three pints. There are the young fellas with their cheap gold chain worn over their upturned shirt collar (not a good look, lads), the older women in their Sunday best ready for a few pints after mass and the odd elderly pervert who needs a slap on his groping hand. Country pubs don’t discriminate based on age, but if you’re a stranger you may get a few suspicious stares and a moment of tense silence when you first walk in.

The pub itself has all the characteristics of a well-worn Irish tavern. The enormous, dual-sided wooden bar is marked with beer stains and faded patches from years of elbow grease. Pints of cascading, inky Guinness settle on aluminum drains under the beer taps. The clinking of freshly-washed glasses plays against a symphony of patrons’ chatter, both of which grows louder as the night wears on. There are low tables with cushioned chairs sectioned off by partitions of frosted glass and wood, perfect for containing hushed gossip. The pool table has seen better days but still attracts a steady stream of players, all anteing up for a shot at a few quid.

Of their recent visit to Ireland, my sister and her husband said our night at Mathews was the highlight. We were a gang of about 20 or so that night and I’m pretty sure the pub stayed open a bit later than usual for us (then again, I did have a lot to drink so who knows?!). That’s the thing with country pubs; sometimes the clocks magically stop ticking and the drinking continues into the wee hours. But you didn’t hear it from me.

If the Mattock Rangers have a match or if Louth is playing, there will be a sea of red jerseys in Mathews after the game – win or lose. In Collon, it’s the place to celebrate victories and drown sorrows and you can be sure there will be support from the patrons either way. But it’s not always crowded in here. If a local has a wedding out of town half the village will be away for the celebration, which means a slow night for Mathews. Or during the summer a good few folk may go away for bank holiday weekends, leaving plenty of seats at the bar. As my friend Sinead always says, “We’re just a wee little village!” And the heart of this village, like Rovers Return in Coronation Street, is Mathews pub.