A Very Roly New Year's in Dublin

Roly's Bistro in Dublin, present day. It had been open just 2 years when we visited.

Celebrating out 10th wedding anniversary and New Year's in Dublin was over the top.

But, why not?

After all, we were international citizens. So, we decided to make it a full week of fun and frivolity in the most European of cities. Luxury hotel room overlooking St. Stephen’s Green, dinner every night at a top restaurant, visits to museums and breweries and pubs. We put it all together before leaving home, from arrival the day after Christmas to departure on New Years Day.

One thing left unplanned was the place where we would spend New Year’s Eve. Every restaurant I tried to reserve by phone and email from home said they were already fully booked. There had to be a place, but it would have to wait until we were in Dublin and could make a personal contact with a proprietor. The first three days after getting there I called around with no success. The Irish Diaspora was in town for Christmas week and there was no room for two Americans.

Giving up on all the restaurants listed in Fodor’s, we decided, on the 30^th, to visit Roly’s Bistro which was a short walk from the hotel. Perhaps a drink or two at the bar would allow for shmoozing a last-minute reservation for the Eve.

It worked.

Roly, the owner, was working the bar that afternoon and he agreed to squeeze us in for the second seating. “Hope you don’t mind a crowd,” he warned. “Some Americans would be put off with a mass of sweating locals.”

Success! Now, we had the spot for an event to be forever remembered. 

The Irish start things later than we do in the USA, our reservation was for 9pm. It didn’t matter; we were in.

After a pleasant stroll through the Ballsbridge residential neighborhood and across a bridge decorated with Christmas lights, we showed up exactly on the dot at the large, carved mahogany door.

Roly’s is located on the banking of the urban River Dodder, a former industrial waterway connecting to the River Liffey and the Grand Canal. The river has been transformed and preserved as a recreational resource lined with private and public docks. There is dock access, where two boats were tied, connected to the bistro by a wooden ramp.

A handsome young man met us at the door, checked to see that we were registered and warned us that some diners from the early seating were not quite ready to leave. We would have to sit at the bar until the tables were reset.

As we entered, I passed a beautiful red-haired woman who leaned against me and said I was cute. Two men simultaneously stood and reached for Gere’s hand. They argued about which of them would offer her a better seat.

After we ordered our wine, most of the well-lubricated early diners were cleared, and our own celebration began. We were given our own small café table with other patrons sitting right next to us, nearly rubbing shoulders. After ordering our wine, a waiter presented a platter of starters and explained that there were only two options for the main course: prime rib or a seafood ragu. We both ordered the beef and a bottle of French claret. Both the food and the service were excellent. My only complaint was that the place filled up quickly with cigarette smoke, but a ventilating system was soon turned on to reduce the cloud.

As folks ate and drank, the dining room became very loud. Everyone was shouting. People came over to our table, almost in a line, and introduced themselves to us and asked where we came from. When they learned we lived in the Boston neighborhood of Charlestown people shared stories of visits to “Beantown” and how many of their relatives lived there. Two people knew the Veasey’s, a family who lived across the street from us. When music began playing on a CD boom box, people moved their tables apart to make a small dance floor where couples spun themselves around, occasionally knocking over a piece of furniture or another dancer.

Roly began to circulate, carrying a bottle of Champagne and offering it freely. He grabbed one of the dancer’s chairs and sat across from us, filling our glasses.

“Welcome to Dublin,” he shouted. Then he turned to the crowd. “These yanks are from Boston. Let’s drink a toast or two to them. The bubbly is now on the house for the rest of the night.”

Let the party really begin!

People kept coming up to us and clinking their glasses to ours, touching my shoulder and taking her hand. A couple who was dancing spun over and kneeled on the floor at our table. He had shed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Her hair and face were wet with sweat. “You two must come home with us,” he said with his face up close to mine. “We’ll continue the party until dawn.”

She winked at Gere and added, “Or later.”

We made excuses to stay.

At midnight Roly announced that the place was locked. It was Sunday and no one else would be let in. If we wanted to leave, he would open the door for us. But who wanted to leave?  The night was young and so were we.

It wasn’t until 2 that we finally left for our walk to the hotel. Though it was dark and very late (or early depending on your perspective), the streets and Georgian houses were brightly lit.

Walking into St. Stephen’s was like being in daylight and all along the way groups of people strolled arm-in-arm singing Christmas carols. We shouted out to them wishing them a Happy New Year. At the hotel we found the elevator, rode up to the top floor, threw ourselves fully clothed on the bed and tried to forget that we had a plane to catch later in the day.