Around the World in 100 Pubs

An Irishman with a Tom Waits smoke-and-whisky voice sung about dirty towns and working-class struggles: big families in small houses, coal towns in deep dark valleys, all black and shades of grey, no colour. The Guinness drank well and the Jameson quelled any desire to ever leave. The Snug is an alcove, in central Brunswick, for both trucks and trailers, for stout and whiskey, and memories of dirty days in dirty towns far away. http://thesnugpublichouse.com/brunswick/

Blumenau is like a Ballerina in a boxing ring. It’s jarring. It doesn’t belong. It is a European looking town smack-bang in the middle of Brazil. Wooden clad German style houses with steep pitched roofs line the Amazon-like mud-brown Rio Itajai-Acu which flows through the heart of town. We were searching Blumenau for its renowned German style lagers when we stumbled across Fabio and his bar, Butiquin Wollstein. Walking into Butiquin Wollstein feels like walking into a Picasso painting. Time stops and straight lines bend. The place is a work of art. Fabio was a big athletic guy with an even bigger personality. A former Brazilian handball champion, he was reminiscent of Fabio’s past – I can’t believe it’s not butter . When we asked for beer he scoffed. ‘No, my friends, you need caipirinhas.’ He was also a smooth salesman like his namesake. We didn’t question him, just nodded. He proceeded to mix caipirinha’s like a man possessed. ‘Lime, lemon, mango, peach, passionfruit. Take your ...

Times Square is like that remote-control car I always wanted when I was a kid. When I finally got it I only used it a handful of times and from then on it sat on a shelf, gathering dust. Times Square is built up as something big, something special, a must-do in Manhattan, but whenever I go there I’m surrounded by other tourists trying outdo each other’s selfies, the lights flicker, taxi horns screech. When I get there all I can think of is planning an escape. I ran from Times Square in search of some respite and Jimmy’s was there, Jimmy’s was the answer. A narrow, blink-and-you-miss-it, old-school dive bar, with walls plastered with boxing memorabilia and a piece of plain white paper pinned to the bar, surrounded by dollar notes, written in capitals, ‘Let’s not discuss politics here.’ It sums up Jimmy’s Corner. It’s an escape, a fantasy world, a break from the hustle and bustle of the city, life, politics and all the demons. A world of only bourbon, beer and boxing. A stark and ref...

Crocodiles may well be fearsome beasts but their meat tastes like chicken and when it’s 50 degrees Celsius in the shade Carlton Draught tastes better than any craft beer on the planet. I learnt these valuable life lessons in the Northern Territory at a table (in the shade) at the Humpty Doo Hotel. I walked to the bar to buy a drink. A horde of ragged men in soiled high viz glared at me. I thought to myself, this is the outback, this is 'Straya. The bartender, with more beads of sweat on his forehead than a skipping boxer in Dubai, looked up and said, ‘Geez you’re a tall c**t.’ What do you say to that? At least it’s more original than, ‘how’s the weather up there?’ or ‘you should play basketball’. ‘A couple Carlton Draughts thanks,’ I said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand spraying perspiration across the bar and turned to pour me a beer. https://www.humptydoohotel.com.au/

Cronico bar will always remind me of The Big Lebowski , or more specifically the Dude himself because, sometimes there's a man who, wal, he's the man for his time'n place, he fits right in there –  and that's the Dude, in Los Angeles . I spent many afternoons at Cronico during the 2014 World Cup in Brazil. It was perfect for that time and place, and the publican, a stout man who sat at the bar not behind it, watched the soccer with us, drank with us and watched the waitresses with us. He was a Latino version of the Dude. He was the man for that time and place, Palermo, Buenos Aires, 2014. Cronico Bar felt South American through and through, it felt right, even though it probably wasn’t. All the waitresses walked with that South American gait and we bought beer and snacks and cheered the soccer and then the day was done. And as far as the Dude goes, it’s good knowing he’s out there, taking her easy for all us sinners .

Like a decent work of art the Tele changes under different lights and different days. Wednesday night is rambunctious and loud. The uni students come out from their decrepit share-house hovels. They look under-age but drink with complete and utter abandon. The steins are dirt-cheap and the chicken parmies even dirtier and cheaper. Friday is an older more white-collar crowd – even some suits here and there. Whilst Saturday night is deafening and full to the brim. You’ll no doubt hear a cover band playing Bon Jovi, and it’s fitting because the Tele is like Bon Jovi – aged and leathery with a shaggy blond mullet, it rocks, and is an incessant crowd pleaser. http://www.telehotel.com.au/

As we walked through the doors a storm began. A bloke at the bar asked if we were sheltering from the storm or actually there to have a beer. I was unsure if he was trying to quote Bob Dylan or if he didn’t like our type. The room was dim and a bluegrass band, drowned out by the rain pelting the roof, strummed ditties from another time. The old-duck at the bar served us beer in jam jars and cooked our burgers at the same time. The toilet wouldn’t flush and a foul smelling sticky substance dripped from the roof. When we sat at our table a river started flowing at our feet – the storm was encroaching and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole establishment drifted away around us. Ice cold beer never drank so good. http://dinosnashville.com/