The Slayer's quests, while mostly limited to the search for malt beverages, sometimes deviate from their predictable path to include the conquering of new watering holes. Last week, The Slayer took this path less (pub)crawled and visited a new establishment in Metro Wilmington. Oh, the things he did see.

The new pub, as you might have guessed, has a Gaelic turn about it (refer to an Appalachia to English dictionary for a translation of "turn about it"). It goes by the name Shanakee but some call it Tim. This touch of Erie is located in the same building that was vacated by alleged IRS fugitives who used to run (all pun intended) Cassidy's (The Slayer hopes, for their sake, that wasn't their real name).

From the building's exterior it appeared to The Slayer that nothing had changed except the name. A wave of disappointment crashed upon his pickled soul, for he had hoped to find a place that reminded him of pubs he couldn't remember from last year's trip to Ireland. Alas, it appeared he would be left without a true memory of those establishments. He feared he would have to resign himself to being satisfied with the fabricated tales he has told others.

Knowing that he could not be any more disappointed, The Slayer entered Shanakee. In the brief moment it took his eyes to adjust to the darkened atmosphere, The Slayer felt a brawny wave of Celtic druidism fill his being. The spirit of the Emerald Isle hung in the air with the thickness of Guinness.

With pupils fully acclimated at last, The Slayer could now see why he experienced such a profound Irish presence in the establishment. This pub had seemingly been plucked right out of County Cork. It was so Irish that The Slayer felt transported to the land where Guinness flows as freely as the River Liffy.

Memories he fancied forever lost of the Irish pubs began to return to The Slayer as he viewed the brown relief-painted walls and the squat tables and chairs that surrounded the bar. The Slayer could almost taste the ebony nectar as he viewed the antique Guinness signs hanging along the west wall. Ever so faintly, The Slayer swears that he heard an Irish jig playing in the background; even though the Beetles emanated from the sound system.

The Slayer, with the sudden urge to speak Gaelic, waltzed to bar as if he had been here 100 times before. The Slayer's favorite resting area was covered with copper like many of the pubs he had seen (in relative clarity) in Dublin. In his mind, he heard echoes of chatter about the IRA, yesterday's hurling match and several derogatory remarks aimed at the "bloody English."

As he became more and more immersed in Shanakee's atmosphere, The Slayer felt that he was back in Ireland, that wondrous land of green and exceptionally hardy and friendly people. Limping to his seat, he noticed that the Irish trappings of this pub were not only of aesthetic sort.

Two Guinness taps beckoned him to drink of their ambrosia. Nestled, ever so comfortably, between them was a Bass Ale, Harp and Woodpecker handle. Further, Budweiser, Miller Lite and Ice House were nowhere to be seen. An Irish warmth permeated The Slayer's heart. At that moment, he was an American expatriate living somewhere in County Wicklow.

As soon as his bum hit the stool, The Slayer half expected to hear, "Hey, yank, this pint's on me." Alas, no such words were uttered.

The publican, noting his presence, came dutifully over. "What would you like?" he asked in a disappointingly ordinary American accent.

Startled by the absence of an Irish brogue, The Slayer answered, "A pint of Woodpecker." He was waiting for Rod Serling to say, "The Slayer, an American beer snob trapped with other countrymen in an Irish pub. But this little tavern does not belong to the Earth, it is part of the Twilight Zone."

The pint of Woodpecker magically materialized before The Slayer. Realizing that he really had never left Wilmington, The Slayer supped of the fermented apple beverage.

As its sweet nectar filled his mouth with unmistakable fruit flavor, The Slayer recalled the last time he had a draught cider. Well, he doesn't remember actually drinking it. What he did recall was being awaked unceremoniously by the sun rising above the Irish Sea. He also recalls a head that felt the size of the Guinness Brewery.

Of course, that was from Bulmers Cider. The Slayer felt he would be safe with Woodpecker. However, as he read the Woodpecker coaster upon which his pint sat, he became a bit queasy when he discovered that Bulmers makes Woodpecker. "Oh well," he thought, "today I am not trying to keep up with the prodigious drinking ability of the Irish. I'll be fine."