The name of the pub was Rea's. It possessed a nondescript, austere look that was nearly identical to every other pub on the street. The faded red wooden facade had two entries --or were they exits-- that led to an open air foyer. Behind the foyer were another pair of doors that served as true entrances to the bar proper.

While this sort of architecture was common to pubs along the thoroughfare, something stirred within The Slayer when he came upon Rea's. Always attentive to his beer senses, The Slayer knew he must have his first Irish Guinness in this pub. When he entered the establishment, he knew his senses were as keen in Europe as they are in the U.S.

The inside of Rea's belied its plain exterior. The focal point of the establishment was, of course, a large horse-shoe shaped bar made of fine white oak. The bar was adorned with a well polished, brass foot bar that gleamed with the intensity of the full moon reflecting off of calm seas. Around the bar were a number of couches, small tables and short bar stools. This furniture gave the establishment a sort of cafÈ feel.

When The Slayer walked into the pub on this particular Sunday afternoon, there were only a few patrons present. He immediately took a seat at the bar. Although over a thousand miles from home, he felt as he had never left when he placed his bottom on that bar stool.

As soon as he sat down, the bartender came over and asked The Slayer what he would like. "A pint of Guinness," The Slayer responded without hesitation. The words seemed to roll from his tongue as if he had been saying them his entire life.

The tap master, hearing The Slayer's request, quickly spun around and grabbed a pint glass from the shelf. He took the vessel and sat it beneath the tap which read "Guinness" and pulled the handle to allow the nectar to flow into it. When the pint was approximately three-fourths full the man stopped the Guinness.

The Slayer was quite alarmedby such action. He had come all this way to taste one of the delights of the malt world only to have this man callously shut down the tap in the middle of the pour. "How dare he do this to me," The Slayer thought, as he began to form the words for an oral protest.

Just as he was about to alienate the people of an entire country with his ignorance, The Slayer looked at his pint glass and saw a miraculous sight. The Guinness in the glass was changing color right before his very eyes. Slowly the ebony hue of the beverage was beginning to show itself in the bottom of the vessel as the tan head receded. The tap keeper was just allowing the Guinness to settle so he could properly top off the pint. With a slight smile of embarrassment, for what he was about to say, and warm appreciation for the care with which his beer was being poured, The Slayer sat back on his stool and patiently waited.

As The Slayer would later discover, in Ireland you have to patiently wait for your Guinness. Guinness is so revered in this country that the bartenders will never give you a pint before it has properly settled. In fact, The Slayer witnessed a couple of pints being turned back by patrons because the head was more than a half inch thick. The poor bartender, realizing his breech of the social norm, hung his head as if he were a dog that had just relieved himself on the living room carpet. He would then summarily replace the pint with a proper one.

After a couple of minutes, the keg master placed the pint of pure black pleasure before The Slayer. The Slayer took a moment to contemplate what he was about to drink and then brought the glass to his proboscis (nose). In one grand moment of inhalation, he could smell the roasted barley and chocolate malt that were about to titillate his palate. The Slayer knew that this was no average drinking event. He was about to taste beer as God himself had intended it. Celestial chords played themselves through his brain.

Then, the moment of truth had finally arrived--it was time to taste the Guinness. The Slayer lovingly brought the pint glass to his eager lips. The ebony fluid poured over them onto his tongue and embraced his palate with the smoothest, most delectable fluid that had ever breached his oral cavity.

He tried to sip the beer --as he usually does when tasting something for the first time-- however, this was absolutely impossible. Before The Slayer knew what had happened, he had absorbed a third of the pint in one uncouth gulp. Though Irish Guinness is quite heavy, it was so smooth and delicious that it one could not just take a small sip --this was a drinking beer.

"Nirvana," The Slayer muttered as he placed the pint down on the bar to take a much needed breath. He then proceeded to take another drink and another. Before he knew exactly what was happening, he was laying two more Irish pounds on the bar and ordering a second pint of this nectar from the Gods.

After three pints were consumed and the Irish sun began dipping 'neath the Wicklow mountains to the west, The Slayer realized it was time to retire to his hotel. Although he felt as if he had the strength of 20 men (from drinking the Guinness), he knew that without sleep, he would feel half a man in the morn'.

As The Slayer left Rea's, he was greeted by the omnipresent Guinness brewery that lay only a few blocks away. The Slayer, now with a full appreciation of the brew this place produced, silently bowed his head in homage to this grand maker of outstanding beer. He knew that soon he would be there to witness the miracle of Guinness first hand.