The Plough & The Stars

Notice first the bar's prominence, made more so when contrasted visually with the nearby arrangement of low furniture, milking stool height. Then smell the beer. Installed behind the tappy, by Guinness technicians, is a sophisticated system imported from Ireland which perfects the porters and beers on tap. The least you can do is to pause, and learn how to drink from the bloody thing.

Order, or you'll perish sitting there," says our waiter, who is an exact replica of Michael Flatley, but less blonde. "If you don't order the Warm Sea Scallop Salad it's a sacrilege," he blurts. "To deny yourself the Striped Bass is a mortal sin. And to be bereft of Baby Rack of Lamb is a sin so venial, there's no clergy can save you from damnation."

I'm astounded at his attempts to sanctify my eating habits by allusions to holy terror. I reply to his succinet Irish lilt, "If I don't have all three before me within twenty minutes, you're a disgrace to your mother and Ireland in general."

On a huge white round plate is served grilled sea scallops the size of the nipples on the statues ensconced in bas-relief upon the old Federal Courthouse.

The Striped Bass is panseared, with a potato crust in the shape of scales, served with a lobster sauce. The taste is simply humbling. You're in a state of grace. Your eyes water entirely.

If I could describe the rack of seven baby lamb chops served ruby red and crusted, I would. They are spread over mashed potatoes herbed from heaven. God knows you have to keep your dignity, but you'll find yourself shamelessly shoveling the crushed spuds with the little sheep's bones (as utensils) between teeth, until cheeks are filled and languished with lustfulness. Moreover, a cup of Irish Coffee and a piece of Apple Tart'll send your belly sticking out a mile. It's a miserable adulthood to walk the world without.