Back to the Land of Guinness and Old Friends

This time there's a good reason for my absence! The Grillmaster returned to his Irish/Northern Irish/[insert Anglo-national reference here] stomping grounds last week for a much needed vacation. Nothing sounded better than a week of quiet countryside, welcoming people, and stirred memories.

HA! The only moments of quiet were while in the pub toilet. Aside from that, the Guinness and old friends kept me well occupied. Such a different experience to cross the ocean and feel like you're going home again. Too many highlights to list them all, but I'll do my best with a top 10 list.

10. An open bar banquet in the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin. Miraculously, less intoxicating than you might think.

9. Sharing R. Kelly's 'Trapped in the Closet' with an international crowd, thus further damaging Euro-American relations.

8. Holding it down in the best table in Belfast, the corner booth at the Duke of York.

7. Defending the honor of the Mitchell class of 2005 by winning the innaugural Guinness chug-off.

6. A glorious lunch with old friends at the best Middle Eastern cafe you've never heard of in Dublin's Chester Beaty Library.

5. Seeing the future of world theatre in '100 Minutes.' Amazingly successful even with so many frightening man-killers...

4. Discovering a whole new painful variety of cider with a crowd sophisticated enough to appreciate the complicated nuances of the cider pallette.

3. Rambling the beautiful emptiness of the Donegal roads with our intrepid and fearless American driver.

2. Meeting young Master James Walker for the first time, and seeing his parents sane and well.

1. Returning to our little piece of paradise at Downhill Hostel. And the fact that if I ever need to start an alternate life as someone named Daniel, I'll have an innkeeper to vouch for me.

Dear George...

So it has come to this: the leader of the free world is upstaged by a two-bit faux-populist anti-Semite from Iran. The letter from Mahmood Ahmadinajad exemplifies that ever so fine line between insanity and genius. It's a brilliant tactical stroke, in all likelihood actually made a difference at the UN yesterday thanks to our cowardly friends in Russia and China, and has at least temporarily put Bush on the defensive.

If you need any more proof that our President has made this country less safe, think of this: he has so little international credibility that a semi-coherant rant on Christian theology from a repressive Islamist dictator is all it takes to tip the global balance of power against US interests. Mission accomplished.

Strength through Conviction

Peter Beinhart has an interesting piece in this weekend's New York Times magazine. The title, 'Rehabilitation of the Cold-War Liberal,' is somewhat misleading (the article barely touches on the Cold War liberal in question, Reinhold Neibuhr), but the content is provocative and challenging on a couple of fronts. My friend Paul Musgrave is too caught up in New York cynicism to see the truth in Beinhart's arguments, but I'll let it go this time without imposing Calvinball-related penalties on him.

Beinhart seems to have two points that are most worth pondering. First, he dares to argue that liberal foreign policy ought to draw strength from its convictions. This is no small contention these days. A sizable chunk of liberal elites is thrilled that simply embracing realistic self-interest can make liberals come off like trust-worthy world stewards in comparison with the ideological wrecklessness of King George. But is this enough? Beinhart argues convincingly that it is not only inadequate to the world we face, but a betrayal of the greatest achievements of liberals in foreign policy in the early days of the Cold War. Neibuhr had a deeply calculating, pragmatic streak, but it was grounded in principles far more meaningful than simple 'realistic' self-interest.

Which brings us to his second argument, equally contentious although quite different. What should these neo-liberal principles look like? Beinhart pushes his Cold War analogy in ways that aren't entirely satisfying, but are certainly provocative. In short, Cold War liberals were wise enough to realize that the foreign policy of a democracy must allow for difference in the world if that policy actually believes in its democratic ideals. Thus, the analogue to the socialist allies of Europe (which never fully yielded to communism) is today's popularly supported Islamist parties throughout the Middle East.

The challenge then becomes to determine WHY those European socialists never yielded to the USSR, and replicate those circumstances with contemporary Islamist parties. I'm no Cold War expert, but I'd posit that two features that helped America's cause in Europe do in fact exist today in the world of Islamist politics. First, ethno-nationalism never died in Western Europe. Nations wished to maintain national distinctiveness in a way that prevented submission to the heavy-handed USSR. A similarly enduring national strength remains in the Middle East. Pan-Arabism remains discredited, which ought to limit the threat that Islamist parties will unite in any meaningful way to control the region by force.

Second, I would imagine that US policy-makers indulged the socialistic experiments of Western European leaders, while establishing bright lines that could not be crossed without consequence. Why couldn't such an arrangement allow for engagement of Islamist parties? The United States will tolerate a great deal of internal diversity and autonomy within Islamic democracies, so long as nations eschew things like overtly calling for Israel's destruction, denying basic human rights (especially to women), and fostering terror groups intent on attacking the US.

This list of bright lines is clearly incomplete, but I think it is a viable path for engaging the very real and growing strength of political Islam. It would push liberals beyond short-sighted realistic calculation, indicate to the world that America can balance self-interest with local democracy, and remind us of some of the ideals that gave real strength to liberal foreign policy in the not-so-distant past.

Martick's Restaurant Francais

The best restaurants scare you. You wouldn't set foot in the place unless a trusted friend took you there first. You're a little nervous during your first visit, but after that you relish the chance to be the person bringing your friends there, to watch them while they nervously shift in their seats and wonder, 'What the hell am I doing here?" These places are never crowded, but always seem to be open. You leave for long periods, neighborhoods change, but the scene inside is always more or less the same.

The Grillmaster knows of a few such places, and had the chance to dine in one of my favorites this past Friday. Martick's Restaurant Francais has a bit of a deceptive name. Continental? Sort of. Classy? Eh, well, no. Sophisticated? After a fashion.

Martick's is a Baltimore landmark, and anybody who has the chance ought to get the to appreciate it before the octogenarian crank who runs the place hangs up his apron. He's Mr. Martick (his dad was THE Martick). He was born in the place. It was a speakeasy during Prohibition, a bohemian hip spot after that, a dark shell while Martick fled to France to learn to cook, and now a run-down speakeasy look-alike that just happens to serve some of the best French food in the area code.

You walk up to the door and wonder if you're in the right place. There are no signs of life, just a broken looking doorbell. When you give it a ring you'll either be greeted by a muffled bark or else just silence. After a little while the heavy wooden Prohibition-era door will swing open. If you're lucky, an eccentric host or hostess will ask you what the password is. If you're not, Mo Martick will be there in his boxers asking you what you want.

As your eyes readjust to the dim light, you can hardly believe your eyes. Baroque nude statues. Snakeskin wallpaper. Velvet curtains. Tile floors and a tin roof. The odds are that a half dozen other patrons of varying degrees of uniqueness are scattered across the small room. The menus are handwritten, the air is still, and you swear you don't know where the hell this place came from.

Then the food comes, and you realize why your friend brought you to what upon your arrival you took for the anteroom to Hell. It's French country cooking at its best. Fairly simple, moderately priced, hearty, and fantastically good. It still doesn't make sense, this infernal place with heavenly food. But that's what makes it great and rare. That kind of unsettling juxtaposition is tough to find, especially in these days of exurbs and urban renewal. Take the time to enjoy it while you still can. And try not to let it show that you're a little bit scared.