St. Paul is the Irish town, so it makes sense that the best pub is located there. The Dubliner has three pictures of JFK hung in various corners, and its crowd is most often a mix of neighborhood folk and Irish expatriates. The always-gregarious expats pull up chairs around the bar, and soon begins a nightful of stories about Enid, Fergus, Winifred, and lasses and mates from County this or County that. The honey-tongued bartender at the wooden bar seems to always ask for IDs and then tell the women that "they can't be as old" as the birth dates on their licenses. Then he pours a perfect Guinness in a 20-ounce glass known as an Imperial pint (four ounces more than the American pint). There's often live Irish music on the little stage. And if not, you may find Donny the expat playing his pennywhistle at a table, with his friend Ian jigging nearby. Honest.


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