Nevermind the Guinness: You Can’t Have an Irish Bar Without Craic

A lot of Anglophones stumble over the Irish language. We say “slayne-tuh” instead of sláinte and lose all confidence when consonant combinations like b-h-f appear. And yet, there’s one Irish term that transcends translation, let alone pronunciation. Craic, which sounds like “crack” in my Yankee accent, can be interpreted simply to mean “a good time,” though it’s much more than that. 

In Ireland, craic can be an excellent conversation you have with a friend or a stranger over a pint of beer or cup of coffee.

In Ireland, craic can be an excellent conversation you have with a friend or a stranger over a pint of beer or cup of coffee. “How was the craic?” a friend might ask another after a night out. The craic is often best when everything goes perfectly, though not remotely according to plan. And a bar without good craic? Well, that’s not worth leaving the house for. 

“It’s about being with good people with good hearts,” says Garret Greene, a 45-year-old marketer born in Blarney, Ireland. “That’s the foundation of what will turn out to be a good evening—and the next day you will say, ‘My god, there was good craic last night.’” 

“Vibes” is arguably the closest contemporary American colloquialism, though it’s an imperfect match. Craic is its own, distinctly Irish phenomenon. You know it when you feel it, and you miss it when you don’t.

Despite its ties to modern Irish culture, the term isn’t Irish at all. It stems from a Middle English word, “crak.” In the 18th century, the word voyaged to Scotland via Shakespeare and was written as “crack.” Craic got its Gaelic spelling sometime in the 20th century. “The craic—like many quintessentially Irish things, from St. Patrick to chippers—isn’t Irish at all but is very much our own,” Una Mullaley writes in The Irish Times.

“There’s nothing nicer in the bar business than the hum of conversation with no background noise.” —Pete O’Connell

Sociability is a point of cultural pride for many Irish people, Pete O’Connell tells me as he tucks into a full Irish breakfast at Malone’s, one of several bars he owns in New York City. Born in Maith, Ireland, O’Connell believes craic can be cultivated but never forced. “Irish people are talkers. The bars in Ireland when we were young were conversation bars. There was no music, no televisions, there was only that hum of conversation. There’s nothing nicer in the bar business than the hum of conversation with no background noise.”

Like leaving the house without your phone, a bar where the only source of amusement or distraction is a conversation with strangers might strike you as freeing or stressful. Either way, it’s a good place to hone your social skills. “We can tell you a lie and look you straight in the face, and you know that it’s a lie, and we know that you know we’re telling a yarn, but we continue on and it turns out to be a great story,” O’Connell says of Irish bargoers. “And, at the end, both people are laughing.” 

That culture of easygoing conviviality is part of what makes Irish bars so legendary worldwide. Another factor? The global proliferation of Irish—or “Irish”—pubs, as Pableaux Johnson explored in our March/April issue. In almost any major city, there are bars with shamrocks in their logos and Guinness signs in their windows. It’s not a coincidence. 

In 1990, a Dubliner named Mel McNally noticed how popular the local bars were with tourists and decided to prefabricate that environment and export it worldwide. He created the Irish Pub Company, which partnered with Guinness to open cookie-cutter Irish bars around the world. “Most of them have the same elements: dark wood paneling, a string music soundtrack, perhaps a Gaelic sign or a framed picture of James Joyce, and Guinness on tap,” Margaret Eby explains in Men’s Journal.

What you’re really after at an Irish bar is hospitality and warmth distilled to its essence.

These prefab pubs serve a purpose, but they’re facsimiles of the real thing. There’s no soul in a place without friendly conversation and discernible connection to the cultural talismans on display. It’s an ephemeral but unmistakable difference, Greene explains. “That’s what craic is about: The people are soulful, they have good hearts and good souls.” After all, any establishment can serve beer or cocktails. What you’re really after at an Irish bar is hospitality and warmth distilled to its essence.

During the pandemic shutdowns, “a lot of people built a bar on their lawn, and they never worked because it’s not a pub,” O’Connell says. “There’s not a smell of beer in the carpet, and the toilets work.” 

Craic is integral to Irish bar culture, but it has surprisingly little to do with drinking. “There’s a concept that Irish people are heavy drinkers… [but] the Irish people never drink at home, historically. All our drinking is out in public,” O’Connell says. It’s an inherently social approach to alcohol in general and bars in particular. “Why would you leave your house if you’re not going to have a bit of craic? You could look at a television. You could have a glass of wine at home every night, like the French or Italians.”

Greene agrees. The craic might be great when you have a drink in your hand, but “it’s not all about drinking and getting drunk, it’s about being there and being available for people. I think Irish people do that to a great extent.”

Besides, you don’t need to be Irish or in Ireland to find good craic, Greene insists. “The craic isn’t about the place. It’s about the people. You say, ‘Tell me about your week. Don’t tell me about your revenue streams.’”