Hanging With ... Fergal Murray
The Guiness brewmaster flies in from Dublin to tour local pubs and charm local women.
By Meredith Goldstein, Globe Staff | March 16, 2007
Three days before St. Patrick's Day, a mysterious man surrounded by attractive young women sits down at a table at Mr. Dooley's in the Financial District and waits for a beverage.
When it arrives, he examines it.
"The beer that has been presented has been excellent from a technical point of view. I'm delighted," says Fergal Murray, cq/smm the brewmaster at Guinness who was in town from Dublin to make a few promotional pub stops around Boston.
I am Murray's date for the next two hours, and I have already told him that I am not a Guinness drinker and actually prefer embarrassing cocktails like appletinis.
"She's going to be one of those challenges," Murray says to his pack of "Guinness girls," the young women in tight T-shirts who are being paid to hand out free samples of beer and shamrock necklaces. "But by the end of the night, she's going to become a Guinness adorer."
Murray shifts his focus to the brew.
"I've been drinking it with my eyes," Murray says, and then leans across the table somewhat seductively. "You can use the analogy of looking at a fantastic-looking guy -- or woman, from my point of view."
I blush.
He tells me, in a surprisingly sultry Irish brogue, that I shouldn't be intimidated by the thick stout in front of me.
"The color is only due to the roasted barley," he says. "The creamy head is just nitrogen bubbles, like a cappuccino. And you can probably drink that, right? There is no effervescent gas that's going to make you bloated."
Sexy.
He tells me to take a sip and gives me specific instructions: Point the glass toward the horizon; "Let the liquid flow under the head -- the nectar of the gods."
I try, but the nectar doesn't flow quite right, and I feel a foam mustache.
"You're not doing it with the confidence you could," he says. "You need to relax." For now, he says, I might be better off sipping a Smithwick's, a lighter Irish beer with more carbonation and calories.
"It's a right of passage," he tells me, patronizingly. "You have to mature."
By now, the patrons at Mr. Dooley's have caught on that a Guinness celebrity is in the bar. A pretty blonde named Robyn Fera, who works in advertising at WEEI, sits next to Murray for a picture. She asks him if he can make one of those shamrocks in the top of the foam on a Guinness pint.
"You probably invented the shamrock!" she says.They take a Polaroid together, and then Murray writes her a note on a paper picture frame.
"Hopefully, you'll like what I said about you," he says to her, slyly.
She opens the card and blushes.
Next up are three women from Detroit. Nikki Warner, 34, tells Murray they're in town for a spinal cord injury conference.
"My husband is a [rugby player] so he's a big fan of drinking," Warner says.
The three women pose with Murray, then Warner gets in close for one shot with the brewmaster alone.
"You're always surrounded by women," I say, secretly annoyed that Murray is no longer trying to get me to drink his nectar.
"Don't get too jealous," he says, and I shut up, embarrassed.
Kyra Baltsar, one of the Guinness girls, approaches him next. She is wide-eyed, blond, and wearing a blinking Guinness button. He whispers something in her ear.
"Does Guinness make beer that's vegetarian?" she asks, and I smirk because Murray will no doubt hate her for being so stupid and start loving me again.
"That's a vegan question," he says, impressed, explaining that Guinness has traces of some sort of fish product in it, so vegetarians can drink it, but vegans should stay away. After Baltsar leaves, Murray decides it's time to head to the Black Rose.
On the way, he promises he'll pour me a perfect pint, one that will convert me to Guinness forever. When we arrive, the bartenders quickly realize who Murray is and let us duck under the bar.
Murray takes a curvy glass and stares at it intently. He points it at a 45 degree angle under the tap, fills it with about 2 inches to spare, and places it on the bar to let liquid settle. Then he tops it off a bit so there's about an inch of head.
I drink with confidence, staring into Murray's bedroom eyes and wondering what it would be like to move to Dublin and run a beer factory.
Meredith Goldstein can be reached at mgoldstein@globe.com.
