A Beer-Riddled Dive Bar Food Crawl Through Los Angeles’s San Fernando Valley

We headed west to Valley Glen, a sleepy neighborhood just west of North Hollywood, landing at Ireland’s 32, a Valley institution since 1963, its name a reference to the number of counties in Ireland. This is the Irish pub that all other Irish pubs aspire to be — a genuine locals scene, far away from a college town, and packed with patrons of all stripes. There only seemed to be one bartender and another guy working in the back. To be honest, I don’t know how they pulled it off, but our bartender was friendly and efficient, pouring drinks and taking food orders at the same time; every other person seemed to be waiting for the Blue Ramblers to take the stage. How did the cook in the back know who to run food to? I have no clue. The workers were deep in the weeds, but no one seemed to mind. Once the Ramblers took the stage, we saw women in their 20s dancing next to foot-tapping septuagenarians. We drank black-and-tans while waiting for our food, only feeling hurried because we wanted to see how many more bars we could hit before all of their kitchens closed.

When the food did come, it was some of the best pub grub I’ve encountered in Los Angeles, highlighted by a dark, crisp, and airy batter that surrounded the deep-fried pickle spears as well as the cod on the fish-and-chips plate. Frankly, they were both lovely. The chips, which looked like the kind of overly browned and soggy potato wedges I typically hate, were even better, crisp and fluffy. I wanted to order one “weird” thing, but my friends all shouted “No” when I suggested the salmon and rice plate (too much of a ’90s lunch plate for an Irish pub, maybe?). I opted instead for potato balls, a breaded sphere of bacon-and-cheese-filled mashed potatoes, deep-fried and covered in a creamy chipotle sauce. It was significantly more satisfying than it needed to be, and, in retrospect, may be the perfect fusion of Irish-Los Angeles bar food. We were stunned by how well the stop turned out, just before our delightful bartender covertly dropped four glasses of “dessert” Bailey’s-and-whiskey shooters, and thanked us for waiting. It was already nearly 10 p.m., and honestly a shame to have to leave.

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