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Business & Tech

A Pub Where Everyone Knows Your Name

Meyer's Country Cottage and Irish Pub offers the most unexpectedly authentic Irish pub atmosphere in the area, though not for the reasons you expect.

Sometimes dining out is more adventurous than expected. As someone who has spent some time in Ireland, I can honestly say I stumbled across a stunningly authentic Irish pub in Florissant's neighbor of Black Jack.

Erase any notions you have of Llywellyn’s or Scottish Arms. The food might be good, but the atmosphere is more like Ireland via Disney. There’s nothing sanitized about Meyer’s Country Cottage and Irish Pub, 4960 Parker Rd. Put on your big boy pants, and get ready for an afternoon of adventure.

From the outside, looks like an old farmhouse that organically grew as the owners had money to add on a room at a time.

Throughout time, it transformed into a sprawling collection of rooms with ivy crawling up whitewashed walls. The lovely wrought iron and stone outdoor patio area takes full advantage of the architecture to create an illusion of semi-privacy amongst tables that are closer together than you think.

Just like an authentic pub in Ireland, the room was full of colorful people drinking their lunch. Because I wandered in alone, the waitress naturally assumed I wanted someone to talk to and sat me at the bar.

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To my left, a pair of drunk men argued about how to build a survival bunker for the fall of civilization. To my right, a man my grandfather’s age promised he could show me the best time of my life on his boat.

My fish and chips order set off a barwide debate on the best kind of fish and how to prepare it. In fact, they booed me when I went for fried instead of blackened.

On one hand, this is not a bar for people with refined ears. My dad was a sailor, and even I was surprised by the sheer volume of salty language.

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If you can’t handle an f-bomb in every sentence and plenty of references to special interactions between moms, dogs and deities, you’re in for a miserable time. On the other hand, if you’re lonely, this bar is a blessing.

People will talk to you. They will joke with you. They’ll debate everything from politics, to construction techniques, to favorite fish with you. It’s the kind of bar where, even if you’ve walked in for the first time, no one is a stranger. The casual language and the casual conversation powerfully combined to make it feel like the Irish pubs I loved in Dublin.

I found Meyer’s on Patch, while searching for an Irish pub in the area. It offers a good assortment of fried appetizers and standard sandwiches, though there are a few surprised on the menu, such as the fried brains.

To be honest, I was tempted by the ample variations of grown-up grilled cheese sandwiches. You could choose from three kinds of bread, four kinds of cheese (including Provel), plus the addition of bacon or mustard.

At $4, that would be a bargain for a Welsh Rarebit. However, I came in craving fish and chips, quintessential Irish pub food.

Fish and chips here meant potato chips instead of British-style plank fries. Llywellyn’s does the same thing.

I wasn't thrilled with Llywellyn’s potato chips, but the ones at Meyer’s were surprisingly good. Light, golden brown, well drained, wafers of skin-on potato came sprinkled with a mild but zippy Cajun seasoning. Mine came fresh, still warm from the deep fryer and practically melted in my mouth.

My fried fish came with more heartfelt woe from the men sitting next to me at the bar. It was vitally important that I understand the fried fish wasn’t anywhere near as good as the Cajun-style fish. To prove it, three of them offered me beers.

I politely declined and tried to get them into the now spirited discussion about building an underground survival bunker, while I dug into my two massive fried filets.

The light, well-drained fish was battered in a crispy mix of cornmeal and flour with a nice hint of black pepper in the background. The guys might like the Cajun more, but I had no complaints about the traditional fish fry.

They served the fish on two thick slices of hearty, multigrain bread with a side of sliced pickles, sliced onions and a tub of tartar sauce. If I didn't mind it spilling out of the sides, this would've made a great, oversized sandwich wider than both my hands put together.

With this crowd, no one would've minded if pickles and tartar sauce dribbled down my arms, but I decided to eat it as a platter.

I’m pleased to say if you’re in the mood for a good fried fish sandwich with homemade potato chips and a beer or three,  you'll do well here.

I’m going to give Meyer’s the benefit of the doubt here. I won’t be at all surprised if they have totally different crowds for lunch at the bar versus dinner on weekends.

The beautiful, spacious, well kept patio suggests a different crowd enjoys dining under the stars. White cloth napkins and fake flowers on the tables in the allegedly haunted, historic log cabin room suggest the restaurant occasionally expects a more refined crowd.

For lunch, I give Meyer’s a B. Everyone was comfortable. No one was self conscious about language, talking to strangers or topics of conversation.

My food came out incredibly fast, my iced tea never ran dry, and while the language was saucy, everyone was incredibly friendly. I wouldn't recommend bringing your grandmother--unless she was in the Navy--but if you’re depressed by the prospect of reheating another microwave dinner alone, be brave and give Meyer’s a try. The worst that can happen is you get a good story out of it.

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