The idea of drinking in an Irish pub only appeals to me in the context of actually being in Ireland in the mid-'70s, sitting in some damp, stone-walled establishment, watching regulars argue about the wrongful imprisonment of the Guildford Four or the merits and dangers of the IRA. But perhaps I've just watched In the Name of the Father too many times, so I head to Kells in the Pike Place Market with an open mind. At this early hour, the sparse crowd consists primarily of rather desperate-looking single guys, gathered around the bar, periodically shouting toward each other and steadily swiveling their white-collared necks around in search of single females. My party grabs a lacquered wood table in the middle of the nearly empty back room, noting the proudly displayed jerseys for the Celtic and Irish soccer teams and the perplexing presence of a woman in a sombrero sitting silently next to us (her costumed coworkers arrive shortly, clearing up that mystery). I head to the bar, where I'm unceremoniously cut off by a couple of women. With time to kill, I observe a fuzzy, poodle-like dog sitting at my feet, a gregarious creature who will eventually be seen patrolling the perimeter of the bar wearing a cowboy hat ("He's Irish," the dog's owner assures me). Returning to the table, I get an education from my friend Greg in the religious affiliations of various Irish whiskies ("Bushmills is Protestant, Jameson is Catholic") and an explanation of the evolving profile of Kell's patrons from our waitress. "At happy hour, it's guys like this," she says, gesturing to the white-collars, "but by the end of the night, it's just people who are ready to get really wasted." HANNAH LEVIN

Every week the name of a club, a day of the week, and a time are pulled at random from a dirty sock. Hannah Levin reports back on what she finds at that date, place, and time.