Delaney's Smithfield

You'll find yourself in one of those rare Dublin pubs that hasn't been gutted and redecorated for the Instagram generation. The wooden floors creak in all the right places, and the regulars at the bar look like they've been nursing the same pint since the Celtic Tiger was a cub. The Sunday roast here is genuinely brilliant – proper beef that falls apart at the sight of your fork, Yorkshire puddings that could double as small boats, and gravy that's clearly been simmering since Thursday. The weekday crowd skews young thanks to the nearby college campuses, but come weekend and you'll see three generations of the same families squeezed around corner tables. It's the sort of place where you pop in for one and emerge three hours later wondering where the evening went. The pints are well-kept, the prices won't have you remortgaging, and the barstaff actually remember your order.