McGettigan's D9

You'll find this spot tucked away in Whitehall, where the GAA jerseys outnumber the hipster beards and nobody's pretending to be anything they're not. The screens are massive, the crowd knows when to cheer, and the Sunday roast actually tastes like your ma made it – assuming she could cook, which mine couldn't. The weekday closure might seem odd until you realise this place comes alive when there's sport on or when the weekend crowd rolls in looking for somewhere that doesn't charge Temple Bar prices. The staff pour a proper pint and won't judge you for ordering chips at half-three on a Saturday. It's the kind of local that every neighbourhood should have but most don't bother with anymore.