They say that Dublin is the City of Literature and I have to agree. It may not be W.B, Yeats or Seamus Heaney but this once fine public house is an unsung wordsmith, conjuring a poetic language of its own as it self edits into oblivion. Will you be having a jar at the St. Ja? Tis the patron saint of jars and the finest purveyors of fine W’s this side of the River Liffey. And me Darlin, says I, I don’t mind if I do.