United Nations of Beer

Luckeys Club, Eugene, Oregon

by Travis Edwards
(Beer Delegate, DC, USA)

Luckey's Club
Eugene, Oregon, USA

My shoes, which are a decent pair meant for running, have managed to avoid sticking to most surfaces I have encountered, but could not escape the bizarrely strong force drawing them to the ground at Luckey's Club, Eugene, Oregon (yes, there is an extra 'e' in there).

This normally wouldn't be a problem because, hey, people spill stuff, but I'm confident that I could have continued walking right up the wall and onto the ceiling without any problem.

If Luckey's problem stopped at a lack of consideration for cleanliness, there might be time to appreciate the Irish theme, which was clearly thought of, but was abandoned before the actual execution.

The shamrock above the bar stood by its lonely self, and the bits of green paint on the giant sign boasting that they knew how to spell "Luckey's" didn't exactly make me feel like I was in Ireland. There was some dark wood on the bar, too. I don't know if dark wood is Irish, but they have to be given the benefit of the doubt on something.

Perhaps most startling is that out of eight beers on tap, Guinness was apparently not on their agenda.

As I stared at the unflinching bartender, my eyes could not help but to drift to the neon Guinness sign just above his head, then to the shamrock above the bar, which made me feel that subtle pang in my chest on par with opening up birthday card as a kid that has a check for five cents in it.


You can't be mad because you're getting something, but there's that incessant despondency for knowing that it could have actually been something more worthwhile.

As a local band that looked like their parents drove them, who evidently relied on volume over quality began to warm up, I quickly ordered a Black Butte Porter, the only microbrew on tap and the only beer without a dreary Lite alternative.

The band hit their first cord, causing little to no reaction from the four glazed locals at the bar who would bring in cots and sleep if the bar was open twenty-four hours a day.

I tried to strike up conversation, but the bartender shunned me for requesting something as outlandish as a Guinness in an Irish bar, and the locals were concentrated on drinking their screwdrivers and whiskies to look up from the dark pseudo-Irish wood on the bar.

The porter found a nice home in my stomach, and the bartender found himself a nice dollar tip for managing to avoid doing anything at all in the five minutes it took me to drink the beer.

Not quite ready for another encounter with the ornery bartender, conversation with the locals or an encore from the thirteen-year-olds on stage, I went to 7-11, bought three six-packs of Guinness, went home and watched Waking Ned Devine four times.