Mulligans

It’s called Mulligan’s. You know the place. In fact, you’ve probably been past it about a million times. Well, in the spirit of discovery and for a love of all things potato, we went inside. And saw a psychic. And ate an almost entirely spud-based dinner. Mulligan’s, for those who haven’t been stuck in a traffic jam on Cleveland Street, is a restaurant devoted to all things Irish. The windows and stained glass are imported from Cork, there’s a bodhrán on the wall just crying for a session of diddly-diddly and fiddle-dee-dee, there are pinned football jerseys aplenty and what looks like a set of farming tools (for picking potatoes?). Between courses of boxty pancakes (a sort of shredded potato fritter laced with bacon bits and doused in apple sauce) and a rustic shepherd’s pie of shredded lamb shank covered in cheesy mashed potato, we go upstairs for some time with the Mulligan’s resident psychics. A cool $20 buys you 
15 minutes with your choice of two tarot readers and one lady who reads the Irish stones. The psychics may not be quite as magical as they claim: that, or our late father can’t remember when he died, how many kids he had, or when he got married. Still, it’s an entertaining piece of cold reading theatre. And hey – potatoes!