I first moved to South America 10 years ago. I moved around before settling in Lima. Having also lived in Arequipa and Bogota, I’ve seen models in the tourism and expat businesses which work throughout Latin America. And having a strong background in bars and restaurants from the States, I consider myself an amateur expert on hospitality.

Every city has a place where Americans watch the Super Bowl, World Series, etc. They also have bars where the English, Scottish, Irish and Welsh watch Premier League soccer, rugby and more while drinking British-style ales and eating their own foods.

That place in Lima used to be Houlihan’s in Miraflores, according to my Irish friend Barry. In fact, he and our English friend Phil invited me to watch the Champion’s League Final at Houlihan’s last Saturday. I was excited to see the place.

They made a fuss about getting there early to get a table. Phil is actually from Liverpool so watching the game was his top priority. As it turned out, I was the first one ready Saturday morning and I called Houlihan’s to reserve a table.

The woman who answered explained there was a 60-soles minimum spend per person, and she’d send me a text message with the bank account info where I could make a deposit, and then she would send me a floor plan to choose which table I wanted. All this at 10:30 a.m., just a couple hours before kickoff.

I asked her if it was so crowded in the bar already that I should go to the bank first and make a deposit, to which she didn’t know because she worked in the management office which is off site. I told her I’d just go to the bar immediately and sort it out there.

I raced down to Miraflores and into Houlihan’s to find the chairs still on top of the tables, pushed up against the big-screen television, which was turned off. All the televisions were turned off, and the cleaning lady was mopping the floor. There wasn’t one customer in the bar. And not one gringo working. I felt a little relief that we would at least get a table.

I approach the barman to explain that I called to ask how to get a table, but it seems like I got here early enough that it won’t be a problem. So how about a beer?

The bartender told me they were closed. They open at 12 p.m., and it was only 11 a.m. There was a big cooler full of Budweiser and Corona just beside him (nothing wrong with either brand for me, I even worked for Anheuser-Busch for two years). I told him I’d leave my carnet, open a tab, charge my card now, whatever I had to do. Just give me a beer to drink. But he would not give me a beer.

I pondered how I raced to the bar with no breakfast to get a table, and I don’t even care about soccer, but now I’d have to go somewhere else for an hour, when a big gringo came in and asked the bartender for napkins or some other bar/restaurant supplies. He was six feet tall and 200 pounds of muscle, with a little amber in his hair. Not a ginger, but some ginger blood.

So I asked him, what’s the story? You living here? You watching the game? His name was Noel, and he told me he’s a manager at Molly’s Irish Bar down the street. I had heard of this place. In fact I met one of the owners, Barry (not my Irish friend but a different Irish Barry in Lima), at a barbecue a few weeks ago. I told Noel I know his partner, and I’d like to tag along and check the place out.

Molly’s Irish Bar and Restaurant

Noel escorted me one block down Calle Berlin to Molly’s, where I found a raging daytime drunkfest in action. People have beers all over the place, not just bottles but pints too, being noisy, eating English Irish Breakfasts. TV screens are showing soccer and previewing the match. There are even a group of Scots wearing kilts. Later I learned they’re in town for the friendly against Peru.

Noel brought me to the bar, where Barry is surprised to see me. He poured me a pint of the red ale and showed me around. The place was busy so he had to get back to work, but he sat me down at a table five yards from the biggest television in the place and ordered me an English Irish Breakfast, a dish I had repeatedly ridiculed when we met at the barbecue.

I made the executive decision right then that we would watch the game at Molly’s. I texted Barry and Phil that I had a table and there would be no argument.

This has been a long preface to what should be a standard Lima bar review. I don’t want to disparage Houlihan’s. In fact I had a look passing that evening and saw a full patio of lovely looking people drinking from wine glasses and whatnot. But it is not the pub for tourists and expats from the British Isles looking to have a pint with their countrymen.

It used to be that place, which is how Barry and Phil knew it. But they have each been in Lima for many years and live with families far from Miraflores. They only hit the gringo bars once or twice a year, so they aren’t up to the minute when things change. And this illustrates another quirk of hospitality I’ve seen in Latin America.

Many of these gringo bars are opened by expats from the United States, United Kingdom or Ireland, to great fanfare and become the place to get together with your fellow gringos. But after sustained success those expat owners accumulate enough money to see themselves out of daily operations. They hire Peruvian managers and that inevitably leads to Peruvian service.

Not to knock Peruvian service either, it can be great sometimes. But regardless of whether they serve Guinness, just tell an Englishman of Irish extract from Liverpool that he can’t have a beer at 11 a.m. on game day. Enough said. Houlihan’s is out. Molly’s is in.

That expat knowledge on the ground is important to know what matches to show, and to let the tourists know.

There’s Noel on the right having a beer with his expat mates, one of whom is having an English Irish Breakfast.

I had disparaged English Irish Breakfasts for years, but I had never had one. This converted me. I no longer believe these are mostly unavailable in the United States because they’re no good, but because my fellow Americans are an insular breed not open to new things. Especially black pudding. I developed the taste for morcilla (“relleno” in Peru) in Latin America, and there is no going back.

I told Barry I would learn how to make one, and I will.

Molly’s has a brewmaster who brews their house ales. I drank the red ale all day, but I also tasted a nice black IPA.

The bar ultimately filled to the point of bursting, standing room only. Everybody was cheering for English team Liverpool to beat Real Madrid, which didn’t happen. But I captured the moment when Liverpool tied the match 1-1.

Long after the match when everybody was drunk I had to introduce myself to this guy. He was there drinking before I arrived. He wore a kilt and pulled-up socks with one of those Scottish hats, along with a t-shirt featuring the pro boxer from his gym, promo outfit or maybe just his hometown of Edinburgh. I didn’t get the story because I couldn’t understand a word he said. But he had a good bit of muscle on him. You partying English teachers don’t want to let his white hair fool you. He might knock you out!

You may believe I published this nice article about Molly’s because I’m friends with the owner, so I’ll include one sharp criticism of the place that I didn’t have the heart to tell him in person. The American appetizers I had were dreadful. I couldn’t eat the wings. They shouldn’t be dubbed “Buffalo wings” because the sauce contained neither Louisiana hot sauce nor butter, so nothing Buffalo about them. I would rewrite the menu to describe them as “Twice the breading as Hooter’s wings in a spicy non-Buffalo sauce.”

So I’m working with Barry on the American food. Until further notice, stick to that lovely English Irish Breakfast 🙂

Location and info

Molly’s Irish Bar and Restaurant
Calle Berlin 172, Miraflores
Hours: 9 a.m. to 3 a.m.
Phone: 945 321 332

Pictures and video

Above is from the friendly in which Peru defeated Scotland 2-0. Below are my pics of the space. Click to enlarge.