July 2003
Dining at the King's Inns
by Sally Gustafson Garratt
Nolumus Mutari, the carving reads above the huge stone fireplace that stands midway in the dining hall of the King's Inns. The crown and trumpets covered by an open book indicate the seriousness of the words. They mean, "We will never change," Helen translates, although the small red card on the hearth, which warns, "This is a gas fire. Do not dispose of paper or other refuse," indicates that perhaps some changes might be necessary.
Helen Bradford, a stylish, but proper, barrister "of a certain age," had invited us to dinner on guest night at the King's Inns, a late-18th-century stone monument just north of the Liffey in Dublin. Designed by James Gandon, the architect who placed his mark on the Dublin landscape by designing the Customs House and the Four Courts, the King's Inns rises slightly above the North Dublin slums and tenements in stately grandeur, its black wrought-iron gates, neoclassical columns, and domed cupola proclaiming that this is an important place where barristers are trained, keep company, and, during the "dining sessions," eat dinner.
Helen's invitation included pre-dinner drinks, and, because dinner would begin precisely at 6:30, we were to arrive at 6:00. Crawling into the taxi at 5:45 at our south Dublin home, we knew it would be close, especially when we recognized the driver, an older gentleman who had driven us in the past. He never appeared to be quite awake, and had a driving style to match his manner. Rush hour in Dublin is horrid, mass transit never having established much of a foothold in Ireland, so we expected the worst.
Our driver politely asked our destination and sounded confused when we mentioned the King's Inns. "Now would that be a public house?" he asked. Obviously he didn't associate with barristers much.
Ireland follows the British system that separates the legal community into barristers and solicitors. Solicitors form law firms, handle clients, advise on business matters, and draw up legal papers, but rarely appear in court. Barristers have no offices, no law partners, and no clients, other than solicitors. They pay for a small space in the Law Library, from which they prepare cases for court. Assisted by a "devil," an aspiring barrister in his or her first year of practice, they work alone, the often flamboyant superstars of the Irish legal system.
The path leading to the courtroom in Ireland is different from what we in the United States know. Students entering college study law during what would be our undergraduate years. After successfully completing a three- or four-year program, a student with a "law" degree chooses either to pursue a career as a solicitor, studying for three years with the Law Society, or to enter the King's Inns and, after two years and a term working for free as a devil, become a barrister.
Although the King's Inns has a director and staff, the faculty are all practicing barristers. Since I have some teaching background and was keen on making contact with Dublin's legal community, I volunteered to teach trial practice during our year in Dublin, but was politely refused. "We allowed for a visiting lecturer once," the director confided, "but we won't do that again." It seems that, unknown to the director, the visitor was a renowned criminal and con man who proceeded to use his status as a "visiting professor" of the King's Inns to enhance his résumé. I couldn't help but wonder if the students he taught were the same people involved in the many tribunals now investigating corruption in the Irish government.
After a leisurely tour across town and through the side streets of North Dublin, our taxi pulled into Henrietta Street and deposited us at the imposing entrance to the King's Inns—only five minutes late. One of the few remaining Georgian streets in Dublin, the drive up the cobblestones of Henrietta, amid the elegant decay of stately red brick townhouses, many dating from 1720, prepared us for the graceful archway entrance to the King's Inns.
Helen greeted us at the door, looking like a well-dressed rook in her flapping black robe, a requirement for all barristers at dinner. Immediately, I knew that my husband, a lapsed Catholic who finds the Church uninteresting without the Latin mass, would be fascinated. Helen began to explain the rituals we would be required to observe. We would walk in and stand at our table, with Helen, our host, seated closest to the front of the room. Bow to the "Benchers" (elected senior barristers and those lucky enough to be chosen as judges) when they arrive and are seated at a separate table in front. Do not leave the room until the conclusion of the meal, even for "emergencies"—so go now if you think you might need to. And, of course, no loud or unruly behavior.
She explained that there would be few guests on this cold January day, but most of the diners would be students, who are required to attend 20 dinners before graduating, the original thought being that students would dine with experienced barristers, learning the trade from their conversations. Of course, no barrister would be caught dead dining with a student, and conversation between them is nonexistent. But it seemed a good idea.
After a glass of average Chilean cabernet in a small anteroom furnished with solid-oak sideboards, large overstuffed chairs, and ornate gold-framed mirrors, we headed up the stairs to the dining hall. The dinner gong rang, a deep bass knell in the cavernous hall.
Nearly 40 yards long, the dining hall is a glorious commemoration of history, status, and formality. The ceiling reaches up three stories and holds enormous chandeliers, not ornate in the Victorian style, but, rather, stately brass fixtures suggesting weighty concerns. The walls, newly painted a lovely pale green, hold paintings of former chief justices, resplendent in their multicolored robes and long wigs. The paintings, 20 or so to each long wall, some as large as a car, dominate the room, the judges sternly observing this room half full with diners. The huge stone fireplaces blaze from each long wall with an even larger fire burning on the front wall just below the picture of The Right Honorable Lord Manners, 1807-1827, the obvious choice for a prominent position, reminding us to behave ours.
We stand behind our appointed chairs. The Benchers arrive. We bow. "Benidictu benidictus." The liveried headwaiter intones the blessing. My husband beams. Dinner is served.
Sally Gustafson Garratt has practiced law in the Seattle area for over 25 years. She is a former assistant U.S. attorney and was division chief of the Consumer Protection Division of the Attorney General's Office. She is currently living in Dublin for a year while her husband completes a book on contemporary Irish fiction. She can be reached at sorchareed@yahoo.com.
Back to table of contents >>
