When you get to Whelan's Gate, march right upstairs, ignore the hulking centipede lurching its way across the pub walls (no joke - the centipede I saw was two inches long) and head straight to the garden patio.
It's a bit of a find, really, and you have to know it's there, but that's a good thing. It's completely secluded, dimly lit and has beautiful shrubbery, a rock garden and wooden bench seating that lines the entire perimeter of the patio.
The other floors are more forgettable - the first is usually filled with fairly standard pub/bar clientele and they're a tame bunch, but head to the second floor and all hell breaks loose. There was a dude on guitar alternating between Violent Femmes covers and Irish drinking songs, groups of inebriated girls doing their best Riverdance impersonations and others drinking beer out of enormous Medieval Times-branded chalices.
Service is a bit spotty. It was impossible to find someone to serve us at 11pm on a Friday - as in, there was no bartender present and we had to hunt one down.