Anti-social behaviour on Moore and Drury Street: Can a market help revitalize these spaces?
I lock my bike to a post next to the Penny's on Connell Street. I walk through pigeons pecking at crumbs scattered along the pavement. A homeless man ahead asks for a few coins. I make my way through a half-abandoned corridor, with only a handful of shops open: an optician, a Tiger, and a small Filipino grocery. Exiting the corridor, I dodge the crowds rushing along Henry Street. My sixth sense—somewhat sharpened as a defense mechanism on the streets of a Third World Country I come from, warns me that a crowded space means: watch your phone, your wallet, and anything of value.
Some say Moore Street has lost the charm it once held. Crime, addiction, scams, and gangs are part of the daily landscape. And yet, when I walk along this street, despite the warnings of some Dubliners, it feels familiar. Moore Street transports me back home, to a street in the center of Mexico City where chaos and harmony reign simultaneously.
The streets of Mexico City on any day, at any time.
For the nostalgic souls, Moore Street’s golden age was in the 1970s and 80s, when Dubliners came to buy their fruits and vegetables, their meats, fish, and other staples. If we go even further back, a battle took place here during the 1916 Easter Rising. Even in the early 21st century, the renowned chef and food critic Anthony Bourdain walked these same streets during a visit to Ireland, where fruit stalls—still standing today—have held on, despite the government’s lack of interest in maintaining them, unlike other streets and neighborhoods deemed economically valuable. FX Buckley is one of the few businesses that has survived since the 1930s, but there’s little left of that golden era, now transformed by decades of migration. In the past twenty years, Moore Street has undergone a metamorphosis of customs, nationalities, and habits that, through some miracle, continue to coexist.
For some writers, like Mattia Del Conero (ResetDOC), Moore Street has experienced a revolution: not only do the fruit vendors survive, but new shops have emerged, run by Chinese, Polish, Indian, Roma, and Nigerian proprietors. Until recently, a popular Brazilian-influenced restaurant called Tucano also thrived here. The variety of goods has expanded, on Moore Street, anything can be sold. Phones, makeup, flowers, spices, crafts, vapes, and, if you ask around, tobacco and marihuana (or so the word on the street goes).
But for others, like Stephen Sutton, seeing what has become of his beloved Moore Street is nothing short of heartbreaking, for him and for many proud Dubliners. In his view, the street has lost its identity, largely due to the influx of ethnic food shops, African hair salons, and the gypsies begging outside Ilac Centre. To him, this is the worst multiculturalism has to offer. Am I, then, part of this downfall? If, for Stephen, there is a worst side to multiculturalism, does that mean there is a good immigrant? Is the well-behaved immigrant the one who follows the rules, blends in, and contributes quietly to society?
Midway down the street, teenagers gather with scooters and Trek bikes in front of a vape shop. A woman in her seventies, sitting on a plastic chair that looks about to give way, shouts at me: “My love, avocados for 50 cents!” I approach the crate of avocados, and as I touch one to check its ripeness, she grabs my hand and assures me she picks them herself. She gives me four for a euro—a bargain, it seems. But later, as I inspect them, I find two are mushy and likely spoiled.
Still, I’m on Moore Street today for a specific reason: to buy some items at Oriental Pantry—a seemingly simple task. I navigate past a group of kids eating on the sidewalk and tossing leftover food at passersby. A group of men stands outside Polonez, drinking the cheapest beer from the store. In mid-September 2024, news broke that the Hammerson group was granted approval to develop the area from O’Connell Street through Moore Street. The historical buildings tied to the 1916 Rising would not be demolished but restored, used as magnets to attract tourism and revitalize the area. Non-profit groups like Save Moore Street from Demolition have long fought for the preservation of both the market and its historic buildings. Still, it seems Hammerson’s “master plan” will eventually go ahead—not only to rebuild, but to carry out a kind of “cleansing” of marginalized groups, dismissed by the state and certain segments of society.
Oriental Pantry has a wide section of Mexican products.
Oriental Pantry deserves recognition as a crucial piece of Moore Street’s recent history—a vital artery keeping this street alive. It could be considered a miniature central supply hub where both individuals and small businesses stock up on goods hard to find in regular supermarkets. Each aisle, each shelf holds products from across the globe. I head straight to the Mexican section, and one of the workers recognizes me, greeting me with a warm “Hola,¿ cómo estás, güerito?” He shares the good news: this week, they received chile morita and corn husks for tamales. Toward the back, there are Brazilian products, Indian and Pakistani spices. There’s also a section for fresh meat and seafood. Oysters are a euro each. In high season, they even sell lobsters—once known as poor man’s food.
As I leave the store, I wonder if, in a few years, Moore Street as we know it will cease to exist. I worry that this “third-world essence” will be lost: an environment full of spontaneous moments, a mosaic of human dramas and interactions happening all at once. The Moore Street market is vital—an ephemeral city within the city. The fruit and food stalls lining the street don’t just offer products; they facilitate an exchange of knowledge, gossip, and culture between merchants and customers. In this way, commerce reclaims public space and reorganizes the urban rhythm of the street.
According to some recent news, commerce has been affected on sunny days, and there has also been evidence of anti-social behaviour.
This phenomenon is well-documented in Mexico, where the appropriation of public space reactivates social dynamics in urban areas. In recent decades, the real estate mafia and corporations have taken over entire neighborhoods in Mexico City. Markets are one of the few self-managed systems that continue to resist. In recent weeks, Dublin has been basking in an almost tropical climate, and streets have become the stage for a new kind of social life. Drury Street is one such example, where young people gather in groups, buying beers or wine and dancing late into the night. There is a conservative view that this behavior needs to be regulated, contained, policed by the Garda and reinforced through guilt and “proper values.” Interviews have surfaced lamenting the mess left behind: broken bottles, cigarette butts, vomit. Local businesses have also suffered when temperatures exceed 16 degrees Celsius, since this means an afternoon of low sales and trash scattered all over the trendy street.
For better or worse, I spent two years working in a shop on Drury Street. On some days, I had to clean the sidewalk early in the morning, yes, it was dirty.. But that was a walk in the park compared to my days as a kitchen porter, cleaning up after a chef who prioritized efficiency over hygiene.Dublin City Council must develop strategies to protect and enhance public spaces with urban policies that make the city more welcoming to pedestrians and communities seeking alternative ways to gather. A key part of this shift is enabling forms of coexistence that go beyond alcohol. This is where emerging systems—like the street markets of the Global South—can offer valuable insight. In Mexico and other parts of Latin America, itinerant markets, or tianguis, serve as mediators between public and private space.
Moore Street has long embodied this urban expression, but its neglect calls for urgent attention. It could be rejuvenated by rethinking the role of the street vendor, or serve as a model to reorganize other pedestrian-focused areas. Imagine a small Sunday market on Drury Street selling fruits, vegetables, flowers, and, of course, street food from local entrepreneurs. I sometimes fantasize about setting up a taco stand on that corner—five tacos for €10, a speaker blasting salsa and cumbia. If I’m lucky, a few people might dance before the Garda shows up to escort me to the station for questioning over my “illicit” activities. This kind of third-world proposal might be just what Dublin society needs—a city yearning for new forms of social life, beyond pubs and overpriced tapas paired with a Hugo Spritz.
This would be the example of my basket taco stand. All I need is a vintage bicycle and a basket on the back to keep the tacos warm.