"Ah, I blame your father." My mother would say. It is partially my father's fault that I feel at home in a bar. Some of my best memories are of my dad and I going to get a haircut up on 9th Avenue in Windsor Terrace. This was back in the day when they still used hot foam and a straight razor. Both of us, closely shorn, me with a lollipop in my mouth, would find our way into one of our neighborhood pubs.Early on a Saturday afternoon we'd walk into Rattigan's, Gerard's, The Terrace or more than likely Ulmer's. No matter the joint, my father knew everybody. I thought that was pretty cool. We'd walk in and my father would get a big hello from the bartender and the sprinkling of regulars at the bar. "Hey Jimmy howya doin'?" "Hey, Jimmy Spinner, cold Schaefer? If it was Ulmer's, Mary Quinn would usually be behind the bar. I always remembered Mary's name because it was the same as my Dad's mother. She'd place my dad's Schaefer on a coaster. Then she'd peer over the bar at me, "And is this Jimmy Jr. I see here? The little baseball player? We can't get your father to stop talking about you. What do you want young man?" Climbing onto the stool next to my Dad I know the routine. I order a Coke and Mary gives me a high ball glass with ice in it. After some conversation, Mary walks over with a marker (usually a coaster or an upside down shot glass) to say, "Next one's on Billy." And my father would raise his glass in Billy's direction and nod his head. When my Dad has some change on the bar he'll ask, "Hey Butch want to play a game?" Usually the choice would be pinball but in Ulmer's they had Flash Bowling with the heavy metal disk and the sawdust on the lanes. You know the game where the pins pop up into the machine? This was Nirvana for a kid. I had an endless supply of Cokes and quarters and the attention of all my father's friends. It felt like home.
So, it is my father's fault. I remember when my friends and I were just out of college. Flush with cash, we'd spend our weekends partying in Manhattan. Most 20 somethings would be going to "clubs." Sure my friends and I would occasionally go to Limelight or Palladium, but we all seemed to prefer a night at McAleer's, The Emerald Inn or Farrell's. I blame my father.
Considering it's St. Patrick's Day, as a tribute to my old man, (he passed in '85) I figured I'd give you the recipe for a good Irish-American Pub as my father taught it to me. Like a good drink, you have to have the right ingredients:
The bar itself has to be made of wood, marinated in spilled beer and whiskey, aged with the tears and laughter of past decades. You should be able to tell that someone loves this bar, that someone cares for this bar. More than likely it's a family place. Behind Farrell's there's an Eddie Farrell. At Peter McManus's (7th Avenue and 19th Street), there's a McManus family. Usually, if it's an old joint, the woodwork behind the bar is coordinated with the wood of the bar itself. The mirrors, the molding, and the wooden architecture around the bar were usually built by the same company. The name of the company, can usually be found on the center mirror behind the bar. At Boru's, here on West Main Street in Waterbury, Connecticut it says, Brunswick, 1934. Growing up Catholic, the bar and the church always seemed similar to me. In both places there's one person in charge. The decor is similar, the varnished wood of the pews and the bar. Both venues use dim lighting and hushed tones (sometimes). The stained glass of the church, always eerily similar to the colors of the liquor bottles reflecting off the bar mirror. Both places are steeped in their routines and customs.
Next add your Irish bartender. At Farrell's we had Eddie, and we had Houlie (pictured) , which if you're Irish you know is short for Houlihan. Farrell's always had a soft spot for civil servants too, mostly FDNY guys moonlighting. Guys like Vinny "the bartender" Brunton. Vinny bravely paid the ultimate price on 9/11. Happy St. Patrick's Day Vinny. Nowadays we have Duffy. It's been my experience that Irish bartenders come in two versions. You have your smiley, full of Blarney, happy go lucky bartender (Houlie). Or you have your surly, curmudgeon bartender, (Eddie). This guy acts like he's doing you a favor every time he sees you. It's really just his schtick but he's letting you know that it's his bar and you're on probation. It's a select few who are allowed into his "club" and the jury seems to be out on most patrons, especially you.
You also obviously have to have the right crowd. Looking back now, my Dad probably picked working class bars that tended to have more Met fans than Yankee fans. I can also see now, that the patrons of the bar were so happy to see my Dad because then they were not alone. It was their social outlet, their country club. There's a cameraderie in frequenting the same pub on a regular basis. You have to feel the crowd out, it might take a few trips and multiple conversations to figure out if it's the right place for you.
A little lower down on this list of ingredients is music. Tunes are important but not crucial. For years Farrell's had no music and we didn't even notice. You're there to lubricate the vocal chords for conversation. But over the last few years, in a nod to the more refined crowd encroaching from Park Slope, even Farrell's has added music. More than likely it's the music's volume that's the key; and most bartenders will work with the crowd. If music is key for you then it used to really matter if a bar had a good jukebox. Nowadays, with computers and cd's, the volume of choices available make this a non-issue. As long as the patrons play the right tunes, you're in for a good night.
Connected to music on the entertainment spectrum would be sports. This is probably, in an Irish-American bar, a little more important than music. For me, and I hate to say this, but if it's a sports-oriented bar, it's probably going to be frequented by guys I might actually like to have a beer with. So, sports and tv for my friends and I, pretty important.
So there you have it. A simple recipe for an Irish-American pub as gleaned from my father. This might help you find a place to unwind with a frosted mug and a few friends. I hope I wet your whistle for tomorrow. Unfortunately, my wife is working the evening shift Tuesday, so I'll have to be with you in spirit. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
P.S. If you want to read a good book, look for a book by Gwendolyn Bounds called
Little Chapel on the River: A Pub, a Town and the Search for What Matters Most
