I recognize that many, or maybe most, Irish-born people would consider me what is unkindly referred to as a
"plastic Paddy." I am an Irish citizen born outside Ireland, often wear an Ireland sweatshirt (mostly because I like the way it fits), own a
Claddagh ring, and cry at
Eva Cassidy's rendition of "Danny Boy." For most of my life I completely distanced myself from being Irish-American, because I was appalled at St. Patrick's Day celebrations and twinkly-eyed Irishmen like
Captain Jack McCarthy and cheesy Irish Spring commercials. I wouldn't even eat Lucky Charms because of the leprechauns. I thought to embrace my Irish heritage would mean drinking green beer and getting wasted and listening to
"Whiskey in the Jar" until I puked (which is a short distance for me). It's the same feeling I had when I suspected I was gay. If I came out, I thought I would have to wear caftans, affect a lisp, and learn every showtune ever recorded.
I'm still fully aware that I'm American, though I'm not always proud to be so. I'm late in coming to an appreciation of my heritage, much like
Frank Gannon, author of Mid-Life Irish. I do not have misty romantic notions of The Emerald Isle or wistfully long for a peat fire in a stone cottage on Galway Bay. I am genuinely interested in my Irish roots, and through my very short and eye-opening odyssey, I have gained an appreciation for what my ancestors must have experienced so that I could have a better life in this generation. It's like Joan Cusack said in
Working Girl: "Sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn't make me Madonna."
In that light, I had what my friend Andrea would call an "extra-Irish" weekend. On Friday night we drove to Old Bridge, New Jersey, to attend my cousin John's surprise 40th birthday party. The party was held at a lodge called the
Order of the Friendly Sons of the Shillelagh, an altar to plastic paddiness if ever there was one. The sons are friendly because they drink. But beware the shillelagh: it doubles as a walking stick and a cudgel, especially after a few pints.
The lodge is not that different from the Water Buffaloes Lodge in
The Flintstones. It's a simple concrete building, with an Irish flag flying outside. Outside, basketball hoops are mounted on poles painted with the Irish flag. Inside there are two rooms. The left side is the members' bar, which is wood paneled and has a big-screen TV. The right-hand side is the party room, which is wood paneled and has a 12-foot-high, hand-painted, wooden map of Ireland mounted on the wall. Between the two rooms is a common restroom, which has several urinals and a toilet flapping about in the middle of the room. You'd have to be un-self-conscious or desperate to use it for sitting.
On the map in the party room each of the 32 counties is represented, showing the predominant surnames in each. At various points during the night people kept dragging me over to the wall to show me they found the O'Leary family in Cork.
During the party my friends John and Laura asked me about my trip to Ireland. The map came in handy. I showed them where we visited.
"It looks really big," Laura said.
"Actually, I think this map is bigger than Ireland itself," I said. I explained what towns we visited and what there is to see. Then, pointing way up high on the map, I said, "And I have family up in Donegal, which, although part of southern Ireland, is actually a county in Ulster, most of which is part of the UK."
"Really?" said Laura. "But it's in Ireland."
"I know," I said, "but six counties are part of the United Kingdom."
"I never knew that," said John, whose mother's last name was Murphy.
Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Luis and my mother watching me and laughing. I knew they were talking about me. Later I asked what they were laughing at.
"I said that you looked so cute lecturing and that you'd make a good professor," Luis said. "Your mother said, 'I expect the laser pointer to come out any second.'"
Aside from the venue, the rest of the party was fairly un-Irish. My cousins are half-Irish; the other half is Italian, which is a good thing, since the food was better: eggplant parmigiana, chicken marsala, penne marinara, sausage and peppers. The other good thing is that the music at these events tends to be disco, which appeals to both the Italians and the gays. It was so much easier going to a largely Italian high school because the guidos were my peeps.
My cousin John was genuinely surprised when he arrived. He thought he was going to someone else's surprise party, and when his wife told him the date, he said, "Who holds a party on Good Friday?" My family is obviously not that Catholic. I mean, they even served meat.
On Saturday I went to church. For me, that's the boxing gym, where my fellow Mick gym mates Patty Hughes and Julie Kiley were also praying at the high altar of the ring. When it comes to the decorative arts, the Irish are not known for their great contributions. However, we are no strangers to the canvas. You might say we are talented at painting the canvas red--in the ring.
After my workout it seemed like a natural segue to go to "The Fighting Irish" exhibit at the South Street Seaport Museum. The exhibit traces the history of Irish-Americans in the fight arena, from the bare-knuckle era of the 19th century to the present. All the usual suspects are covered, from John L. Sullivan, "Gentleman" Jim Corbett to Billy Conn, Jerry Quarry, Barry McGuigan, and current hottie John Duddy.
But the main event at the exhibit concerns Dan Donnelly, a bare-knuckle fighter whose 38-inch-long arm must have kept a lot of opponents at bay. After his death,
the story goes, his right arm was removed and preserved with red lead paint. The arm has been on display at Hideout Bar in Kilcullen, Ireland, for more than 50 years. There's even a painted ruler on the wall so you can compare the length of your arm with Dan's.
After the exhibit I wanted to get a bite to eat. I thought about going to Ulysses, an Irish pub near my office, but instead I went to
Adrienne's Pizza Bar, which
New York magazine voted "Best Pizza in New York" and shares the same owners as Ulysses. I'd never eaten there because during the work week it's impossible to get in the door. The place was nearly empty. I was greeted at the door by the manager, Jason, who was really nice and very attentive. The bartenders were pretty sexy. I almost didn't care whether the pizza was good. (But it was good and deserving of its reputation.)
I had a table to myself, away from the other patrons. I ordered a sausage, fennel, and onion pizza and a salad. A few minutes later a party of four was seated at the table next to mine. I tried to pretend not to listen to their conversation, but I couldn't place the accent. Within a couple of minutes it was clear that the woman nearest me had an Irish accent. She had ginger hair and looked unmistakably Irish, as did her dining companions. I debated whether to exert my plastic Paddiness and ask them where they were from. Luis always used to say I'm my mother's son; now he says I'm my mother. As readers know, my mother will talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. I used to be a wallflower; now I'm more like a Venus's flytrap.
The woman's name was Noreen. She and her husband Terry, seated beside her, run
The Parlour, "the most non-Irish Irish pub you'll find," on the Upper West Side. Originally from Cork, they've been in New York for almost 15 years and are considering returning to Ireland. Their friends, Brendan and Claire, were visiting New York from Ireland for 2 weeks. They were all very interested in my trip to Ireland last year. We talked about driving in Ireland versus New York, and Guinness and Irish food. I told them the story about trying to find Irish stew and how, when we finally did, my mother pooh-poohed the lamb.
"She didn't realize there was lamb in Irish stew," I said, "because her mother always made it with beef."
They nodded their heads in recognition. When I got home, Iooked up The Parlour's menu on their Web site and laughed when I saw the following item:
Homemade Irish Beef Stew
A hearty helping of Irish Beef stew cooked in gravy with potato and chunky fresh vegetables. Just like Mom used to make!I couldn't help wondering if in the back of their minds, my dining acquaintances thought, "Ah, what does he know? He's just a plastic Paddy."
Labels: boxing, drinking, eating, food, ireland, irish, NYC, pubs, trinity
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In the final scene of Love, Actually, hordes of hot, smiling people swathed in flattering lighting and fresh makeup come bouncing off planes into Heathrow, and it makes you think, "Damn, international travel is sexy!"
