20 March 2011
377
R. Linda:
Since I've been sick from too mooch St. Paddy's day, I will try to make it up to ye with how me Irish day came ta be. I will be writin' with me accent. Indeed. It started on DE day it did. First ting in the mornin', I was rudely awakened by boyo number 1 coomin' in and bouncin' on me bed shoutin' at the top of his vast lungature, "DADDY, GIT UP! IT'S SAINT PATRICK'S DAY!!!
Once I scraped meself off the ceilin', I blurted out someting like, "So it be." Goodness, you'd a taught it be Christmas mornin'.
O'Hare, the source of the rancorous celebration of one, took off as I found me way ta da bathroom ta shower, brush teeth, shave, and get dressed. I got meself to da table in time fer an authentic Irish breakfast (thank ye very mooch) provided by me wife who was all smiles. I should have been suspicious because everyone was smilin' quite widely, and that be unusual fer so early in the a.m. Besides the smilin', the only other ting that was somewhat disturbing was da green eggs. I initially noticed a green hue, but I was busy pouring me cuppa. Den me brain kicked in along wit da eyesight, an' I saw everyone at table starin' at me wit strange grins on dere faces. I looked down and BEGORRAH ME! Da eggs were indeed green. Turns out me wife put food colouring on dem. I didn't know you could do such a ting, but apparently, ya can!
I made the best of it. It was very unappetising lookin', but dey still tasted like eggs if ya didn't look at em'. Oh, don't ya worry, I did make a fuss I did, at how original she was. Sigh.
I bein' befuddled from me rude awakening. Da green eggs! I drove on inta work in Beantown in a haze. I was greeted with all kinds of accents dat were being passed fer Irish ones and greetins dat were taught ta be Irish, but I had never heard before. Everyone was wearing green except me. I dunno; it must be farce of habit. I'd not wear green on St. Patrick's Day in Northern Ireland unless I wanted ta be roughed up by da Proddy patrol down da street. So dere I was, green-less.
Lunch rolled around an' da entire morning I got nothing done fer all da newly 'Irish' people who dropped by ta make shure I was goin' ta lunch wit dem. I realised halfway true da mornin', I was popular because I was one of two authentic Irish people in da entire office. Da other one, dat sweet dear Maureen, took da day off, smarty dat she be. I'll have ta remember dat fer next time. It wasn't fun being da token Irishman in da crowd. Oh, da stupid tings said to me, you wouldn't believe!
So lunchtime I find meself standin' at da bar wit some of me co-werkers waitin' ta order a Guinness and wait a table ta free up. Da whole place was wedged, ya couldn't move. The green beer was outsellin' da Guinness, which da bar staff went ta great pains ta pour correctly, letting it stand den toppin' it wit da cream and makin' da shamrock on top. I gave dem props fer dat I did, very mooch like in old Erin. I noticed dere were extra tables an' chairs an' bar stools, which made it a jammed place. People were eatin' at da bar an' da orders fer corned beef and cabbage were astounding. I swallowed hard at the taught. I don't particularly like da taste or texture of da stuff.
The waitstaff was almost maniacal in da way dey raced from table ta table, an' it was sooner den later we got a large table by da window. Our waitress, who was Molly Malone fer da day, tole us dis was dere busiest day o' da year an' she would be happy when it was over. Den she could put her sore dogs up fer da night. I looked around fer da dogs den realised, at least I tink I did, dat da dogs she meant were her feet. Americans!
So I looked down da menu printed on a green sheet of paaper with shamrocks borderin' it, and in green print. Da very first ting on the menu was da old standby corned beef and cabbage. I opted for the Irish Stew but da entire table had the other. The rest was hamburgers, one called an Irish burger wit cheddar cheese and an egg on top. Yup. Everyone was served dere green beer. I had to wait on da Guinness, but it came an' dey all made fuss over da shamrock, da silly arses. I was goin' ta order the Irish stew but was smart enough ta ask wot meat was in it. Beef, I was told. Where was da lamb? This was American stew, not Irish. I was disappointed, but kept me gob shut because da last time I had it out wit a waitress over a supposed ta be Irish breakfast, it wasn't pretty. So instead of complainin' about da beef, I asked wot was da meat in da Shepherds Pie. Beef! Hum, cottage pie masquerading as . . . oh, never mind! I changed me order to . . . yes I did, ta da corned beef. Ugh!
Well, after a few more Guinnesses and green beers, we were all feeling a wee bit green within da sea of green shirts, ties, blouses, and even jeans and trousers! Forget the socks and da stupid felt hats! Oh, and da green wigs and da curly red ones. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but wot clown acts. People dressed like leprechauns, actin' like they were really Irish, speakin' in accents dat sounded anyting but, and sayin' tings they tink true Irish say, but never do. It was enough ta keep me drinking Guinness after Guinness an' I did witout realisin' it.
As dessert rolled around, Irish coffee was ordered, an' a Baileys cheesecake, dat I must admit was delicious. Our waitress, Molly, complimented me on keeping me Irish accent going all true da course of lunch. "You could pass for an Irishman," she said brightly. Me table laughed, but she didn't get it an' she said, "You sort of look Irish."
Well, DUH DO YE TINK?
I said between clenched teeth wuz no act. I was probably da only real Irish person in da entire place. She didn't fecking believe me! She laughed and said, "That's a good one, keep that Irish accent going!" and off she went.
I sat nursing me coffee as me table started on Irish car bombs. I sat dere while dey got demselves good and trashed. I did wonder how dey were going to complete da rest of da werk day. Well, it was gettin' on in time, I was done wit me coffee, and I, and one other of our table, left to go back to werk. Later, I found out the ten we left were so soused dey couldn't stand up. Da tackiness of da day wuz enjoyable as far as dey were concerned an' werk? Who needed it? I was sure by da day after dere visit next day to hangover city, they'd retink da job idea.
Charlie and I walked off da booze as we tooled back to our jobs. As we did, we wended our way true da crowd on da sidewalks watching da parade pass. We stopped at one point ta watch a group of bagpipers who were playing dat sad refrain, Danny Boy. It was almost like coming ta attention for some around us, but I mentioned to Charlie, "DAT isn't Irish either, but sung enough in Ireland ye would tink it was." Charlie was stunned, Danny Boy not an Irish song?
"Too bad the others aren't here. They'd have liked to know that," he said as we resumed walking. "They are missing out on the true idea of the day, but boozing and drinking, they think, is the way to celebrate. I think the parade is a nice thing."
Charlie is an O'Connell from an old Irish family in Boston, he, of all of dem, seems to be a wee bit more informed. He knew I was bristling over da beef in da stew and da pie. He had a chuckle out of it he did. He also knew dat light beer tinted green was hardly da true ting. It was Guinness, shamrock and all or nothin' unless a shot of Jameson was called into play.
"What say you and me go for a shot of the Jameson and a few Irish potatoes for a true St. Pat's experience after work?" Charlie asked me.
"For shure!" I said, and we high-fived each other. The rest of our lunchmates showed up two hours late with some excuse dey couldn't get true da parade crowds. I tink da higher ups knew better, but turned dere heads. I dunno we made it back, but we said nothin'.
So before I went home, Charlie O'Connell and meself celebrated St. Patrick's Day in da true Irish style it be meant. We of da proud race of Islanders who have weathered famine and occupation, exile and war, went ta Sapersteins Bar and Grill fer a potato knish and a glass of Jameson. Yes, it took a Jewish bar to get us into the true spirit. We sat with our potatoes and a glass of Irish, clinked our glasses and toasted da boyos back home ta a solidarity of da Irish spirit and a happy St. Paddy's Day!
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
Since I've been sick from too mooch St. Paddy's day, I will try to make it up to ye with how me Irish day came ta be. I will be writin' with me accent. Indeed. It started on DE day it did. First ting in the mornin', I was rudely awakened by boyo number 1 coomin' in and bouncin' on me bed shoutin' at the top of his vast lungature, "DADDY, GIT UP! IT'S SAINT PATRICK'S DAY!!!
Once I scraped meself off the ceilin', I blurted out someting like, "So it be." Goodness, you'd a taught it be Christmas mornin'.
O'Hare, the source of the rancorous celebration of one, took off as I found me way ta da bathroom ta shower, brush teeth, shave, and get dressed. I got meself to da table in time fer an authentic Irish breakfast (thank ye very mooch) provided by me wife who was all smiles. I should have been suspicious because everyone was smilin' quite widely, and that be unusual fer so early in the a.m. Besides the smilin', the only other ting that was somewhat disturbing was da green eggs. I initially noticed a green hue, but I was busy pouring me cuppa. Den me brain kicked in along wit da eyesight, an' I saw everyone at table starin' at me wit strange grins on dere faces. I looked down and BEGORRAH ME! Da eggs were indeed green. Turns out me wife put food colouring on dem. I didn't know you could do such a ting, but apparently, ya can!
I made the best of it. It was very unappetising lookin', but dey still tasted like eggs if ya didn't look at em'. Oh, don't ya worry, I did make a fuss I did, at how original she was. Sigh.
I bein' befuddled from me rude awakening. Da green eggs! I drove on inta work in Beantown in a haze. I was greeted with all kinds of accents dat were being passed fer Irish ones and greetins dat were taught ta be Irish, but I had never heard before. Everyone was wearing green except me. I dunno; it must be farce of habit. I'd not wear green on St. Patrick's Day in Northern Ireland unless I wanted ta be roughed up by da Proddy patrol down da street. So dere I was, green-less.
Lunch rolled around an' da entire morning I got nothing done fer all da newly 'Irish' people who dropped by ta make shure I was goin' ta lunch wit dem. I realised halfway true da mornin', I was popular because I was one of two authentic Irish people in da entire office. Da other one, dat sweet dear Maureen, took da day off, smarty dat she be. I'll have ta remember dat fer next time. It wasn't fun being da token Irishman in da crowd. Oh, da stupid tings said to me, you wouldn't believe!
So lunchtime I find meself standin' at da bar wit some of me co-werkers waitin' ta order a Guinness and wait a table ta free up. Da whole place was wedged, ya couldn't move. The green beer was outsellin' da Guinness, which da bar staff went ta great pains ta pour correctly, letting it stand den toppin' it wit da cream and makin' da shamrock on top. I gave dem props fer dat I did, very mooch like in old Erin. I noticed dere were extra tables an' chairs an' bar stools, which made it a jammed place. People were eatin' at da bar an' da orders fer corned beef and cabbage were astounding. I swallowed hard at the taught. I don't particularly like da taste or texture of da stuff.
The waitstaff was almost maniacal in da way dey raced from table ta table, an' it was sooner den later we got a large table by da window. Our waitress, who was Molly Malone fer da day, tole us dis was dere busiest day o' da year an' she would be happy when it was over. Den she could put her sore dogs up fer da night. I looked around fer da dogs den realised, at least I tink I did, dat da dogs she meant were her feet. Americans!
So I looked down da menu printed on a green sheet of paaper with shamrocks borderin' it, and in green print. Da very first ting on the menu was da old standby corned beef and cabbage. I opted for the Irish Stew but da entire table had the other. The rest was hamburgers, one called an Irish burger wit cheddar cheese and an egg on top. Yup. Everyone was served dere green beer. I had to wait on da Guinness, but it came an' dey all made fuss over da shamrock, da silly arses. I was goin' ta order the Irish stew but was smart enough ta ask wot meat was in it. Beef, I was told. Where was da lamb? This was American stew, not Irish. I was disappointed, but kept me gob shut because da last time I had it out wit a waitress over a supposed ta be Irish breakfast, it wasn't pretty. So instead of complainin' about da beef, I asked wot was da meat in da Shepherds Pie. Beef! Hum, cottage pie masquerading as . . . oh, never mind! I changed me order to . . . yes I did, ta da corned beef. Ugh!
Well, after a few more Guinnesses and green beers, we were all feeling a wee bit green within da sea of green shirts, ties, blouses, and even jeans and trousers! Forget the socks and da stupid felt hats! Oh, and da green wigs and da curly red ones. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, but wot clown acts. People dressed like leprechauns, actin' like they were really Irish, speakin' in accents dat sounded anyting but, and sayin' tings they tink true Irish say, but never do. It was enough ta keep me drinking Guinness after Guinness an' I did witout realisin' it.
As dessert rolled around, Irish coffee was ordered, an' a Baileys cheesecake, dat I must admit was delicious. Our waitress, Molly, complimented me on keeping me Irish accent going all true da course of lunch. "You could pass for an Irishman," she said brightly. Me table laughed, but she didn't get it an' she said, "You sort of look Irish."
Well, DUH DO YE TINK?
I said between clenched teeth wuz no act. I was probably da only real Irish person in da entire place. She didn't fecking believe me! She laughed and said, "That's a good one, keep that Irish accent going!" and off she went.
I sat nursing me coffee as me table started on Irish car bombs. I sat dere while dey got demselves good and trashed. I did wonder how dey were going to complete da rest of da werk day. Well, it was gettin' on in time, I was done wit me coffee, and I, and one other of our table, left to go back to werk. Later, I found out the ten we left were so soused dey couldn't stand up. Da tackiness of da day wuz enjoyable as far as dey were concerned an' werk? Who needed it? I was sure by da day after dere visit next day to hangover city, they'd retink da job idea.
Charlie and I walked off da booze as we tooled back to our jobs. As we did, we wended our way true da crowd on da sidewalks watching da parade pass. We stopped at one point ta watch a group of bagpipers who were playing dat sad refrain, Danny Boy. It was almost like coming ta attention for some around us, but I mentioned to Charlie, "DAT isn't Irish either, but sung enough in Ireland ye would tink it was." Charlie was stunned, Danny Boy not an Irish song?
"Too bad the others aren't here. They'd have liked to know that," he said as we resumed walking. "They are missing out on the true idea of the day, but boozing and drinking, they think, is the way to celebrate. I think the parade is a nice thing."
Charlie is an O'Connell from an old Irish family in Boston, he, of all of dem, seems to be a wee bit more informed. He knew I was bristling over da beef in da stew and da pie. He had a chuckle out of it he did. He also knew dat light beer tinted green was hardly da true ting. It was Guinness, shamrock and all or nothin' unless a shot of Jameson was called into play.
"What say you and me go for a shot of the Jameson and a few Irish potatoes for a true St. Pat's experience after work?" Charlie asked me.
"For shure!" I said, and we high-fived each other. The rest of our lunchmates showed up two hours late with some excuse dey couldn't get true da parade crowds. I tink da higher ups knew better, but turned dere heads. I dunno we made it back, but we said nothin'.
So before I went home, Charlie O'Connell and meself celebrated St. Patrick's Day in da true Irish style it be meant. We of da proud race of Islanders who have weathered famine and occupation, exile and war, went ta Sapersteins Bar and Grill fer a potato knish and a glass of Jameson. Yes, it took a Jewish bar to get us into the true spirit. We sat with our potatoes and a glass of Irish, clinked our glasses and toasted da boyos back home ta a solidarity of da Irish spirit and a happy St. Paddy's Day!
Gabe
Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved
