03 March 2024
1110
R. Linda:
It is almost THAT time again! Yes, when I can smell the potato soup bubbling on the stove, the baked beans in the oven, the Irish Stew getting savoury and me tastebuds are screaming, "Let's eat NOW!"
I can picture me sweet little apple-cheeked, grey-haired Mam kneading the soda bread, me wife busy with dessert a Bailey's Creme something if she doesn't drink it all first. The kiddos clambering about the forthcoming shamrock shakes and I am in dream heaven sipping what's good for me, a frothy Guinness stout.
Ah yes, St. Paddy's Day be a-comin' and I am all anticipation. And why? Well, could be the fact I was invited last night to an Irish American pre-St. Patrick's Day dinner and it was not as Irish as I had hoped. I was looking forward to all me favourites I was, the soda bread, the Jameson shots, the bangers and mash, Colman's hot mustard, a whiskey cake, foods like that. But that's not what I was served, no indeed it was not.
Here let me start you at the beginning. As I said I was all hot to get to the dinner that was buffet style in a heated barn turned into a Martha Stewart living space at a neighbour's. Now this neighbour has an Irish last name, O'Bannon and says his great-great-great grandfather and grandmother were from Ireland. Where in Erin they are from no clue, he just knows from Ancestry. com it says on certain documents the names of his grandparents and born where: Ireland!
So he has been in this country, well let me correct that, he, was born in this country and is third generation American. WITH an Irish last name. His only knowledge of the old sod is St. Patrick's Day and he thinks everyone on the island celebrates it. Not so as you know. Up north not so much. He is sure he's from the Republic somewhere and has never been to Ireland, but he's from there. His family is, he's from here. I don't correct him, I just listen to the inaccuracies and let it all go.
He thinks he can imitate me accent and oh my but he sounds like a Scotsman! I haven't the heart to tell him. So it was in the spirit of his Irish American heritage he decided to have a gathering of the clans. Yup, he called it that. I be sure the Goldsteins, the Browoski's, the Van Wycks, the Angelinos, and the Wongs are startled to know they are part of the Irish tribe. No more surprised than yours truly.
It poured last night it did. We were wet, cold and hungry by the time we arrived. It was a perilous drive too, through mud roads (not all are paved), dark woods (no street lights, this is New Hampshire), and hardly any street signs to guide you in the dark, but somehow we made it sliding into the barnyard and almost hitting the Angelinos as they slip-slided in the mud trying to get to the barn through the deluge.
Once inside and greeting everyone (we were the last to arrive, we always are fashionably late, not on purpose, but because the kiddos had a million questions as we were going out the door of what they could do and not do. The sillies know this is not necessary they live in the house and the rules haven't changed, but they get some bizarre joy at testing us, thus we are always late), I stood in front of the pot-bellied stove to warm up and was handed a shot of Jameson and that was divine. Good start I thought.
I wandered over to the chips and dip table and chatted away enjoying myself but me stomach was demanding more substantial fare. After a few more chips and sips we were all told dinner was on the table and to help ourselves. Oh boyo boy!
Off I flew and picked up a plate, the desired flatware, a napkin and then . . . and then . . . I looked at the offerings. A huge corned beef with lots of cabbage, French's yellow mustard, no Colman's, boiled potatoes and sourdough bread with Market Basket butter, no Kerrygold butter from the old sod, no it was the supermarket special and it was . . . gulp . . . unsalted.
"What's the matter Gloomy Gus?" Tonya elbowed me giggling at my reaction.
"You know what," I whispered.
"They have Shepherd's Pie on the other side," she whispered back.
Well, ok then, off I went slapping on my plate a piece of sourdough bread, the supermarket butter, and as I rounded the table I saw the luscious mashed potentates smattered over the Shepherd's Pie and I grabbed the ladle and as I tore into it, I smelled beef! Yes, beef, no lamb it was COTTAGE PIE! Foiled again I was. I can't count how many times I've ordered Shepherd's Pie in an Irish American restaurant and been served Cottage Pie. I was beside meself I was.
The Cottage Pie was filled with canned peas and carrots, not the real fresh peas and carrots I was used to. Thanks, Mam, you have spoiled me. Nothing fresh about this but I ate it. The seasoning was off but I rather expected that too. It tasted like hamburger with canned peas and carrots covered in mashed potatoes. Even the gravy was scant.
Americans complain UK and Irish food is boring. Well, when you cook it American style it is. The problem too, is those who go on holiday stay at American tourist traps where the food is prepared American style for the American palate. So in reality Irish Americans just don't know what they are missing unless they go off the beaten track and dine at an authentic Irish restaurant, catering to Irish citizens.
Oh one other thing, the beer. It wasn't Irish it was English, Newcastle Ale. I rest my case.
My face must have looked very sour when I was handed a bottle of that stuff because me wife came over smiling like a Cheshire Cat and muttered that it could be worse, the O'Bannon's could be serving Black and Tans. Yes, that would have done it. Gabriel then would have broken his silence and given the entire room a history lesson. But Gabriel, me, gave the Newcastle Ale to Morty Goldstein and got a shot of Jameson instead. Yes, the hard stuff R. Linda, I needed something stronger to dull the culinary pain of being subject to fake Irish food.
We have discussed this it's like Mexican food, you go to a Mexican restaurant thinking you are getting the best Mexico has to offer when it is a Mexican food chain prepared American style. I learned that lesson when I lived in California for that short time. I went to an authentic Mexican restaurant in Monterey and almost burned my throat, stomach and intestines out from the heat that was stuffed in an appetiser I can't remember the name of. Probably because I wanted to blur the experience, but I loved it. Then in Colorado after eating fake Mexican enchiladas in Estes Park, I found a real Mexican restaurant run by a Mexican family who brought each dish to the table with a warning on the heat of the peppers. Unlike the Monterey establishment that left me to burn alone without a glass of anything including water, the Colorado Springs restaurant served me a huge pitcher of water with lemons to cut the heat, and Sangria with coconut if I'd rather cut the peppers with alcohol -- they think all Irish are alcoholics. But at least liquid was on the table! And damn that food was good. Of course, I had weird dreams for six months after that's what spicy hot food does to me.
I said nothing to the O'Bannon's I pretended to enjoy the cuisine and for that, I was told they thought they'd do it again next year. I have a year to figure out an excuse. Oh and don't ask about dessert, we all brought chocolate chip cookies when asked to bring a dessert. The reason I didn't bring an Irish dessert is the same reason I didn't enjoy myself because the American palate likes junk food and to make a Bailey's cheesecake and be told it was too alcoholic would have been a waste of Jameson whiskey and well . . . I'd rather drink it.
Gabe
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