Beer, St. Patrick's Day & the Orangeman

When I was 20, I used to spend my nights at Spike’s, a pub in Goleta that has long since closed. My then-boyfriend loved it, and it was within walking distance, so that’s where we often ended up after having dinner at Pescado's. Spike's was a popular weekend hangout and always crowded with college students and unemployed beer connoisseurs. In our case, I was the college student and the boyfriend, although employed, considered himself a beer connoisseur. 

At the time that I was frequenting Spike’s, I was not of legal drinking age in California. I had been doing it for a few years, walking into a bar with older friends and boldly ordering a drink, or saying, ‘I’ll have what he’s having’ or “Yes, my usual, please.’ It was all about pretending to know what I was doing, and often, having a somewhat bad attitude. They must have assumed I was old enough because there was no question that the boyfriend was of age, and so I was always served without ever having my ID checked. In fact, the only time I was asked for my ID was the night of my 21^st birthday when every bar carded me to be sure I wasn’t cheating them out of a free birthday drink. 

Spike’s had a special Around the World menu of 40 or more beers, including Belgian, English, German, Scottish, Jamaican, Czech, Irish, and American. A trip around the world at Spike’s meant drinking every beer on the menu (and I’m sure the original idea was for that to be done over time, and not in one night as some of the regulars attempted) and having a little passport-type card signed off by the waiter or waitress. At the end of the voyage, when every beer on the list had been consumed, there was a loud announcement and introduction of the seasoned traveler, and the bar would erupt into cheers and drunken congratulations for yet another successful trip. As an added bonus, soon thereafter, successful travelers would find their names engraved on little nameplates that were posted to the walls. Nearly every available wall in that place was covered in those things. And there were several patrons who had been around the world many, many times. They were the same barflies that had their designated seats at the bar, were known by name, and for them, every trip around the world was like the first time and to be celebrated loudly and proudly. 

1987 Mickey Rourke movie, Bar Fly

I was never interested in getting a passport at Spike’s, drinking through the menu, or having my name posted on the wall. If I had loved beer the way I love vodka, my name would have been all over that place. But I’m not crazy about how beer tastes and I don’t like that I burp almost as soon as I take my first sip. On the rare occasion that I do drink beer, I prefer draft; in order to complete the menu at Spike’s I would have had to drink over half of the beers from a bottle. Gauche. Besides, I didn’t think that the menu was worldly enough. There were too many local and California microbreweries, and not enough beer from far-reaching places across the globe. To call it a trip Around the World was somewhat of a misnomer and similar to saying the Los Angeles Lakers are World Champions. But Spike's did have Guinness and Harp on tap and so when I did drink a beer at Spike's it was generally one of those or together, as a Black & Tan. 

It was a Black & Tan that I had on my mind back in 1980-whatever when I was celebrating St. Patrick’s Day at Spike’s. I was not at all interested in the green beer that everybody else was having. Bar owners love St. Patrick’s Day because they make a huge amount of money by adding food coloring to the least expensive, worst quality beer they can get their hands on—and then laugh all the way to the bank. The idea of green beer is festive and fun, not to mention the fact that it coordinates well with shamrock earrings, a ‘Kiss Me Here, I’m Irish’ button, and a sequined bow tie. If I remember correctly, the green beer that night was Coors or Budweiser, so really not much of a beer at all, but I finally gave in to the urgings of my friends and ordered the obligatory pint.  It tasted like crap and I burped almost immediately, so I went with my original plan and switched to a Black & Tan, followed by whiskey shots and an Irish coffee.

Cheers, Father! I made it to Mass.

Who doesn’t like Irish coffee?  Quite a few years ago, my favorite Sunday morning drink changed from regular coffee with a little cream to a delicious and nutritious Irish coffee. Weakly made, of course, but Irish coffee nonetheless and a great start to a Sunday morning. I never confessed that to a priest; it’s not a sin, really. Definitely in poor taste, especially if pre-Mass; maybe somewhat irresponsible, or as a woman I know once told me, my holy Sunday behavior was nothing short of ‘scandalous.” Yeah, whatever, Mrs. Bible Thumper, if you think that’s bad, I’ve got plenty of other things to make you fall to your knees and pray for my salvation. 

This past week was St. Patrick’s Day. Needless to say, I did not have green beer, nor did I have whiskey or vodka. My vodka selection remains untouched for the remainder of Lent, and actually into May. I didn’t give it up for Lent but am doing a nine-week kickboxing course. Until then, I am behaving myself because I’ve found that the schedule allows me little time for the consequences of misbehavior. I anticipate May of this year to be somewhat of a banner month for me, and so I’m satisfied to wait and save my misbehavior until then. I did cook for St. Patrick’s Day—not an authentic Irish Stew, but Corned Beef and Cabbage. It’s cliché and overrated to some, and it’s not actually an authentic Irish national dish, but it’s my little tradition and I’m sticking to it. My kids like it and it’s one night I know with certainty that vegetables will be eaten.

Of interest, Corned Beef was on the menu for President Abraham Lincoln’s inaugural menu and it is said that President William McKinley had coffee and a Corned Beef sandwich for his unpretentious lunch. If it’s good enough for Abe, it’s good enough for me. I also made Irish Soda Bread-way, way too much-and then walked out of the house in the pitch dark Thursday morning, forgetting what I had planned to take to work. Oh Holy St. Patrick, it was the best bread I have ever made. I swear it must be the room temperature buttermilk and the incredibly descriptive tacky, not sticky instructions written by my mother on a piece of scratch paper. While mine was delicious, it will never compare to the bread she made; I don’t remember it ever turning out short of perfect. Absent from my St. Patrick’s Day dinner was my beloved butter. It was banished for the duration of Lent, and everybody is abstaining, like it or not. The fake stuff is just as good if you close your eyes and pretend it’s real. 

At the end of my St. Patrick’s night, I remembered that I was in need of a new hair dryer. Running to Walgreen’s at almost ten, I was still wearing my jeans and green Kiss My Blarney Stone t-shirt. As I walked through the nearly empty store, I noticed a grey-haired, red-faced man in his mid-fifties looking at the wall of batteries. He was wearing an orange t-shirt. He glanced at my green t-shirt with disgust. By the time I picked out a hair dryer and made my way back up front, he was paging through a magazine near the check out. 

He stared at me and my shirt, scowled, and of course, I stared back, raising my left eyebrow and looking him up and down and back up again. “May I help you?” I asked.  “…glad this day’s almost over…” he muttered.  Oh…excellent, I thought. I knew it, I knew it…one of those. Sorry, nobody is going to wear orange around me on St. Patrick's Day and leave without getting an earful. “You don’t like St. Patrick’s Day?” I asked. He continued to glare at me; he must have thought he was quite intimidating there in his tangerine colored shirt. I guess he assumed he could wear his shirt and give dirty looks and people would cower and say nothing. But you know that they say about assumptions. And I for one, prefer to let the asshole know that he is simply an asshole.  “Were you hoping to make a statement by wearing orange today?...you know your day is July 12^th, don’t you? …I know it’s not a Hallmark holiday but probably because it’s associated with such bitterness and violence, wouldn't you agree? …Or maybe it's because orange is such an unflattering color; I don't think I've ever seen anybody look good in orange…oh, sorry, maybe it's not so bad on you...”

In white, frighteningly similar to the KKK.

I lost him at the Hallmark holiday part. His red face turned redder and his scowl got uglier, as he flipped through the magazine and shoved it back in the rack. He headed towards the door, as the handsome young black checker and I discussed how wearing orange on March 17^th was a hostile gesture, like waving a confederate flag at a civil rights rally. It’s ignorant,  it is not thought-provoking, nor is it bold or ballsy. When I got to my car and threw my bag in my back seat, I realized that the Orangeman was pulling out of the space next to mine. His window was open. “Good night,” I said, “If you’re not in a hurry, can I buy you an Irish coffee? A Guinness? What about a Shamrock Shake?..." He didn't answer...just drove away. Big, strong Orangeman he was, cowering to an Irish chick. I hope he thinks of me every time he wears that masculine orange shirt.