VIII IRISH HOUSE

Finally, my dear Charles, I got here, not nearby the symbolic Chinatown entrance but as far as one block from the hotel I’m staying.  I had decided to have a little stroll in the surroundings before going to ask for one of the books about the historic details over how the Virginia territories were bought from France.  The stroll was pretty short for my taste, no more than seventy steps towards Union Square plaza, but the consolation prize was high enough since for my surprise when I turned my head to my left, there it was.  At the end of that block there was a large and glowing placard showing all in green Johnny Foley’s three floor high as the name of that public house. 

The Irish House was a sober and beautiful place.  From the double entrance door, passing trough the columns and tables, to the bar all were made out of dark oak.  The large and traditional wooden bar placed just at the centre gave the impression of a heavy and secure fortress.  I could not avoid recalling some “Only members club’s bars” where I should socialize in my obscure past. 

Being alone as I was, didn’t hesitate a bit choosing a place at the magnificent bar which were silently offering all kind of spirits and beers.  I should not single out at you the obvious fact that the house specialties were Irish single malt whiskies, ales and stouts, and I certainly will not.  But besides these specialties, I do not know why, and for this forgive my ignorance, a Bloody Mary cocktail was advertised at the outside little blackboard.  Anyway, following my inclination to traditional goods, I asked for a pint of draught Guinness to the Irish bartender.  While he was skillfully preparing and serving the drinks asked by someone besides me, I tried to focus on the details in order to render a full report to you when in a sudden all came to my mind. 

She had in front of her a pint of Murphy’s stout, at least her fourth, she also had intense blue eyes, likewise intense black hair, a careless but cute boyish short haircut,

-      Don’t seat there – she shouted at me.

-      Pardon me?

-      Seat besides me, you bloody fool.

-      I’m not a bloody fool.

-      Seat down here, then.  A Jameson for him.

-      But I want a Guinness.

-      And I want you to have an 18 years old Jameson.

-      Why?

-      For three simple reasons:  I’m pretty sure you are a Jameson type.  You are not a Guinness drinker, so you certainly will loose your witty talk and power.  And third, I want you in my bed.

Later at a small loft serving as her homely flat I spent more than forty five minutes in the fruitless effort to untie her red tie, oh yes, Charles believe me, she wore a white Indian cotton blouse with a very nutty tie. 

At dawn she offered me curried potatoes wedges and a little bit of 16 years old Bushmills pure malt. 

When she woke me up murmuring at my ear  - Potatoes wedges - I didn’t imagine how tasty and how curried they were, neither when that mango chutney was first used on my languid fellow, carefully spread and very, very carefully consumed till she decided to give me a long but stingy kiss.

With this breakfast I did not mind at all to be thrown away at 7.30 AM into the London mist with the simple words: This WAS Vivian. 

So Charles, I’m here in O’Farrell’s street at one block from Powell’s avenue following your advice.  By the way, advice came from additional vice? Or it stands for Advertised vice? Well, after three pints of Guinness and one of Stella Artois, I can write no more in English, so forgive me using Johnny Foley’s own Gaelic words: - Go raibh maith agat