#4 McSorley’s

If you were a pilgrim in a quest for catharsis, you probably wouldn’t come down to New York City. Rome, Compostela, Mecca, Jerusalem, maybe, but not New York City. That, however, depends on where you tend to find transcendence, companionship and enlightenment. If it is behind a bar and at the end of a glass, New York is the Vatican, and McSorley’s is Saint Peter itself.

I found McSorley’s Old Ale House in the 7th street, between 2nd and 3rd avenues. It would have been a real shock not to find it, given that it’s been there for over 160 years. It had exactly the kind of dark, unpretending façade that I had expected. By the door, there was a sign: ‘we were here before you were born’. I was wearing no hat, but I still removed it out of respect.

Inside, McSorley’s looks like what would happen if I threw a party at my grandma’s living room. Wooden tables, half-empty mugs everywhere, and pictures of dead people covering the walls. There is such diversity of objects and portraits that they alone justify spending hours there. There is the naked lady with the parrot, the house’s own version of La maja desnuda. A series of paintings of the saloon in the old times. The portraits of JFK and Teddy Roosevelt, among countless others of great men (yes, men) and loyal patrons. And of course, the portraits of John McSorley and his son Bill, who opened the saloon back in the 50s. The 1850s.

I had arrived early, so the bar was only half full. There were a few free tables, but I always prefer standing at the bar. Only there you can enjoy anonymity while feeling connected with the other patrons, just by leaning there together.

“Good afternoon. A beer please”.

“Light or dark?”, asked the bartender, a tall man, clean white shirt, little glasses and moustache.

“Err, light, please”.

Seconds after, he came back with two mugs full of beer, or rather, half head and half beer.

“Sorry, I ordered only one beer.”

“That’s one beer.”

“But, won’t it get warm this way?”

“Welcome to America.”

It was the first person to formally welcome me to this country. I actually got a bit emotional. However, no matter how long I live here or how many hotdogs I incorporate into my diet, there are limits. I’m not drinking my beer warm. I’m not a barbarian.  

There was a man standing next to me at the bar. He seemed amused by my little exchange with the barman. He was tall and skinny; he was wearing black pants and an open Levi’s shirt with a white t-shirt under it. He looked like he was in his late thirties and he had a thick, unruly red beard. His glass was empty, so I tried to be social.

“Do you want one of the beers? I don’t want it to get warm.”

He seemed inclined to condemn my heresy, but then he smiled —that smile you give to an ignorant but innocent child— and reached for one of the glasses.

“Cheers! And forgive Bill here, he’s just not very diplomatic. —he said looking at the waiter— And it’s ale, by the way.”

“What?”

“Not beer. Ale. It’s called ale”, he said kindly. “And you don’t need to drink it cold, you know? In the old days, folks would even leave their mugs on the hob until is hot as coffee.” 

“So, you’ve been coming here for a long time?”, I asked him.

“Quite some time yes. You could say I’m a regular.” 

“I imagine the place has changed a lot these years, right?”

“Oh yes, yes. It’s always changing. When I started coming it was more like a family, a neighborhood bar. Then came so many different people.” 

“I understand. Many students, and all that?.”

“Yes, students. They came because it’s cheap and they kept coming for the spirit. And then their children, and their grandchildren too.”

“And the modern types, the yuppies…”I said. 

“Yes, yes the modern types. With that awfull music of them. What’s its name? Oh, that rock and roll thing.”

“Many foreigners too?”, I asked.  

“Oh yeah. I remember when the Italians first came in. What a mess. And don’t forget the women, too.” 

 “What?”

“The women. It used to be much simpler when there were not women around.” 

In fact, McSorley’s was one of the last bars in Manhattan to allow women in, after being forced to by a judge. It happened in 1970. For 116 years before that, the bartender would kindly escort adventuring women to the door. ‘Madam, I’m sorry, we don’t serve ladies’.

“Now, don’t get me wrong”, he kept on. “I’m not saying that women are not great, generally speaking. I’m just saying that this was the only place where we could really relax. They had other places, the tee saloons, the suffragette clubs. It’s just like Bill Mcsorley used to say: ‘good ale, no onions, and no ladies’.

“Really?”, I asked. I don’t know if I was asking whether things were actually simpler, or if he was actually saying that.

“Oh, yes. And it’s not that I didn’t feel sorry for them sometimes. I remember the night that ‘feminist’ lady showed up. She was wearing cap, coat, cigar, you know, the whole man kit. And she goes to the bar, orders an ale and Bill serves it to her. He fell for it it! Didn’t notice anything! Then she reveals herself, yells something at him, about equal rights and whatnot, and runs away. Bill was infuriated. For weeks he didn’t speak about anything else. He is a kind man, deep down, so I won’t reproduce all the things he said about her, but I’ll tell you it wasn’t nice. Although, just between you and me, I was standing at the bar that night, just like we are right now. And the lady passed by me briefly. I can tell you, the disguise was very convincing, but the smell gave her away… It wasn’t that she smelled of perfume or anything, it was more that she didn’t smell like one of us. And I tell you, Bill could smell a spoiled liederkranz from the other end of the saloon. Such a nose he had! Now, perhaps old Bill had a cold that night, or perhaps he served the drink anyway, because he wanted to create some drama. He was a performer, Bill. Always liked to keep the lads here entertained. And that scene gave us something to talk about for months.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, let me see. It’s hard to say. It was after the big war, for sure. But before the second. I’m almost sure it was during the 1920s.” 

My ale was long gone, so I ordered another one. I wanted to try the dark one this time. He ordered another, so the waiter came back with four mugs.

“Well, thank God that changed”, I said, trying to close the topic.

“I figured you’d say that, but that’s just your age. I’m not saying that being only around men it’s great, either. Men can be tough on each other too. Take the wartimes, for example. Sometimes, Bill would turn on the radio to listen to the frontline reports from Europe. I suspect he did it to shame the younger patrons into enlisting. He was a patriot, but I don’t think he was considering it carefully from the business point of view. “

“What do you mean?”

“Well, war is very bad for this business. Sometimes, someone would finish his ale, hit the mug loudly against the table and shout something like ‘if nobody here is man enough to do what’s right, then I guess it’ll have to be me!’. Then leave with ceremony and go to the recruiting office. Or so we thought. Sometimes, after a couple of weeks of absence, they would come back, order ale, and never mention the matter again. But eventually, many did end up enlisting. For those who came back, the atmosphere was never quite the same, and many just started going to other bars because, you know, McSorley’s doesn’t sell spirits and ale just wasn’t making it for them anymore. So, I’d say war after war, the management became more pro-peace.” 

“What about you?”

“I’m one of the ones who got cold feet. Not proud, but there it is.”

“For which one?”

“For all of them. I was almost off to fight the Germans once, but I got a headache the day before. Then after that, I guess I became pro-peace too. When you have lived long enough, you realize it’s all hidden interests and propaganda. After all, what have the Vietnamese ever done to me?”

“Oh, so you had your hippy years?”

“Of course not! Do you think I’d been allowed in if I was? Bill can’t take hippies.

“Why? Was he very conservative?”

“I’m not quite sure, but I don’t think politics had anything to do with it. Around here, the most popular political stance was minding your own business. Republican, Democrat, didn’t mean much to us. Local elections were great though, because all the Irish candidates would come down and pay rounds for everybody. The only time I remember people really angry was when they shot Kennedy down in Dallas. Most people didn’t like him anyway, too bombastic for our taste. But he was one of us, damn it! That’s why when Bill hanged that portrait, nobody dared complain.” 

“That would have been a bit insensitive anyway, right?”

“Maybe, but it was rare to have that kind of agreement. When they shot the other guy in the Ford Theater, a client who had fought in Gettysburg showed up with a portrait. The saloon was pretty new back then, so the walls were mostly naked. But still, the clientele and Bill himself opposed. I mean, everyone agreed that it is bad to go around shooting presidents, but what was his business in the South anyway? And the guy wasn’t even Catholic!”

“What about Teddy Roosevelt there? I thought he was a protestant”

“Oh, but he was such a badass. Men liked just to drink to his memory.” 

I saw he was done with his two mugs, so I ordered another two more ales. He did the same, and soon the waiter came back with eight mugs. At that point I was starting to see flaws in his story, for example the fact that, apparently, the waiters’ names never changed. But I understand that, when you spend such a long time coming to the same place, you just don’t bother to adapt to any changes. Anyway, I had much ale to drink and nothing to say, so I kept asking.

“So, what about Prohibition? Did the bar stay open? How did it survive?”

“Man, that was the best of times. The Golden Ages. At the beginning, we were a bit scared, I won’t lie to you. We thought that they meant business. But then, this is New York, right? Not some holier-than-thou place in New England or the Mississippi. We are God-fearing citizens here, but what the hell does that have to do with booze? Anyway, there was a bit of hysteria when they closed the brewery that was making ale for McSorley’s. But then, this guy Kelly showed up from the Bronx, he said he could produce up to a thousand gallons of ale a week. He started setting up the basement and asked the clients to contribute bathtubs and pipes. I know men who couldn’t take a bath at home for the whole Prohibition. But it was all worth it: within weeks, Kelly was producing twice as promised!”

“Didn’t the police say anything?”

“A policeman is a policeman only eight hours a day, you see? And do you know what he is the rest of the day? Exactly: just another thirsty Irish lad. Of course, whenever any of the bathtubs went spoiled Bill would let them dump the ale out in the street, with a great public performance. Bill would go out and call them pigs, and loudly evoke Lady Liberty, the Founding Fathers, and the Pope himself. Just a few minutes later, the policemen would squeeze back inside.

“But didn’t the people outside the bar noticed that people were still drinking? “

“Did they notice? The whole damn city was drinking!  I don’t think there has been a time in the history New York when people drank more than during Prohibition. It is true that maybe some people were driven out of the bars, but for the people who stayed, it became kind of personal. They had to drink to show the rest of the country that if they had become a bunch of dry goody-goodies, great for them, but New York stays New York.“

“Must have been fun”, I added.

“It was! With all the boring people out of the bars, those who stayed went wild. Once you had broken a law, it was easier to break others. Not here with Bill, of course. The man was as old-fashioned as it gets. But once, we took him to an speakeasy after closing time, and the place was full of women and queers. The next day, he was talking about stop selling ale, obeying the law, even closing down. Sin and degradation had finally gone too far in this city, he said. He went so far as to order Kelly to stop brewing in the basement. We were terrified. But that night, when me and a small group of regulars were holding on to our last ales of the day, something happened that I’ll never forget. The portrait of Bill’s dad, Old John, the one hanging over there, fell from the wall, hit Bill right on the head. How incredible is that?  Of course, Bill’s fear of eternal damnation was nothing compared to his fear of his old man, so he himself rushed down the stairs and got the bathtubs running again.”

I examined the painting. The saloon’s founder didn’t look like a man I’d like to piss off, either. Even from a wall saturated with pictures and memorabilia, his figure dominates the entire room. It doesn’t matter where you seat, he’s always looking at you. And he never, never likes you. Intimidated, I ordered four more mugs. To my dismay, my new friend did the same, and I got lost in the liquid math of arriving mugs. 

“But do you want to know the real deal going on with Bill? In fact, the whole reason behind his performances and his fixations. Well, it was that he was deeply insecure about something. Something that tormented him every day behind this bar.”

He leaned over to me, held his breath for a couple of seconds and whispered: 

“He didn’t like ale.” 

“Oh! I said, raising my eyebrows and opening my mouth, showing that I understood the implications, which I absolutely didn’t.” 

“Yeah. He worked here every day of his life trying to hide the fact that he didn’t like the very substance he was surrounded with. Well, like is not quite the word: it sickened him. He tried it many times, but it was a lost cause. And of course, he was always terrified that the clients would find out. He used to keep a half full mug around, and if someone wanted to invite him to an ale, he’d say he already had one. But of course, we all knew. We just didn’t want to worry him, so I don’t think anybody ever told him.

“I don’t understand, what exactly is so problematic about him not liking ale?”

He looked at me, more puzzled than offended, and replied:

“What do you mean what’s problematic? This is an alehouse. That’s what you come here for. Why would you go to a church if you didn’t believe in God? Now, imagine that you are actually the priest in that Church. If you don’t like ale, that is, if you don’t believe in God, you’re deceiving those people. That’s what Bill must have felt all his life. Guilt, pure guilt. But do you want to know what I think? I think in fact Bill devoted his life to ale. The fact that he couldn’t stand it only made his sacrifice more admirable. Why does a priest need to believe, if he cares for his flock and guides it the right way?”

I am not sure I fully understood yet, but I liked the metaphor. I wish I had known his name to credit him for it, but he didn’t give me time to ask. He suddenly said he had to go, pleasure to talk to you, see you around. Before leaving he waived at the waiter:

—Bill, be a good lad and serve my friend another ale— he said, leaving some dollar bills. 

Alone again, I looked around. The bar was now full. Men and women of all ages, crowding the tables and elbowing their way to the bar. The atmosphere had gotten a lot thicker and the noise made it difficult to hear one’s own thoughts. In the wall, there was a framed copy of Joseph Mitchel New Yorker’s piece The old house at home, from 1940:

(…) To a devoted McSorley’s costumer, most other New York City saloons are tense and disquieting. It is possible to relax in McSorley’s. The barely audible heartbeatlike ticking of the old clocks is soothing. Also, there is a thick, musty smell that act as a balm to jerky nerves. A Bellevue interne once remarked that for some mental states, the smell in McSorley’s would be a lot more beneficial than psychoanalysis, or sedative pills, or prayer. (…) 

Maybe times change, maybe they don’t. Maybe time, like human senses, work differently in places like McSorley’s. Anyway, the waiter arrived with my two mugs of ale. Was he the same Bill? I still don’t know, but I began to drink one mug for him and the other for all the Bills of the world. 

#Bar #beer #irish