Lunch Break - An old bar with my old man
Sampling dishes and diners in and around Miami County
The subtitle doesn’t quite do it justice. When my father and previous New York City-hater came to visit me for the first time at my home away from home for three months, we did not, in fact, go to any old bar; we went to the oldest operating bar in New York City.
Our McSorley’s Old Ale House visit was actually a two-time event in 48 hours, but it was sandwiched (pun intended always) between a multitude of memorable outings, beginning with waiting for a hotel room on Broadway.
I’m not sure why my father, the biggest hater of all things lines and tourism, thought that the Hilton on Broadway wouldn’t be the overcrowded mess that it was. But he also wasn't surprised when his room wasn’t ready an hour and a half after they said it would be available. He only booked it a week ahead of time and used his points for a free room. How were they supposed to know he’d actually show up?
This is a common problem for traveling salesmen, and my dad was actually pretty patient and calm about the whole situation, despite carrying a heavy bookbag and wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a button-up shirt in 86-degree weather.
We waited around in air conditioning and enjoyed each other’s company for an hour and a half before finally asking the front desk if the room was ready and receiving the key. After my dad’s mandatory post-big-city quick shower, we returned to the hotel lobby, only to find that it was happy hour in the bar.
I convinced my dad to enjoy $2.50-a-pop oysters on the half shell, just a little past their season, with some overpriced but discounted drinks. The oysters were good. It’s hard to mess up something that God himself is the chef of, and despite their larger size, they were delicious with lemon juice, horseradish, a cracker, and all the fixings.
Dad ordered the Brooklyn Lager, and before pulling my classic move of ordering a glass of the sweetest wine they had, he stopped me and pointed to the cocktail menu. There was a drink titled the CP, and if you haven’t been following along, those just so happen to be my initials. So, I drank a flower-garnished mixed drink of peach vodka, peach Schnapps, sour mix, lime, and cranberry juice. It was pink because it was obviously made in my image.
We then walked all around New York for hours. From 5:00 to 11:00 p.m., we basically visited every neighborhood in Manhattan. After a trip to the breathtaking 9/11 memorial, the booming off-market bag seller-riddled streets of Soho, the hipster boujee bar-filled West Village, a pier side view of Lady Liberty, and about 10 miles of walking, we were parched.
My uncle Jeff, a family friend and New Jersey native, recommended a bar in East Village to my dad before his plane even left the tarmac in Cleveland. Known for his expensive steakhouse taste and fancy aura, we didn't think that Mr. Jeffery knew the kind of place my dad and I liked to hang around. We were mistaken.
Uncle Jeff’s recommendation of McSorley’s became a staple in our quick father-daughter weekend. Saturday night, we waltzed into the sawdust-covered floors and conversation-filled watering hole and felt right at home. My dad and I stepped up to the bar, and my dad promptly turned to me and said, “Light or dark?” Unsure if I was about to get a sawed-off piece of a Thanksgiving turkey leg, I opted for light. “Two lights,” he told the bartender, and within 10 seconds, four tiny mugs half full of foam and beer were laid out in front of us. I was thoroughly impressed by my father's sudden adaptation to NYC and painfully homesick in the Ohio-like bar.
I was also immensely jealous of the white-coated barmaid men, as they only poured two types of ale and two types only. Do you know how hard it is to pretend to know the difference between a hazy, double, and regular IPA at Chaffee's? This seemed far easier. You don’t even have to hold the cup sideways to pour. Two cups for half the waiting around time.
Dad paid in cash (because you have to), and we split for the night. The next morning, we repeated the process of walking around until we made it to Zabar’s. A grocery store like no other (I know I’m adding insult to injury for my Tipp City folk). We swiped a free sample of a deliciously salty smoked salmon, purchased the best roast beef sandwich I’ve ever had, two Italian sodas, and some whitefish salad. We picnicked in the park, enjoying our old man meal of savory fish goop, meat, bread, and crackers, and made our way to the Staten Island Ferry, which we bailed on, because we had again worked up an unquenchable need for some light and darks.
About an hour before my father departed for the airport, we shared another sandwich and a bittersweet couple of ales. The sandwich was far from such, as it was the liverwurst special. My 75-year-old Irish journalist colleague says I couldn’t pay him to eat the liverwurst, to which I would say, “Have you ever tried to write anything entertaining about a hot dog?”
The sandwich was as if bologna was elevated to a salty, chewy level of bliss, and then zapped with electric spicy mustard and raw onions on rye. We blamed this for the tears in our eyes when it was time to say goodbye, and after my dad left for Tipp City, I was once again sitting on the C train and longing for Tippecanoe and home sweet home.
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