Seamus Rodriguez
So I didn’t make it to the punk club the other night, unfortunately. The guys I was going with are primarily British of one variety or another, and there was a really important football match (i.e. soccer game) on that night, Arsenal vs. Manchester United. (In the type of thrilling conclusion we’ve all come to expect from soccer, it was a 2-2 draw. Imagine the Cowboys/Patriots game from a few weeks ago ending in a tie.)
We watched the match at an Irish pub which opened recently. The place was creatively named “Paddy O’Shea’s.” (I can imagine the five seconds of thought expended in coming up with that name.) The funny thing came when we decided to order some food. We’re sitting there in your typical faux Irish pub, the place is full of Brits yelling and screaming at the screens, and when we asked for the menu it was all Mexican food. They had jalapeno poppers, quesadillas, the whole bit. (Or, you might say, the whole enchilada.) Apparently until a week ago the place had been a Mexican restaurant and they hadn’t gotten around to getting Irish food in the kitchen. Which, of course, led us to the inevitable question—what the hell would you put on an Irish menu? It would be like Monty Python skit.
“Well, what’ve you got?”
“Well, there’s potatoes and Guinness; potatoes, potatoes and Guinness; Guinness and potatoes; sausages, Guinness, and potatoes; Guinness, potatoes, Guinness, potatoes, sausages, potatoes, and Guinness.”
“Have you got anything without potatoes?”
“Well, there’s Guinness, potatoes, Guinness, Guinness, sausages, and Guinness. That’s not got much potatoes in it.”
