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Nestled amongst a formidable collection of bric-a-brac lie three small vessels. Each contains the earthly remains of a McSorley’s regular whose final wish was to be laid to rest amongst the sawdust and tchotchkes. Houdini good-spiritedly agreed to the challenge and let the police officer shackle him.
I Visited NYC's Oldest Irish Tavern — Things That Surprised Me - Business Insider
I Visited NYC's Oldest Irish Tavern — Things That Surprised Me.
Posted: Sun, 17 Mar 2024 07:00:00 GMT [source]
Cooper Square
Yet Theodore Roosevelt might have witnessed as much, as his faded portrait overlooks the very place he once occupied during this time. Bill was big and thick-shouldered, but he did not look strong; he had a shambling walk and a haggard face and always appeared to be convalescing from something. He wore rusty-black suits and black bow ties; his shirts, however, were surprisingly fancy—they were silk, with candy stripes. He was nearsighted, the saloon was always dimly lit, and his most rigid conviction was that drink should not be sold to minors; consequently he would sometimes peer across the bar at a small-sized adult and say, “Won’t sell you nothing, bud.
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A customer who wanted service would tap on the window and Old John would drop his currycomb, step inside, draw an ale, and return at once to the horse. He was normally affable but was subject to spells of unaccountable surliness during which he would refuse to answer when spoken to. He went bald in early manhood and began wearing scraggly, patriarchal sideburns before he was forty.
A Tour of McSorley’s
The anarchist, who thought no man was as foul as a Tammany boss, smiled and thanked him. A police captain once took it upon himself to warn Bill against Havel. He’s in favor of blowing up every bank in the country.” “So am I,” said Bill. He owned as many as eighteen at once and they had the run of the saloon.
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed my experience at McSorley's during my visit last year. Here are some things that might surprise you about the oldest Irish bar in the country if you choose to visit yourself. McSorley's Old Ale House is one of the oldest bars in New York City. Established in 1854, the bar still serves its signature ale and sits in the same location as it did from the beginning. The bar regularly hosts war veterans, and some have left memorabilia behind. Patrons have gifted the bar two purple hearts, challenge coins, patches, and helmets from all eras.
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Except during prohibition, the rich, wax-colored ale sold in McSorley’s always has come from the Fidelio Brewery on First Avenue; the brewery was founded two years before the saloon. On these days the smell of malt and wet hops would be strong in the place. Kelly’s product was raw and extraordinarily emphatic, and Bill made a practice of weakening it with near beer. In fact, throughout prohibition Bill referred to his ale as near beer, a euphemism which greatly amused the customers. One night a policeman who knew Bill stuck his head in the door and said, “I seen a old man up at the corner wrestling with a truck horse.
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"I have the ashes of around eight or nine previous customers behind the bar, as their last request was for their ashes to be behind the bar at McSorley's. Part of the charm of McSorley's, in addition to the low prices, is the lack of choice. In a city like New York, I'm accustomed to lengthy drink menus with steep prices.
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A daily menu has been established (and posted on two chalkboards) the prices are as reasonable as the food is fine. Only a few of the old men have enough interest in the present to read newspapers. These patrons sit up front, to get the light that comes through the grimy street windows. When they grow tired of reading, they stare for hours into the street. It is one of those East Side streets completely under the domination of kids. While playing stickball, they keep great packing-box fires going in the gutter; sometimes they roast mickies in the gutter fires.
McSorley’s occupies the ground floor of a red brick tenement at 15 Seventh Street, just off Cooper Square, where the Bowery ends. In eighty-six years it has had four owners—an Irish immigrant, his son, a retired policeman, and his daughter—and all of them have been opposed to change. It is equipped with electricity, but the bar is stubbornly illuminated with a pair of gas lamps, which flicker fitfully and throw shadows on the low, cobwebby ceiling each time someone opens the street door.
There is also an old ice chest that houses a small variety of sodas, the only drink other than the light or dark ale on the menu. There has never been one and to preserve its extensive history, there will probably never be one. To commemorate the unique difference of no cash register, there is a sign hanging in which states “We Trust Here” and shows the backside view of a pig. Above the bar, wishbones covered with many generations worth of dust are visible from their seat upon an old gas lamp. As you begin to take a closer look, you can spot an original wanted poster for Abraham Lincoln’s assassin following that tragedy, dating back to 1865. As well, you may have the good fortune to spot Babe Ruth’s farewell photo from Yankee stadium, which was a donation from the photographer who was a regular himself.
Sometimes, in the afternoon, if the weather was good, he would shuffle into the bar, a sallow, disenchanted old man, and sit in the Peter Cooper chair with his knotty hands limp in his lap. The customers were sure he was getting ready to die, but when he came in they would say, “You looking chipper today, Billy boy,” or something like that. He rarely spoke, but once he turned to a man he had known for forty years and said, “Times have changed, McNally.” “You said it, Bill,” McNally replied. As close as his friends could figure it, his age was seventy-six.
With alcohol of any sort outlawed, brewing operations switched to the basement of McSorley’s Old Ale House where it remained business as usual until Prohibition ended. After this dryest chapter in American history the Fidelio Brewery returned as official brewers of McSorley’s Cream Stock Ale. Located on First Avenue and occupying the entire block between 29th and 30th Streets — the Brewery proudly carried huge billboards advertising both McSorley’s Cream Stock Ale and McSorley’s Famous Lager. McSorley's also makes sure to maintain its close connection to both Ireland and Irish America, which is evident particularly through their tradition of having firemen and police officers working at the bar.
Throughout these years, American painter John Sloan also famously created a series of still life paintings of McSorley’s, such as the one above. Supposedly, the ashes of up to four other individuals are covertly housed at the near end of the bar, close to the main door. Why do some people get the honor of resting behind the bar forever while others get scattered amongst the sawdust? The standards for being laid to rest behind the bar are quite rigorous. You have to be a regular of the pub for over 40 years in order to be placed across from Old John’s likeness. During World War I, Old John’s son, Bill, began a touching tradition.
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