The Ruining of the Green

THE WAY BACK

The Ruining of the Green

Not long after I received my wings as a full-fledged waiter working dinner shifts at Jake’s Famous Crawfish, I was introduced to what had become a wildly popular annual ritual there. The majority owner, Bill, being a full-blooded Irishman and a full-throated drinker, was a huge fan of St. Patrick’s Day, and to him it was sacrosanct. I myself was just barely of legal drinking age and had only partied on the day a couple of times, which in no way prepared me for the absolute mayhem I was about to endure.

Like Cinco de Mayo in Mexico, St. Patrick’s Day is a holiday observed in Ireland with religious services, parades, and traditional dances and feasts. And like Cinco de Mayo, America has hijacked St. Patrick’s Day and turned it into an occasion for work absenteeism and drunken merriment. Which we happen to be very good at.

As you are well aware, I was not at all opposed to the idea and pretty good at it myself but celebrating St. Patrick’s Day and working in a restaurant and bar where people celebrate St. Patrick’s Day are two very different experiences. And at Jake’s Famous Crawfish in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s it amounted to cruel and unusual punishment.

Working the lunch shift that day felt normal, albeit with some unusual menu items for a fish house including Irish stew and corned beef sandwiches. It seemed a bit odd when people started piling in and clamoring for tables at precisely 11:30am just as we began service. They wanted booths actually, but there was nothing untoward about that because Americans have a preference for booths that borders on obsession. It obviously wasn’t these early birds’ first St. Paddy’s rodeo, but it wasn’t clear to me why they were so specific about seating until lunch ended at 1:30pm and they were still camped out in the booths.

It became crystal clear when the lunch waiters were tasked with removing all the free-standing tables and chairs in the dining room and stacking them in the back bar. This was to provide as much floor space as possible for people to stand and drink. And seeing as the main bar was already packed to the gills likely beyond the fire marshal’s recommended limit, the dining room immediately started to fill up. And since the booths could not be removed the people seated in them were grinning like catbirds as they eyed the gathering crowd. It all was starting to make sense, but unbeknownst to me, the fun was just beginning.

By mid-afternoon, the place was so full that waiters were assigned to guard the door and regulate the influx of revelers so we didn’t exceed the maximum capacity of the place. Which we clearly already had. Now that I finally occupied an adult body I wasn’t exactly small, but I wasn’t by any means the biggest dude on staff and didn’t cut the figure of an imposing doorman, so I felt a little unqualified for this new assignment from management. But I certainly wasn’t going to beg off duty to suffer slings and arrows from my colleagues, so I took up position on one side of the bar entrance across from a veteran waiter who seemed much more at ease with the situation.

As the afternoon wore on, I was relieved to discover that the vast majority of those in line, which now stretched the length of a city block, were accustomed to this policy and reasonably well behaved despite being clearly under the influence already.

It was amazing, however, how many waiting to get in insisted they were friends or relatives of Bill McCormick. The Irish often have large families but it seemed unlikely there were over a hundred who all happened to be in line at my door.

Some feigned indignance and asked our names for their scathing private reports, but thankfully nobody threatened violence or tried to force their way in, and I was very happy when finally relieved of door duty to resume serving the crush of people who had already gained admittance.

Per the Oregon Liquor Control Commission, we were required to serve some hot food items along with the oceans of Irish coffee and whiskey and green beer being consumed, and it was my job to encourage patrons who’d had perhaps one or a few too many to avail themselves of meal service. Which almost no one did. It went on like this throughout the long night. By that time, I had noticed the requirement that all staff participate in this hellish exercise was rather loosely enforced with many of the veteran waiters making only cameo appearances with light duties such as making back-up coffee and drinking it. But being almost the low man on the totem pole, who was I to complain?

By the time the night mercifully drew to a close around 2am, and the last of the bitter enders were shown the door, I had formed some strong opinions about St. Patrick’s Day. Which became even stronger the next morning when I dragged my ass into Jake’s for an unfortunately scheduled lunch shift.

When I arrived, I was astounded to find the bar full of people even though it was well before the time we opened. When I asked what the fuck was going on, I was informed that we were selling off the keg of green beer at ten cents a pint.

I didn’t fully explain earlier, but it was standard practice at Jake’s on St. Patrick’s Day to put green food dye in the kegs of Blitz beer. The Blitz Weinhard brewery, which was just a block away from the restaurant, produced an American lager of singular lightness and tastelessness which was the perfect vehicle for this topical bit of whimsey, and proved to be an enormously popular choice for the inebriated assemblage. Needless to say, however, on any other day it was not going to sell well and therefore either needed to be discarded or sold off cheaply to anyone willing to further debase themselves. And this was apparently well known by a hardy group of partiers who were willing and able to keep the party rolling.

There is a sign on the wall behind the bar at Jake’s that counts down the days to the next St. Paddy’s celebration, and on that morning it stood at 364. Now knowing exactly what the day meant for Jake’s employees, I remember watching that sign closely and viscerally dreading the day the count reached zero.

I ended up working three more of them and it never got any easier, and as a permanent consequence, I don’t drink Irish whiskey on St. Patrick’s Day, or coffee, or anything green, or wear anything green, and if anyone pinches me, I slap them. So, come Monday I will sit this one out…again.