IRISH CAR BOMBS

Last Saturday was, of course, St. Patrick’s Day. Liz and I were in Yosemite for the National Association of Interpretation (park rangers, naturalists and the like) Region 9 Workshop. After a busy day of networking, amazing scenery, fluffy, fluffy snow and concurrent sessions, Liz and I teamed up for a kick-ass presentation on working with preschoolers. Then there was dinner, John Muir and a lively auction. Liz got a really cool beret and a six-pack of my beer went for $100. Thanks Mike!

Anyway, the evening was far from over. We retired across the way to Camp Curry’s rustic lodge. In the back room we gathered around a long table. We were well supplied with lots of Guinness Stout, Jameson’s Whiskey and Baleys Irish Cream. We had all the makings of the fabled and famous Irish Car Bomb.

Since this is the HEAD Society’s blog, I thought I’d touch on a little history. The Irish Car Bomb is a variation of the classic Boiler Maker. Let me take you back to St. Patrick’s Day 1981. We’re in Wilson’s Saloon, a Norwich, Connecticut, institution. The bartender, Charles Burke Cronin Oat was serving up a drink he called “the IRA”. A pint of stout with a depth charge of Baileys and Kahlua. Oat and his buddies, in the spirit of the holiday, replaced the Kahlua with Jameson’s Irish whiskey. The Irish Car Bomb was born!

It was an immediate hit. The first sip is all stout but it quickly goes milkshake in your mouth. Through the magic of science, the Jameson’s curdles the cream in the Baileys. So, stout, milkshake and to finish it off, a kiss of chocolate. It’s not a sipping drink. The whiskey-cream curdle thing means you’ve got to drink it right down. I refrain from using “chug” since that has the whole frat boy cogitation and we’re much more sophisticated .

The Car Bomb remained a local favorite until it was featured in the 2004 movie “Ladder 49”. John Travolta, Joaquin Phoenix and a handsome band of manly firefighters downing car bombs rocketed the drink into the status of cocktail legend.

So back to Yosemite. I watched Liz down her second and third car bombs. I followed and I swear I heard Irish singing. Thanks to Kelli and Kevin a new Bletz St. Patrick’s Day tradition is born! 

HEAD ache...

I've been remiss in my blogging since our brewery trip to Oakland. I'm sorry, but the actual HEAD trip was very similar to the scouting trip and I didn't want to bore anybody. Well, actually, Jo was there, so that was fun and different, Frank was there, too, and there was a biker chick yelling about her "f*cking dog" in the bar. Plus Wilfred the Bartender made me a Pink Drink. Don't know what was in it, but it was so good I ordered another one and if  floor wasn't slanted and I could have made it to the bar, I might have ordered a third. We also discovered that there is a bathroom there and if you're using it and somebody comes in the storage room, you can...compare notes! Joan and I decided last time that the place needs a bra on the wall so I was prepared to sacrifice my red New Year's one that's so padded it looks like you've got Beanie Babies strapped to your chest, but I forgot to take it...next time.

Anyway, last weekend, we were preparing to embark on a pre-St.Paddy's inspection of The Little Shamrock, the oldest Irish bar in San Francisco. We anticipated a decent sized group-until the phone started to ring. Illness, family responsibility, livelihood...these are lameoid excuses to miss a HEAD trip! The only valid reason to miss an appointment with historical gustatory destiny is that you have to donate an organ to the Giant's pitcher so he can take the mound in the seventh game of the World Series. We would also accept deciding game of the NLCS. Pussies! By the time the carnage ended, it was just me, Ira,and Jenn. Undeterred, we set forth and talked about betrayal all the way to the city.

Jenn, who couldn't be any more San Fancisco if she was a gay man dressed up like a nun, found a great parking lot and off we trotted to try the beer at a place with Social in the name. it was cool and had pretty good food but it was not at all historical and so off we went to Il Romano for pizza. It was good and the waiter was nice, but the coolest thing about the place was it was opened in 1955, which as we all know was a great year for Chevys, Italian restaurants and women (me). The age of the place doesn't make it historical, just mellow, sultry and incredibly wise...

Stuffed with pizza, we waddled over to the Little Shamrock, bellied up to the bar and ordered. Beer for Ira (there are 17 on tap!)white Russian for Jenn, wine for me. Now the other drinks were normal, but my wine was HUGE! The bartender poured the glass almost to the top! I like her very much. While we were nursing our beverages, we noticed a large group of people all dressed up sitting on couches behind us. There was also a little girl in a twirly dress and hairbow sitting at the bar nursing a Shirley Temple and playing Candyland with another patron.

 We got to talking to the cherub and complimenting her dress. Turns out she is the daughter of the owner of the bar! The family was on its was to a wedding and since it was a Muslim wedding, they were getting lubed up ahead of time. The owner, Saeed, is a very nice and generous man who treated us to a round on the house. Now, I had decided to just stick with one glass of vino since it was so huge, but what could I do? I couldn't be impolite...so I said " What the hell, I' m not driving!" and ordered another tub of Savignon Blanc. The rest of the trip is sketchy, but I do remember backgammon, ketchup, trophies and drinking all of Ira's beer because "What the hell, I'm not driving!". There were also burgers and ,sweet potato fries. It was FUN! Sorry y'all missed it...Pussies...