My Give A Damn's Busted (Jo Dee Messina)

It was Saturday night and the restaurant had a forty-five-minute wait, so my friend Jeanne said, “Have you ever tried, O’Hara’s down the street?” “No,” I replied. “I’ve never even seen it.” Turns out that the reason I had never seen O’Hara’s was because it wasn’t exactly down the street. It was down an alley near the street. 

When we arrived, I noticed that there weren’t any cars in the parking lot, but there were a couple of motorcycles and a flatbed truck. The restaurant sign read, “Irish Food and Sing-Along.” Before I could protest, Jeanne had disappeared through the front door. As I entered, I bumped my head on a hanging basket. “I see twinkling lights,” I said, rubbing my head. “They’re in the basket,” she assured me. We sat at one of the tables facing the piano, and watched a man crooning “My Way” into the microphone.” If I had my way,” I said to Jeanne, “he’d button his shirt.”

The waitress came over and shouted, “My name is Saxony.” Jeanne said, “That’s a beautiful name,” and I said, “You are lucky your folks didn’t name you Vandal or Goth.” There weren’t any other customers, so she sat down and joined us.  She also pointed out that the little boy who was running around the bar was her son. Assuring me that the kid wouldn’t mix my martini, I ordered one with the stipulation it arrive quickly. Since all of the other tables were empty, I was assured that this was certainly possible. 

There were two men sitting at the bar. Saxony told us that the man wearing the American flag shirt was the proud owner of O’Hara’s, and that his friend was the biker. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt that showed off his jumping biceps tattoo of a grinning skull. 

The “My Way” singer started coming toward me, so I gave him my best, “Get out of my face look,” and said, “Isn’t it time for you to take a break?” He agreed and handed the microphone to a Vietnamese waitress who removed her apron and started slaughtering songs from Phantom of the Opera. I kept hoping that a basket of twinkling lights would fall on her head, or that a Phantom---any Phantom--- would take her to the restaurant basement, but no such luck.  She sang on and on and on. Finally, my vermouth-with-a-touch-of-vodka-and-three-maraschino cherries arrived. Obviously, it was an arts and crafts project complements of the bar running kid. I sent it back and ordered a glass of water and a menu. 

Spaghetti with tomato sauce wasn’t exactly Irish but it seemed the most harmless choice. I put down my menu and looked around. The restaurant wasn’t exactly filling up, but several people entered, sat down, cleared their throats and obviously began waiting their turn to sing.

Suddenly, a scarecrow woman ran out of the kitchen with our salads. She tossed them on the table, and then grabbed the mike. She, was, it turns out, our chef.  Jeanne asked me, “Are you feeling okay?” I replied, “God help us. That song is from Sweeny Todd.” Turns out that the spaghetti was pretty tasty, especially when mixed with buttered cinnamon carrots.  It was a weird combination, but kind of fit the place.

Two heavily made up buxom women—one blond and one redhead—had obviously escaped their coven, and created quite a stir when they flew in and sat at the bar. Impatiently, they flipped their long locks and drank their beers, waiting for the chef to retreat back to her kitchen. The minute she stopped to take a breath between a high and higher note, the redhead ran over, gave her a little shove, grabbed the mike and began to warble ‘Love for Sale.” Finally, realizing that no one was buying, she mercifully quit.  

The door swung open and a 300-pound woman wearing a glittering, black dress entered.  She must have been a local celebrity because three tough looking guys followed her in. She sat at the table in front of us mercifully blocking our view. 

No one wears glitz to an Irish sing along restaurant unless they seriously plan on singing. By now, my stomach was doing spaghetti/carrot flip-flops, so I said to Jeanne. “Let’s get out of here, before those thugs block the door.” I only hit my head on the twinkling basket once before the aria began---and Puccini turned over in his grave.

Esther Blumenfeld (shut up and pass the Guinness)