FOUR IRISH TENORS WALK INTO A PUB…
1It’s 𝗦𝘁 𝗣𝗮𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗸’𝘀 𝗗𝗮𝘆, a day I never much cared for. Back when it mattered I looked disparagingly at St Patrick’s Day like I looked disparagingly at 𝘊𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰 𝘋𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘰 and 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘌𝘷𝘦: a pitiful excuse for amateur drinkers to invade the domain of those of us who kept those bars and lounges and other dens-of-iniquity in business the other 362 days (and nights) of the year. In fact I’d actively avoid going out those particular nights, and would avoid traveling for the same reason (𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵, 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦!). Back then I was spending a lot of time in Savannah, a town that respects the drinker in ways that other towns could learn a thing or two from. Except for St Patrick’s Day, the only time in which Bacchus gives Savannah sacrificially over to the pedestrian drinkers for a couple of days of frivolous debauchery. So I of course aggressively avoided Savannah around St Patrick’s Day…but the week AFTER St Patrick’s Day, that’s another thing altogether. That’s when the locals, and especially the Service Industry folks, fat from the overtime and (hopefully) free-flowing tips of the Todds and Karens from Atlanta, would come out and celebrate another season in the bag. And THAT is when you should go to Savannah. But I’ve digressed (𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦…).
To be honest, I actually don’t think the little story I’m about to convey was the week after St Patrick’s Day, in fact if my figuring is remotely correct it would have been several weeks BEFORE St Patrick’s Day 1999, mid-February to be inexact. I was in Savannah “on business”, as always, and a fellow Scrod from Stetson (𝘸𝘩𝘰, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘸𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦) was thinking about interviewing for a job at 𝗦𝗖𝗔𝗗, the world-renowned 𝗦𝗮𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮𝗵 𝗖𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗔𝗿𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻. So of course I said he should stay with me, since by this time I’d worked out always having a suite at the 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝘂𝗹𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 (𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 “𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦”, 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥-𝘢𝘸𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘶𝘭𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺), and most times Tim, the front desk manager, would make sure I was in the 𝗢𝗹𝘆𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗰 𝗦𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲, where the Olympic Torch was kept overnight, which aside from a plaque on the wall of the living room telling us of it’s most famous resident was the same as all the other suites. So I told Brad to just go ahead and get his interview scheduled the week of Feb something-or-other and he could have the pull-out couch in the living room (along with the Olympic plaque), and I’d show him the Savannah the administrators at SCAD probably never knew. And this is where the story, finally begins.
Whereas I have no distinct memory of this, I’m sure, 100%, that the first place I took Brad would have been 𝗖𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗹’𝘀 𝗣𝘂𝗯. This is where I would take everyone first, and often last, when they came to Savannah. In fact this was the first place I took MYSELF when I first got to Savannah late one summer night in 1998, but that’s another story for another time. We quickly set a pattern for the week, which mirrored my usual pattern, in which we started and ended every night at Churchill’s (𝘣𝘵𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘙𝘐𝘎𝘐𝘕𝘈𝘓 𝘊𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘗𝘶𝘣, 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘳, 𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘺, 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢 “𝘯𝘦𝘸” 𝘊𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘉𝘢𝘺 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯). The thing about Savannah was, and I assume and hope still is, is that you can walk right down the street downtown with an open container of alcohol (or I assume a non-alcoholic drink, but why?). And so every night when Will (𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘩, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦) would call Last Call, we’d get two plastic cups of beer filled to the brim, each, and head the five short blocks, past the Pink House and through Reynolds and Warren Squares, right down Bryan Street, and past the house where we’d been told by our Ghost Tour guide the first night that a terrible thing had once happened (𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘤𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘶𝘣𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘴, 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘳…𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘭, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘉𝘳𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘮 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘵 𝘶𝘴!).
At some point that week we were yet again ending the night at Churchill’s, and it was getting painfully close to closing time, when the door opened and three (perhaps more) surly looking folks marched in and the leader (or at least the one in front) loudly proclaimed in a very strong and very real Irish brogue, “𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 ‘𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘴. 𝘞𝘦’𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵!”. Will of course obliged, giving each an overflowing glass of their request. And after he’d served the last he walked over to the door, clicked off the outside light, locked the door, and told us to all (there was just Brad, myself and maybe two others that had lingered late) to settle in. And for the next hour, perhaps longer, the guys that had just marched in drank and sang…and sang and drank…Will finally let us in that these guys were the MAIN act at the Savannah Irish Festival which was going on that week, and had just finished their concert before coming here to relax! So we not only got to drink free for the next hour or more, we also got a free personal concert, just us and Will and those two or three other lucky souls who had lingered a bit late, and a waitress named Carey. And the one song that I can remember, and that still chills me to this day, was 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗲. I haven’t figured out who those guys were, and I’m almost positive it was NOT The Dubliners, but the video I’m sharing with this is as close as I’ve found to what it was like (although it was a very intimate pub, so the sound resonated off the walls and ceiling and glasses and kegs).
When it was finally over and the door was finally unlocked and we realized it had been raining the entire time, and that it was still drizzling. Luckily Carey, the one waitress that was still around, offered to give us a ride to our hotel. This turned out to be an adventure in itself because all THREE of us had our hands full with plastic cups of to-go beer, and she had a small pickup truck which the three of us and the six beers had to all squeeze into. We somehow managed to launch that little pickup truck jam packed with three people and two beers each out of the parking garage, and when we came barreling around the corner of Bryan and Houston Streets aiming squarely at the front door of the Mulberry we all immediately noticed the cop sitting right in our trajectory. Brad, who was considering seminar and a life of goodness if the SCAD thing fell through (it did), instantly panicked. But once Carey managed to get the pickup under control and stationary I calmly got out (𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘏𝘈𝘋 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳!) and not only kept my beers, I took a big chug from one and I walked right over to the police car and introduced Brad to my good friend Officer Tony, who just laughed at the state Brad was in, a shaking nervous, and now damp mess (it was still drizzling). In addition to being one of Savannah’s Finest he also made overtime as a kind-of nightwatchman for the Mulberry, and a personal friend of mine. Brad of course had no way of knowing any of this, nor that Officer Tony wasn’t even on duty this particular night, because the Savannah Police Department still allowed him to use the car and his uniform for these extracurricular activities. I don’t think Brad slept well that night, and was noticeably more restrained the next evening…for a while anyway. And since we’re here, perhaps a bit about Officer Tony…
I’d met Tony early in my forays to Savannah. I’d gotten there rather late one night, and Tim the front desk manager had checked me in (“𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘔𝘳 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶…𝘢𝘩 𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘭𝘺𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘤 𝘚𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯…”), and handed me the key card. I was keeping an eye on the time because I hadn’t had dinner and wanted to get some food in me to fortify the night of drinking I had planned (it wasn’t THAT late). So up I went to my suite, slapped the door with my key card…and nothing. Hmmph. So back down I went and Tim gave me a freshly minted key card, which once I made it back up to the suite quickly determined also didn’t work. SO back down one more time, but this time a big surly looking Po-Po was leaning against the desk talking to Tim. I told him it still didn’t work, so he again gave me a fresh key card, and this time asked the cop to go up with me to see if he could help. I wasn’t exactly enthused about this, but I had nothing to hide so accepted the extra assistance. Again the new key card didn’t work for me, and Tony (he’d introduced himself by now) took it and tried as well, and nothing. So with a rather disgruntled look on his face he made a step back, and made what I was sure was a reach for his pistol to shoot the lock off! At this though I too jumped back and said something like “What the hell are you doing!?”, which trailed off once I realized he had just reached down to get a master key card to try as well. We both had a good chuckle, and he radioed for maintenance to come and change the battery in the door.
The world has turned many times since Brad and Will the bartender and Carey the waitress and the two or three others that had lingered late that night got that amazing private concert. I no longer go to Savannah. Officer Tony passed away about ten years ago, Churchill’s, the original and in my very learned opinion only Churchill’s, as mentioned already, was taken by fire some years ago, Carey the waitress barely made it to the 21st Century before passing away, Brad, who last time I checked was still alive, did go on to seminary and has been doing the Lord’s work for over two decades now, and Will the bartender…I looked him up recently and he still seems to be around, playing reunion gigs with his old band Toxic Oscar. I really need to get in touch with him, before he too bellys-up to that Churchill’s in the great beyond.
- The picture is of the building the original Churchill’s, my Churchill’s, occupied. It caught fire at some point and instead of rebuilding in place the owner, a nice enough Brit, decided to take the insurance money and go up scale on Bay Street and take the name Churchill’s with him, but not it’s sole.[↩]