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March 16-22, 2006

Eats : Food

True Irish

Letter From Galway

Last year, on my American tour, I was in Milwaukee for St. Patrick's Day. It was the one leg of the tour that Homeland Security loved me. They heard me accent and asked, "Where's your green tie?" The most green I was showing was in me gills at the fear of flying.

On the plane, the stewardess asked if I'd like a bottle of Guinness. At 6 in the morning?

Um ... no thanks.

I was proving to be a poor advertisement for me nation.

Milwaukee was up to its arse in snow and I knew in Ireland, in me hometown of Galway, they were having spring weather.

After a reading, we went to ... yup, the pub. And the customers, alerted to me arrival, had lined up shots of Jameson and green Guinness. It's a complete mystery to us in Ireland how you could desecrate a pint with green dye. Are ye stone mad and we do know ye mean well but god almighty.

Then friends of mine laid on a party that would put the Irish to shame, mountains of delicious food and not a green cabbage in sight and no spuds or bacon but a choice of every other dish you've ever longed for and as they knew I was coming, a crate of Jameson. I kid you not.

In Ireland, we'd be supplying pots of tea and soda bread.

I rang home before hitting me bed and asked the family what they had for their St. Patrick's Day dinner. I hate to smash myths and folklore, but what they had was typical of the new rich international Ireland:

Chicken curry

Nice merlot

Cheesecake

My teenage daughter had fries and a Big Mac.

I know I should lie, I owe it to the Irish Tourist Board, and say they had

Stew, with spuds and bacon

Poteen

Custard and rhubarb.

In hope of rescuing the old lore, I asked if they watched The Chieftains, but alas, my wife watched Dr. Phil and my daughter watched The O.C.

Desperate now for a touch of the past, I asked my wife if the parade had bodhrans, Uilleann pipes, spoons and jig 'n' reels.

She asked how much Jameson I'd had.

On the plane the next day to Boulder, I read in the newspaper of an American journalist who approached a man in an Aran sweater, on Grafton Street, believing he'd found a real Irishman and was told the man had arrived two days ago from Bosnia.

I began to sing the opening lines of "Galway Bay."

Ken Bruen is the award-winning author of The Dramatist (St. Martin's Minotaur) and editor of Dublin Noir (Akashic).

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