Your friend and mine, Dennis Pitocco, sent me this photo of a watering hole near where he and his wife, Ali, live in Tampa, Florida:
People who think Irish pubs and grills are a dime a dozen are most likely correct. But they probably don’t know why there are so many or why they’re called pubs and grills. So, as a public service, I’m going to break it down for you.
Start With the Pubs
The reason there are so many Irish pubs is that drinking for Irishmen is an Olympic sport. Even the amateurs are pretty competitive. There is, for instance, the story of the Irishman who, while visiting the United States, went into a local bar and ordered a pint of Guinness. As he was sipping it, he noticed a large snifter full of 100-dollar bills on a shelf behind the bar.
Calling the bartender over, he asked, “What’s with that snifter full of money up there?”
The bartender said, “Oh, that’s for a running bet we have going on here.”
“What might that be?” the Irishman asked.
“Well,” the bartender said, “you have to ante up 100 bucks. Then you have to chug a fifth of Jameson’s and chase it by chugging a pint of Guinness. And you have to do it without puking.”
“I see,” the Irishman said.
And with that, he finished his pint and left.
Fifteen minutes later, he came back, sat down, ordered another pint of Guinness, laid a $100 bill on the bar, and said to the bartender, “I’ll take that bet.”
The bartender put the Irishman’s money in the snifter, took a fifth of Jameson from a shelf, unscrewed the cap from the bottle, drew another pint of Guinness, and placed both of them on the bar in front of the Irishman. The Irishman promptly chugged both, picked up the pint he’d ordered when he walked back into the bar moments prior, and struck up a conversation with the man on the stool next to him.
The bartender shrugged, emptied the snifter, arranged the bills neatly, bound them with a rubber band, and brought them to the Irishman.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” he asked the Irishman as he handed him the money.
“Not at all, mate,” the Irishman replied. “What might be on your mind?”
“When you walked out of here 15 minutes ago, where did you go?”
“Oh,” the Irishman replied. “I just went to the pub down the block to make sure I could do it.”
Now the Grill
Most Irish pubs do, in fact, have grills in them. But most of the time, they’re not used for cooking food. As a result of their predilection for the drink as the Irish put it — and thereafter getting themselves in all manners of scrapes, beefs, and disputes, domestic and otherwise — what’s most frequently on the grill is the asses of the Irishmen. A case in point:
Having stopped for a wee bit ‘o the drink before picking up his wife at the local market, Murphy’s driving home with a song in his heart and his head in the clouds. After a while, he notices the swirling lights of a motorcycle cop behind him. Being the law-abiding drunk that he is, Murphy dutifully pulls over.
The cop approaches Murphy’s car, incredulous, and says, “Murphy! Good God, Man! What the hell’s wrong with ye?”
“What seems to be the trouble, Officer? Was I weaving or exceeding the speed limit?”
“Have ye lost your mind, Man?!” the officer screams. “Your wife fell out of the car a good five miles back!”
“Oh, praise the Lord,” Murphy says. “I thought I’d gone deaf.”
And that’s how Murphy ended up with his ass on the grill.
You can take the Mick out of Ireland. But you can’t take the Irish out of the Mick.
So, let’s go. Belly up.
