I'm not one to re-read my old reviews, but in looking to write an "update" for Blarney Station, I take note that my initial review of it...which is several years old now...was my 3rd Yelp review and, as is common with my early Yelp reviews...exceedingly brief (as opposed to my recent reviews, in which...some might say...I babble on ad nauseum about almost everything except the restaurant/store/landmark/bookstore/etc. ostensibly being reviewed). Fair enough. But in the past year, I've returned to the Blarney Station at least twice after not having dined there for several years, and an update is in order.
Let me say that the long dry spell was not because of any problems I had with the restaurant or the service. To explain that, a bit of preliminary babbling is in order...
Before my reunion with my birth family, Rutherford was not a city I was familiar with. Growing up, I had passed the exit for it on Rt. 3 countless times on my way to NYC and back, with family as a kid and with friends as an adult, without really noticing.
I was well into my adulthood when my birth mother was able to locate me and reach out. I was responsive, and we bonded. Born and raised in Hoboken, she had moved with her family to Rutherford as a teen. My maternal grandmother still lived in Rutherford at the time, and I became a regular visitor to the city where...under different circumstances...I might have grown up. (My birth father, from nearby Lyndhurst, had unfortunately died before the re-union could take place; I was able to establish a relationship with his sister and some cousins). I saw where my birth mother had gone to high school. I attended the Catholic Church where my birth father had been an altar boy. My birth mother even pointed out the house where I had been conceived (which may have been TMI, even for me).
We ate often at the Blarney Station, which my grandmother liked. Across the street from the Rutherford Train Station (which is where my panicking teenage birth mother had told my teenage birth father to meet her so she could inform him she was pregnant; his Irish-Catholic family was all for them getting married...my paternal grandfather supposedly said, "We'll just have to add a little more water to the soup"...but my maternal grandfather, a decent man from what I've been told but also a bit of a tyrant, finally put a definite kibosh on any marriage between the 2 teens, threatening to throw my birth mother and me out if she brought me home. Today, teens might have more options, but it was a different time back then...).
But then my maternal grandmother sold the old family home, moved, and I dined here less and less with my birth mother-- again, not for any negative reason, but because...well, just because, I guess...
A year ago, my maternal grandmother passed away in a distant state and my brother (technically, half-brother...we have the same mother but different fathers...but he's my brother, as far as I'm concerned, in every sense of that word) wanted to arrange a memorial gathering of family at the restaurant that she used to love (even though she didn't have a drop of Irish blood in her veins; she was of German descent) and it was a nice, bittersweet experience. I thought, "Why did I stop coming here? No reason at all..."
I returned recently with my birth mother and ordered the Happy Irishman Breakfast. Two eggs (scrambled, in my case), toast, beans, black & white pudding (not my favorite thing, but if I'm going to cater to my long-neglected Irish heritage...I'm going to cater to it all the way!), sausage, bacon, and a grilled tomato. It tasted as great as I remembered it.
The place has changed little with the passing years. The bar is crowded, and boisterous, but not unnerving or intimidating (I'm getting old; back in my drinking days, there was no such thing as an unnerving or intimidating bar). The dining area is compact but not uncomfortably so, and the service is friendly and efficient.
Near our table, a group of lawyers was talking (it made me think poignantly of the birth father I only knew through photos and from what I was told about him; he had been a lawyer before cancer felled him) about Trump's legal difficulties. My birth mother, much more of a "social butterfly" than I am, ventured an anti-Trump sentiment to them, thinking they were sympatico. One of them said, "Before you go on, let me tell you that I'm a Trump fan. We're talking legalities, not politics."
It could have been an ugly incident, but it wasn't. He was polite, civil. They returned to their discussion; we returned to our meals. I wasn't raised as someone of Irish descent (my adoptive parents were WASPs, and I didn't know I was Irish until I was in my 20s), but at the Blarney Station, I feel I'm returning to a familiar, comfortable environment. A belated return to my heritage. And even if you're not Irish, as my maternal grandmother wasn't, it's great Irish food.
Parking is bad, but then it's Ruthford. read more