It's really ridiculous how hard I studied all New York City businesses to find a bar that was not only Boston-tolerant but Boston-enthusiastic.
Game 7 of the 2011 Stanley Cup was imminent. It being a Wednesday on June 15th, 2011, I couldn't hope to Fung Wah it back to my home city in time to be with my own kind for such a sensitive moment in hockey history, so it was really important for me to find the right spot.
The only common result in all my searches was The Hairy Monk. Finally, I called the place and asked if they were playing the game that night. "Yah," the girl on the phone said in a no-nonsense tone. Done.
That evening, during the tail end of a geeked out Cal alum happy hour at Three Monkeys on the West Side, my California native friend and I tore ourselves away from our balcony view of a movie screen sized projection of the Bruins versus the Canucks. Great view, but no audio. It was sacrilege to listen to the teams duke it out to a soundtrack of shitty lounge techno.
As we ran up The Hairy Monk, we saw that the place had spilled out onto the entire block. The mobs should have been a testament to the Bostonian spirit of the place. However, we didn't feel like sniffing armpits or getting accidentally stabbed with half bottles of Coors Light, so we looked outside the street to Fitzgerald's with only a slightly smaller crowd. Suddenly, the whole street roared. I ran up to the door of Fitzgerald's, whereupon a few Boston boys screamed, "Get in heah - we just got a goal!" This statement was heartening for several reasons. First, they assumed that I was from Boston and on their side. Second, they assumed I was there to see the game. Third, they invited me in like it was their grandma's house.
Even from a corner by the door, we were able to see the action. Soon, though, we squeezed into two front-and-center stools in front of a bar, shepherded by a bearlike drunk dude that had gone grizzly to teddy within the 2nd period of the game because he was buzzed on booze and the winning tide.
I got Guinnesses of course, from the main bartender who looked like Brian Williams, dressed like a non-douchey golf pro, and had an Irish accent. He let the beers sit still for a while. Once, he kind of forgot to bring the beer to me for a while, but I have to forgive him because it was a legitimate nuthouse in the place, and I was truly fixated on what was going on on the ice.
Some fat, horrific Mexican dude started talking up my friend, who acted as my buffer as he attempted to flirt with us both by explaining why, since he's a minority, he can say things like "slanty eyes" without racist attentions. Whatever, fool.
He bought us tequila shots. I drank and ignored him. He sucked tequila off my friend's arm. I ignored him. He bought us Jager bombs. I choked it down and ignored him. But then I heard a girl talking shit on my friend and me. I've fantasized about these trashy Jersey Shoreian moments, but truth be told, had never quite found myself in one until that night. Bewildered, I turned and looked at her with a worried expression on your face. "Is this your sister?" I asked the toad, because surely he was single and her protective attitude could only be explained by a familial relationship.
"Yeahhhh this is my sister. My older sister," he drawled.
"I'm your sister. I'm your sister? Go FUCK yourself," she said to him. I winced, and she turned to me and warned, "I swear to god, if you look at me one more time..."
At this point, I should have ripped out her earrings and headbutted her, right? Instead, I said, "Look, we don't want to get into anything. We're seriously here just watching the game." I left out the part where she should keep her freak on a leash. So weird.
Anyway, let's cut to the chase. WE (Boston) WON! All was ecstasy, and an older woman with a hot young guy pressed her face to mine and mumbled, "Look at my ring; I'm married and I don't know shit about hockey, but this guy next to me is HOT, right?" Riiight.
I took it upon myself to match the joyous/obnoxious celebrations by picking up a stainless steel bar cup and pounding it on the wooden bar. Sounded like a cowbell and left no nicks on the wood. The bartender came by and removed it as soon as I put it down. Another cup appeared. I did it again, and again, he took it away, not chastising me for my jackassed behavior.
Closed out my tab. $28, meaning that our four Guinnesses were $7 per, it could've been worse. Walked towards Papa John's screaming "FORTY YEARS!!!" because the last time Beantown got a Cup was 1972 with Orr. Some hipsters asked, "Aoooh, R U for-tee?" Fuck you, hipsters!! Keep smoking!!
Crashing at my friend's in Stuytown, we got cussed out by some dudes in the elevator who had apparently rooted hard for Vancouver. All I said was, "Did you see the game? So amazing for Boston!" And the dudes said, "You're with Boston? FUCK you," and exited the scene. Perfect.
What a night - thanks, Fitzgerald's. read more