A number of years ago I decided to take the test to become a New York City tour guide. Why? Why not? Having an interest in New York, past and present, I thought it might be fun. I received the license but never led a tour, that wasn’t my objective; sharing information and stories was, and for that matter, still is. And so I often meet a friend, or a friend’s friend, at McSorley’s Old Ale House where we talk about New York’s history, its politics, buildings and bridges, sports, crime, music or anything of interest.
I stopped in recently and I was greeted by an unforgettable mixture, ale that has seeped into the old floorboards, pine sawdust that once absorbed the spat tobacco, a few raw onions, and a hint of disinfectant. McSorley’s Old Ale House is the perfect balm for whatever ails you.
As I waited for my friend, playwright Pat Fenton, I wondered if my great great great grandfather John Hale ever visited McSorley’s? John McSorley opened The Old House at Home in February of 1854, a few months before John Hale’s immigrant ship, the Neptune, sailed toward the tip of Manhattan on May 23, 1854. The Hales lived around the corner on the Bowery. My son Chris, just might be the seventh generation of Hales to frequent the place.
“Couple of lights, Charlie?” the floor boss, Richie Walsh, asked as I settle into my favorite spot, the small round table, the one with the wood drawn back at the edges, located just north of the potbelly stove.
“Lights, Richie,” I called. You can have anything you want at McSorley’s as long as it’s McSorley’s light or dark ale.
I sat surrounded by the two-room saloon’s countless framed pictures and newspaper articles, browned with age. Behind the bar, relics of glory now gone: a fire helmet, rusted handcuffs, a rocking chair and a pipe. Any time is a good time to visit the Ale House but my favorite time is midweek, particularly a winter’s day. Try it. Go in and sit quietly next to the stove. The heat from the stove radiates along your spine, as the day closes in around you. You’ll soon be wrapped in darkness and congenial shadows, the perfect wintry atmosphere of funereal gloom. You can’t beat it.
“Have a good day, Pepe,” a departing patron called to Pepe, McSorley’s day-manager and barkeep. “It will be when you leave,” he called back. Pepe, who grew up in the East Village neighborhood, has been serving customers for over thirty years, and, as he says, “controls the chaos.” Not without great wit, I might add.
And McSorley’s, is a storyteller’s paradise. Sitting at a table next to the stove, surrounded by NYC memorabilia, you never know who you might share a story with: an actor or news anchor, a governor, a chess grandmaster, an ex-con or a porn star. I’ve shared a story or two with each along the way.
After spending a few hours trading stories with Pat, we readied to leave. “Keep the fire burning,” I said to Pepe, who was bending over the stove, stoking its coals.
“It’s been burning for 158 years, my friend, and it’ll be burning long after we’re both dead and gone.”
“Yeah, thanks for that cheery reminder, Pepe,” I said as we walked toward the door, past two patrons entering the saloon.
And as we reached the swinging doors the last voice I heard was Pepe’s. ”How come every time I’m bending over you two show up?” Classic, Pepe. Classic place.
Written by Charles R. Hale