I'm not sure why, but Tuesday was feeling a bit too much like Friday. That or maybe I just live life like it's spring break (so I've been told). Either way, Tuesday evening worked out as my only night off this week and I was more than ready for an adult beverage. This particular Tuesday happened to be a bit special as my brother was in town for a few days before an 11-month deployment.
My tummy said sushi, so off we jived to Screaming Tuna, 106 W. Seeboth St. Although mildly disoriented by the odd street/apartment lobby type entrance, the atmosphere was inviting. Greeted promptly, our small group of four snagged a table generally secluded from the other patrons. We arrived closer to 9 p.m., so like most other restaurants at that time on a Tuesday, there wasn't a wait.
A strong debate ensued over exactly what rolls we should order. The menu contains a variety of smaller, basic maki/rolls as well as the fun-filled, larger specialty rolls. Obviously the right combination was going to take us ages to decipher.
Our order was placed and I finally noticed the patio. Stunning. It overlooks the river and I was kicking myself for not making it to the restaurant in time for sunset.
Our food arrived before I could down my first glass of Flying Fish Riesling. There it was, heaven sent, a cornucopia of sushi. Had there been no one around, I'm 99.9 percent sure I would have licked the plate clean.
After a meal of that caliber, we were all ready to bask in our extreme satisfaction over a round of cocktails. Conveniently located within eyesight, The Irish Pub, 124 N. Water St., loomed on the horizon. Some confusion remained as my brother tried to determine the name of this Irish pub we were heading to. I believe he finally understood that "The Irish Pub" was the actual name about an hour into our drinking session.
I've been to the Irish Pub before, always a staple in my bar rotation. Upon entering, nothing seemed amiss for a Tuesday evening. A dozen or so patrons were gathered around the bar and surrounding small tables. We easily grabbed up a handful of bar stools and admired the handwritten, chalkboard specials.
Petey, Tuesday night's bartender, quickly slid over a tall boy and shot of Tullamore Dew upon request. A tall gent, with hair twice the length of my own (inspiring insane jealously on my behalf, as mine just won't grow) came off as slightly intimidating. It took just a few minutes until he warmed up and remained laid back, yet observant throughout the night.
I inquired about food, as some poor souls who missed the sushi were coming to meet us and hoped to grab a bite to eat. Unfortunately for them, bad luck struck twice and the kitchen closed earlier in the evening after the Tuesday night featured 35-cent wing special.
The bar was comfortable ‚Äď temperature was perfect and the lighting was low, just how I like it. As our group doubled in size, before I knew it, it was car bomb time. After all, you can't respectably enter a bar called The Irish Pub and not have an Irish car bomb, or at least that's my excuse. I gave my normal cheers as Petey chimed in with his personal favorite toast, which isn't suitable for print.
As the night progressed, our group became the majority in the bar. Petey casually played dice, chatted and socialized with the handful of other patrons. At this point, several drinks in, I realized just how awesome the music selection was. After watching an obscene amount of "Call Me Maybe" parodies over dinner, I highly recommend the Obama mash up; it was refreshing to hear some Chairlift and M83.
I prepped in advance for this Tuesday, with Wednesday off from my full-time gig, but I probably had a few too many cocktails. My night ended with a reason to work out in the morning, the holy grail of drunk evenings, the dreaded trip to McDonald's.
Sigh. You got me again, Boozeday.
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