The Paddy's Over

We’re all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. For the rest of the year, I am myself, by blood, somewhere in the neighborhood of one-quarter Irish, give or take a few shamrocks. I’m a born fan of of Notre Dame Fighting Irish (my grandfather graduated from there in 1935), and I make sure to don a tasteful amount of green on March 17. I state all this to show that I have had, and generally do still have affinity for the holiday.

However, I work in Times Square - what some may call the “Crossroads of the World,” or the others “Armpit of NYC” - whatever you call it, it becomes the epicenter of post-parade amateur St. Paddy’s revelry: teenagers drunk on green beer, compounded in greater number by green-clad of those who think or wish they were still teenagers. The difference with this holiday is that those celebrating give themselves license- be it because of the stereotypical Irish proclivity for imbibing, or whatever- to start the party early. So by the end of the work day- and yes, a good number of us are indeed working when March 17 falls on a weekday- some are winding down, or at least taking a break so as to gear up for the home stretch.

While dodging drunken revelers for your 5pm commute is bad enough, there is one overlooked byproduct of the early wind down- and that is the (usually) late-night stabilizing meal. You know the meal, when you drunk so much, you are jones-ing for something else in your belly- anything to fill the void and soak up some of the alcohol currently taking up more than welcome space in your stomach. In NYC, there’s no end to perfect options for this: a hot from Gray’s Papaya, a big, greasy slice from most any pizza joint or even street-meat from any one of the many ever-present food carts.

When this ritual takes place at 3am, most others hanging about are more than likely in the same boat- focused desperately on restoring their sugar-balance before either hopping into a cab or the train, or back into the bar for more liquid nourishment- and therefore this behavior goes unnoticed. But when this activity takes place at 4:30pm on a Friday, for those sober of us making our way to the train, it is not a pleasant sight to behold. The shovelling, the lack of self-consciousness - in the light of day, it winds up reminiscent of something one might avert their gaze from on Animal Planet: ultimate carnage, the spoils of victory streaming down the predator’s face…

Not what pops into your mind, when you think of St. Patrick’s day. But once you’ve witnessed it, it’s not something that easily leaves you. Legend has it once you catch a leprechaun, to never take your eye off of it- when it comes to drunken folk dressed as leprechauns however, best to keep your head down, and think of the Blarney Stone and shamrocks.

Sláinte!