Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: Irish (Page 112 of 112)

Waking up the coffee maker.

A complete month! The first in the new location, and WOW! how time speeds along. Here it is, a rainy end to April, and the occasion is being marked by the official fire-up of the coffee-maker.

We’ve had some test runs along the way, but no way to accommodate those of you who might want cream or sweetener. Those are laid in and ready. The coffee is hot. The open sign is on.

Monday is here.

The brand of choice is still undecided. This morning the scent in the air is coming from the Rainforest Alliance certified select, which – to my taste – has the distinct flavor of coffee. As I’m readily admitting to anyone who might have a passing interest, the morning cup is not my – well, it’s not my cup of tea. Or coffee.

I can pass a blindfolded taste test over sodas, with a taste discerning enough to identify Sprite as compared to Mountain Dew, or Diet Coke from Dr Pepper (or even Pepsi). Hot coffee, hot cocoa, hot chocolate: not for me. Something about the burning sensation on the lips and tongue do me in. I have a cup of this Rainforest Select in front of me, but it is sufficiently cooled that I can drink it. As to its wake-up factor, aroma, robustness, bold-character flavor, and other java-related properties, I just haven’t had enough morning brew to render a qualified opinion.

The package is attractive, anyway.

Earlier I had intended to use Gevalia brand, a European coffee that supposedly is held in high regard. I was led to believe that it was rather exclusive but I saw a huge display of it just yesterday in Reasor’s. I don’t imagine that the coffee at McHuston Booksellers has to be one-of-a-kind, but I was hoping for something that would be a little different than the home cup. Maybe Gevalia is different enough, or even this Rainforest Select.

The taste is starting to grow on me.

The plan is still to offer a second, flavored coffee in the morning and I’m thinking the Rainforest Caramel is probably going to be the blend. Everyone who has tried it has returned a favorable opinion.

As a non-coffee drinker who liked it, that fact alone carries a lot of weight.

The pix this morning are of the kitchen and the coffeemaker. There are a lot of restaurants that don’t want you to see where the food is prepared, for one reason or another. In my days at Paddy’s Irish, I wasn’t ashamed of the kitchen, but it wasn’t a source of pride either. The equipment was older and mismatched. The space was confined and irregularly laid out due to the shape of the building. It passed the health department inspections.

The kitchen at McHuston Booksellers, on the other hand, is one that I am proud to show off, although it still isn’t quite ready. Still waiting for the installation of a freezer and refrigerator before the food service can be implemented. The office is a completely different story, as you can see in the image. I’m still working to get the last of the boxed books out on the shelves, and the office-related items put into some kind of order.

My son Dustin and I finished off one of the two storage units on Sunday, moving extra shelving units and items out of one to combine into a single spot and bringing back a last load to the store. It’s good to have that part taken care of.

The final image is taken from the peeking-through-the-front-window vantage point, which a lot of folks have been doing. I suppose an open sign on the front door is in order, to complement the lighted sign at the other end of the glass windows. It is a little tough to see through the slightly-tinted windows, and thus, the shielding-hand peek approach. It’s okay to open the door and come on in though.

We’ve got your cup o’ coffee ready to go.

Sure’n I recall a fain eve full o’ St. Paddy.

The night was party-perfect and I was helping host one of the bigger celebrations in Tulsa. It was Eire-crazy, enough so that we had to post an Irishman at the front door. There was a line outside.

St. Pat's hats

For the US Irish: a BIG day.

A man and his daughter worked their way to the front, and Robbie says in his fain Dublin brogue, “Aye, the fire marshall says we’re full-up.”

“I see you are,” the man answered. “I’m the fire marshall.”

I was summoned immediately, the words “fire marshall” shouted into my ear over the blaring Irish music. Yikes, I thought, in an adopted Irish brogue. I ran to the front.

Well, ‘ran’ is an overstatement. I leaned and elbowed my way through the human-carwash to where Robbie stood. The man in front of the podium introduced himself and said he was happy to see that we were limiting entry.

The way he said it made it clear that – in his scanning of our happy crowd – we were clearly over capacity. I hadn’t counted but I figured it was a cinch we were. As fire marshall, the man had the option of marching everyone outside and then counting the re-entry until our maximum seating capacity was reached.

He didn’t.

He leaned in and said to me, “My daughter has never been to a St. Patrick’s Day celebration before. I thought we’d try your corned beef.”

I was nodding my head and smiling like a fool.

“If you can find us a table,” he continued, “we can eat a quick meal and you can get back to your little party.”

I told him I’d be back to escort him there presently.

Seating had been a premium since before noon, and those standing about were eyeing potential tables like Irish-vultures. Amazingly, I found a group just starting to push back their chairs.

I grabbed a waitress and had her stake a claim while motioning for another to quickly come clear away the dishes. Another run through the robo-wash and I directed the fire marshall and guest to their sparkling spot.

St. Paddy’s Day continued uninterrupted: the Irish music blared, the bagpipers paraded, the green beer poured, and corned beef was consumed.

I covered the cost of the meal. It was the least I could do. He realized we were trying to do the best we could in a crazy situation. After a smile and wink, the fire marshall went out the door.

I hope his daughter enjoyed her first St. Paddy’s. It was quite the party for us.

A decade later, I think about donning the kilt and finding a celebration… but the bad knee won’t hold up standing too long, and the workday Friday begins at the usual hour.

The restaurant business is a tough way to make a living, about as tough as profiting from book sales.

But there are days I miss the raucous, happy bleeting of bagpipers making their way through my establishment.

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