Back in the good old days of the recession, I spent some time in New York. And, due to the technicality of the illegality of working in the US, every second Paddy or Patricia I met there, be they builder, barber or barrister, was in effect a non-person.
It was around that time that my elbows first rested on the formica at Trees; a little locals' local just off North Central Ave, Long Island. The kind of place where everyone knew your name but would never divulge it. Not a pinball, a wide-screen or a surround sound in sight; Trees was one of those last of the breed, a drinkers' pub, no frills or side shows. As Joey the barman put it, "When it's good, it don't need no fancy wrapper!"
In a city of a million watering holes, Trees was special; a place for when the legs needed a rest and the mind needed a bit of exercise. My kind of place. And that's where you'd find me greasing their tills and my gills regularly - when you're a nonperson, human contact can be an addiction. And every trip to New York since that time has been benchmarked with a refill from the Trees trough. So, last week, finding myself hanging around Times Square with half a day to spare and no time to waste, I hopped on the subway to Long Island.
I must have walked past the door four times before I realised that, where once Trees flourished, there now stands a sports bar. Not really my scene, so I drifted down the street to another den - for the one. That's where I met Vincent, an Italian guy, he was telling me that his wife's brother is married to an Irish girl from Co Athlone. The talk turned to my old haunt. Vincent informed me that Trees was the inspiration for Steve Buscemi's 1996 film, Trees Lounge. And although the location for the shoot was another watering hole in Queens or someplace, the sign used was the original article. This was something I had to see.
As an actor, Buscemi has brought to life such unforgettable characters as Mr Pink in Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs and the kidnapper-for-hire in the Coen Brothers' Fargo. In fact, I suspect that maybe it was his role as the manic, stressed-out film director in Living in Oblivion that enticed Buscemi behind the camera for this one. Trees Lounge, like Trees pub, has a special feel about it, that sense of the importance of the individual rather than the story. It's as if, by allowing the actors space to live and breathe within his characters, Buscemi finds a magic realism that doesn't need the contrivance of a cumbersome plot.
So what is it about? It's about a guy called Tommy Basilio, and he has one problem. It's not that he is in debt, or has been fired from his job for dipping his fingers into the till. It has nothing to do with the fact that his ex-girlfriend is sleeping with his ex-boss and she is pregnant, nor is it because he finds himself on the wrong side of the sheets with a girl who is legally too young and her father is going to nail him with a baseball bat. Quite simply, as with many people with complicated lives, Tommy's one and only problem is that he drinks too much.
Trees Lounge is an excellent film and superbly chronicles the demise and fall of a man controlled by a dependency. Steve Buscemi has a lot to be proud of, both in his role as Tommy Basilio and as director. Although it could be argued that drinking is like sex in that it's no fun watching other people doing it, but what would I know: I've never sat and watched anyone drinking in my life - the very thought of it is perverse.
Anyway, there I was with Vincent, supping what made Milwaukee famous, crunching on pretzels and chewing the fat. He was telling me that New York had changed. I told him Cork had changed too. He said that his wife's sister-in-law, the girl from Co Athlone, had told him how great Irish pubs were. I agreed, saying, "Ya can't beat the craic!" He gave me a strange look and asked if I liked coke. Only during Lent, when I'm off the drink, I said.
It crossed my mind that the girl from the Co Athlone might be viewing the Auld Sod through emerald-tinted glasses. An open turf fire, the tick-tock of a clock, a string of battered book bindings and the steam of boiling bacon billowing from a kitchen is a tourist attraction in itself, but the days of the great Irish pub are vanishing quicker than family-run licensed premises. It's as if the personal, idiosyncratic attention of the owner-proprietor has been chewed up and reconstituted into the board-of-management-run, multi-media drinks warehouses, masquerading behind a parody of what once was. These "Emporia" are nothing more than a sleight-of-hand that is just about concealed by a distressed paint finish and the authenticity of an Abbey set. For true honesty of intent, give me an Oirish theme bar in Costa Del Larger Lout any day.
The snug, rings board and granny behind the counter need not disappear with the advent of the Euro. In fact our imminent Europeanisation should increase the value of our culture, and what is more valuable than our pub culture; a place where commerce and culture come together so effortlessly. Maybe it's time for the Department Of Culture to recognise this and offer special concessions to family-run pubs, of a certain floor space - something along the lines of Tax and VAT exemptions or even, in some special cases, a system of grants could be introduced. Because when these places do go, and they most certainly will, they'll be gone forever.
Mark my words, it will cost the Department of Tourism a small fortune to reconstruct this part of our culture for our Heritage Theme Parks of the future. Keep culture alive: Ni bheidh a leitheidi ann aris.
