“Here, Rosser,” Ronan goes, pouring me a lorge glass of red, “get yisser laughing gear around that.”
I’m like, “What is it?”
Word for word, he goes, “It’s only one of the greatest Lafites ever made.”
Yeah, no, this is my son now – north Dublin’s leading wine snob.
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I’m about to knock it back when he goes, “You have to smeddle it foorst, Rosser.”
I’m like, “I have to what?”
He’s there, “Smeddle it.”
“Oh,” I go, “smell it.”
So I stick my nose in the glass and have a good sniff.
He’s like, “Well?”
I’m there, “Er, can I drink it now?”
He goes, “Tell me what you smeddle foorst. Liquorice – am I right? And blackbeddies?”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, whatever you say, Dude.”
We’re in the old man’s restaurant, Fionnuala’s on the Green, which is quiet, even for a Tuesday night. There’s only the old man and Hennessy, huddled in one corner, plotting God knows what, then Ronan’s old crew – we’re talking Nudger, Git Cunningham, Buckets of Blood, Stacks of Money and Larry the Lifer – who’ve turned the place into, like, their Bada Bing?
I’m there, “Can I drink it now?”
And Ro goes, “Fire ahead, Rosser.”
So I knock back a mouthful.
I’m like, “It’s nice.”
He goes, “Nice? You could say that, Rosser, or you could say it’s surprisingly eloquent, with an aftertaste that’s tight but at the same time exuberant and complex.”
I’m there, “I honestly don’t know how you get all of that from a mouthful of wine.”
He goes, “It’s this course that your aul fedda is arthur sending me on.”
I’m there, “Right, that must be it so.”
He’s like, “There’s no need to look so down, Rosser.”
I’m there, “What do you mean?”
“Lookit,” he goes, “I know you wanted me to be a hotshot lawyer in New York. It didn’t woork out. But me grandda and Heddessy are arthur gibbon me a huge opportunity here.”
I’m like, “What, a wine waiter in a restaurant?”
He goes, “A sommelier, Rosser. They’re sending me to Paddis in the New Year.”
I’m there, “Are you saying Paris? Oh, well, I suppose it could be worse. I always feared you’d be sucked into a life of crime.”
He goes, “Excuse me?”
Buckets of Blood notices me for the first time. From the table, he goes, ‘What about this lad, Rosser?’ and he nods in Ronan’s general postcode. ‘You must be proud, wha?’
I’m like, “Ro, the first time I ever met you, you were trying to sand off your fingerprints.”
He has – yeah, no – a good chuckle at that.
He’s like, “Jaysus, I was a dreamer, wadn’t I, Rosser? The only way to do it, of course , is using chemicals.”
I’m there, “Well, at least this is a step up from that. Although I honestly can’t see this place lasting for long. Empty again tonight.”
“Oh, it’ll pick up!” the old man goes, tipping over to us after catching the orse-end of the conversation. “You’ll see if it doesn’t!”
I’m there, “Not with Honor working as your Maitre D, it won’t. I don’t want to tell tales out of school here, but I heard her tell two callers that you were booked out tonight.”
The old man is, like, amused by this?
He goes, “Oh, yes, she’s absolutely convinced that in order to create a buzz about the place, we have to give off the impression that it’s difficult – nigh on impossible, in fact – to get a reservation.”
I’m there, “And she’s doing that by telling people, ‘We’re full – are you focking deaf?’ on the phone? Again, not telling tales out of school.”
He’s there, “Well, she’s persuaded Hennessy and I that exclusivity should be our U, full-point, S, full-point, P, full-point.”
It’s at that exact moment that Honor walks in and goes, “Chorles, can I go home now?”
He’s like, “It’s only nine o’clock. What if someone turns up?”
She goes, “They won’t. I’ve locked the front door.”
He’s there, “Excellent, Honor! Excellent! Once the word gets around that it’s bally well impossible to get in here, they’ll be queuing around the block.”
I laugh. I honestly think I’m the only normal one in this family – and that’s saying something?
So Honor focks off and it’s at that point that Nudger writes his autograph in the air to let Ronan know they’re ready for their bill.
“I’ll bring it,” the old man goes.
Which is what he ends up doing?
Buckets of Blood notices me for the first time. From the table, he goes, “What about this lad, Rosser?” and he nods in Ronan’s general postcode. “You must be proud, wha?”
I’m there, “Not really, Buckets, no.”
He’s like, “Do you member the foorst time you met him, he was trying to sandpaper off he’s fingerprints instead of using chemicals?”
I’m there, “I do, Buckets. We were just reminiscing about it.”
The old man returns from the table with – I can’t help but notice – a 20 yoyo note in his hand.
I’m like, “The fock is that? A 20?”
The old man goes, “It’s fine, Kicker.”
I’m there, “No, it isn’t fine. I’ve watched them have three courses tonight – and at least six bottles of your Latife or whatever the fock it’s called. They’re taking the actual piss.”
Ronan’s like, “Leave it, Rosser,” because the five boys are looking over now.
I’m there, “I’m not leaving it. They’re extorting free food and drink out of my old man, taking advantage of his whatever you want to call it.”
The old man goes, “I’m sorry about this, Nudger,” actually apologising to the dude?
I’m there, “I can’t believe you’re letting yourself be played like this. I thought you had more –”
And that’s when he opens the till. And I can’t believe what I end up seeing in there. It’s, like, stuffed with notes. There must be, like, 20 Ks in 50s alone, even though no one else has been in all night.
I’m there, “Okay, where did all that money come from?”
“It’s a float,” Ronan goes. “Every business has to have a float, Rosser.”
I’m there, “Not of 20 or 30 grandingtons. And not when no one uses cash anym–”
I suddenly stop short again. Because the penny has finally dropped.
I’m there, “Oh my God, is Fionnuala’s on the Green a front to launder dirty money?”
And I end up getting a chill down my spine when my son turns around to me and goes, “He who sticks his nose into a beehive, Rosser, gets more than a load of honey up he’s bleaten hooter – do you get me?”
