McSorley’s Old Ale House, Anew

McSorley’s was the stuff of narrative non-fiction legend. At least, according to Barry Siegel. He was my professor, mentor and head of the Literary Journalism department at the University of California, Irvine. While we read Joseph Mitchell’s work, studying accounts of Joe Gould and his great secret, there were numerous mentions of the East Village bar. So when I first moved to New York, it was one of my favorite spots by default. It represented the old-school, one of the birthplaces of New Journalism, a potential wellspring of inspiration, where so many greats had filled their bellies with beer.

The pub is housed in a crumbling, wooden room with low, orange lights, framed photographs and memorabilia everywhere. There is sawdust on the ground, and snacks served include crackers, cheese and sliced raw onions. Everyone sits at wooden tables. We have to yell to be heard; sometimes I find myself literally screaming to talk above the noise of about 100 tourists, frat boys and old New Yorkers. There are homages to Mitchell and articles tacked up all over the walls. A sign that says “be good or begone.”

One evening, a guy with a beard and a Ukrainian girlfriend motions in the direction of a main server, a man with wild, gray hair, a heavy Scottish accent and a notepad for taking orders that he keeps in the left breast pocket of his powder blue bowling shirt. Light and dark beer, the only two kinds on the menu, often streak the front of said shirt. He hustles through the crowd, saying “coming through!” holding up to 10 glasses, one handle stuck between each thick finger.

Beard Guy calls over Hair Guy and says, “Hey. That table, that table, that table, this table.” He points to each table in the room while his girlfriend looks on. “Rounds for all the tables.”

“All the tables?” Hair Guy clarifies.

“All the tables.”

When each group receives a round, Hair Guy lets them know who sent them over. Pretty soon, the entire room is on its feet, people stomp and yell, raise their glasses, cheer, clap. Remaining seated, Beard Guy lifts his glass like some kind of barroom king, which makes the crowd roar even louder with delight. When we sit down again, the guy next to me yells in my ear that Abraham Lincoln came to McSorley’s after a speech, and did I know that? I say I didn’t know.

We must have toasted to Beard Guy about 10 times in a half hour. We didn’t know anyone there, and suddenly we knew everyone.