The Sqealing Pig

So when we were hanging out in P-town, we hung out a lot at an Irish bar called the Squealing Pig. None of us had the guts to ask how they came up with that name. We also were smart enough to clear out before "Leather Night" started.

But it got me thinking about Irish bars. I like them. A lot. Where else in the world are binge drinking and and sudden violent outbursts not only acceptable, but expected? Well, okay, there's also Irish wakes, but you can't have one of those every week, even in catholic families.

The Squealing Pig was a good bar. They played drinking songs and had an actual, honest-to-god Irish bartender. The only fault I can find with the place was that the bartender wasn't surly. In American Irish bars, true Irish bartenders are almost always surly. I guess they're pissed that they're stuck being bartenders in the US. I dunno.

But back to the topic at hand. For me a perfect evening is throwing back a few pints of Harp (I was really pissed when Guiness et al started making it in Canada. Imported my ass.) and singing some Irish drinking songs. On a really good night, a fight breaks out.

Irish bars seem to bring it out in people. A buddy of mine, Roger, who's a professor at Boston College, got into a fight with a guy over Andersen Consulting. A real fight. Over a consulting company. Fists were thrown and everything. Roger lost. Of course, the fact that he's blind probably had something to do with it. But he fought in an Irish bar. That's the important thing.

Anyway, back to the Pig. A good place. They kept running out of beer, though. Strange behavior in a bar. Anyway, check it out, and sing a rousing chorus of Danny Boy for me.

LM