Gift for their 35th anniversary will be a trip to family’s past
On Saturday, Jill, Sarah and I were rushing to see the “Nutcracker Sweets” at the Cowell. Jumped in the car and drove up Geneva but got stopped dead at the intersection with Mission. Cop cars. DPT wagons. And then a hundred people marching barefoot in the rain. At last came a truck, filled with roses, and a statue of the Our Lady of Guadalupe. It reminded me of the old country, South Ozone Park.
Back in Queens, N.Y., each block was a different culture. West of 129th Street was the Italian neighborhood, so it contained St. Anthony of Padua and Stallone’s Bakery (best napoleons in the borough). On the feast of the Immaculate Conception, they paraded the Virgin Mary through the parish.
There was a thin border on Rockaway Boulevard where Hi and Esther ran a soda shop. I developed an appreciation for egg creams and barreled pickles.
We Paulsons lived on the Irish block, on Sutter Avenue. Many neighbors were first or second generation. Frank Cadden’s wife, Sally, from County Mayo, had the thickest brogue, and every boy stopped at her home at some point for tea and farl with butter. We did not parade any virgins on 130th Street.
But our family was American Irish, not Irish Irish. I knew no Gaelic, and couldn’t play the penny whistle. And I was not 100%. My grandfather Carl came from Stockholm, and thus the Swedish last name (Paulson). But both grandmothers were from what they called “The Old Country.” The Kiniry and the Toal clans.
Once a year, they’d show John Wayne’s “The Quiet Man,” and every boy on the block dreamed of seeing the green hills and kissing the Blarney Stone (or Maureen O’Hara).
In September, Brian and I had our 35th wedding anniversary, but I haven’t talked about how we celebrated or what he got. Thirty-five is neither silver nor gold, but it’s a milestone, so I wanted a memorable gift. Since the day Zane moved in with us, we had gone away from our sons only once. But they are now 19 and 17. Thinking I was sly, I asked Brian if we were to travel, where would he like to go? He answered, “Ireland. Or Italy.”
Among the reasons I could never have an affair is that Brian figures out my secrets before I even know I have the secret. So when I asked him where he wanted to go out for dinner on our anniversary itself, he said, “The Irish Cultural Center.” Turns out that was closed. We googled Irish cuisine and came up with the Parkside Tavern. Closed. For a minute there, it looked like Irish cuisine did not exist on a Monday. Then I found the Napper Tandy, which had the virtue of having a vaguely Irish menu and being open on the first weekday.
I called to book a table. The woman who answered, in a bona fide brogue, said, “This isn’t really the kind of place you call for reservations.”
The Napper Tandy is a sports bar with a lot of Mission District flavor and a little bit of Irish. It serves corned beef quesadillas. The reason it was open was the sports part: “Monday Night Football.” Brian does not know which end of the pigskin to hold. I get the game confused with soccer. So you wouldn’t think to celebrate our gay marriage, we’d be watching an Eagles game in a bar
In September, Brian and I had our 35th wedding anniversary . ... Thirty-five is neither silver nor gold, but it’s a milestone.
where you didn’t need reservations.
I ordered the Dandy Tandy, a sandwich with sauerkraut, apparently a Celtic delicacy. Brian’s Banger ’n Mash had no bang to the banger, but the mushroom gravy was so good I should have just ordered it as the soup.
For dessert, I handed Brian two tickets to Dublin, for St. Patrick’s Day, and told him he could take anybody he wanted. Brian smiled, “I do want to see what your roots look like.” Even though I was getting the gift for him, maybe I had bought my own anniversary present.
In March, my non-Irish husband and I will leave our barely Irish sons in the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior, to head off to the ultimate American Irish experience: a trip to the Auld Sod. Maybe I’ll get to kiss the Blarney Stone (or Maureen O’Hara.)
Then someday, I’ll take Brian to Italy for his anniversary. I hear they parade the virgins there.