McSorley’s—what can we say about this so-called institution in the East Village, NYC? So much has already been said, painted, and sung about it. And there are so many legends surrounding this Irish pub.
The pub was founded by John McSorley in 1854 under the name The Old House at Home. It is considered the longest-running pub in New York. In 1908 it was renamed McSorley’s Old Time Ale House — the word Time was later dropped. During Prohibition they served a “near beer,” with too little alcohol to be illegal. Like any proper Irish pub of the time, women were not allowed inside until 1970, when attorneys from the National Organization for Women filed a discrimination case in District Court—and won.
A little sweet revenge: women’s restrooms weren’t installed until 1986.
There’s sawdust scattered on the floor, just like I remember seeing in good old Ireland. They still serve only two types of beer—light and dark. In 1905 they briefly served hard liquor along with ale, but the experiment ended as suddenly as it began. From that point on, McSorley’s was an ale house only.
And no reservations and cash only!
And as they used to said: We were here before you were born.
In his 1923 poem “i was sitting in mcsorley’s,” poet E. E. Cummings described McSorley’s as “the ale which never lets you grow old,” and the bar itself as “snug and evil.”
| “i was sitting in mcsorley’s / outside it was New York and beauti-fully snowing.”
Among its many guests—known and unknown—was painter John Sloan, an artist from the so-called Ashcan School. Several of his paintings depict the interior of McSorley’s (“McSorley’s Bar,” “McSorley’s Cats”). He was a regular visitor who used the place as a symbol of working-class New York.
Woody Guthrie, folk musician and poet, would come here with friends from the Greenwich Village art scene during his time in New York.
Abraham Lincoln is said to have stopped at McSorley’s for a beer after his speech at Cooper Union—there’s no evidence, but the story has become part of local mythology.
And let’s not forget Harry Houdini. The famous magician is associated with the handcuffs that still hang above the bar today—he supposedly left them there after one of his shows. Legend has it that whenever a cat appears in McSorley’s window, it’s a sign that Houdini’s ghost has returned to one of his favorite places on earth—or beyond.
Let’s leave the legends to history.
After almost a quarter of a century, I was back in New York this September. I lived just a block away, and of course I stopped in for a beer at McSorley’s on my first night. All I knew was that it was just another old pub in New York. When I walked in, I was stunned: sawdust on the floor reminded me of my long-ago stays in London and Ireland; the walls were full of old photos and memorabilia; small wooden tables bore the scars of pocket knives; a wooden bar you could comfortably lean against.
Of course, I ordered a beer. And when I got two mugs, I said, a little embarrassed, that I’d only ordered one. A friendly look and a quick explanation followed: they don’t serve small mugs—you always get two for the price of one. I realized all you need to say is how many, and the word light or dark.
I watched the bartender rinse the mugs: he dipped them into the sink, pulled them out, and—voilà—they were “washed.”
When I came back the next evening, yesterday’s waiter just looked at me, nodded, and slid two mugs across the bar. Apparently, I was already a regular.
Since I was hungry, I treated myself to a burger—served open, with raw onions of course. At decent price for New York.
One evening I was sitting at one of those small tables (a special privilege—not everyone gets to sit there) when two oversized African-American guys sat down next to me. They asked if I was a writer. Maybe it was my long gray hair or slightly bohemian look that misled them. I told them I was an architect.
“Oh, what have you built here in NY?”
“Nothing—I’m from Europe.”
“Which part of Europe?”
“Slovenia.”
“Wow, you have good wines.”
Oh? They praise Slovenian wines?
In the next minute, of course, we were already talking about Luka Dončić — and they bought me a round of beers because of him.
On the last night, Tadej and I went there for a farewell drink. Tadej doesn’t drink beer, of course, but decided to order it anyway. Since he got two mugs, he pushed one toward me.
It was September 11, and at the next table sat a loud group of cops. Night was falling when Tadej and I left. I headed a little further south toward SoHo, wanting to take a picture of the Tribute in Light.
After two weeks in New York, I was heading home the next day.
And when I’m back in New York again, I’ll definitely return to McSorley’s—for an ale or two.
Oops—two, of course.