McSorley's Old Ale House

“It was a bleak, miserable fucker of an evening and I was busted in my pocket, and busted in here (bangs chest) from a heartbreak. Got caught in a traffic jam, and there was a car broken down and a guy in a beautiful blue shiny suit got out of it. He was piss drunk as a skunk and he walks over to my truck, and without asking, just climbs in. I tried to explain to him that I was a commercial traveler and I wasn't allowed to take any passengers but he wouldn't listen. I felt sorry for him and finally said– ‘Look, I'll take you to find somebody to help you with your car’ and he said;
‘Fuck that, find the nearest pub!’ so we drove to the nearest pub.

We got on a drunk for four days and I ended up showing him all of Ireland. I flearned that he lived in New York, but was originally from my home town which was a coincidence. Meanwhile, I was carrying sausage, ham and bacon in the back of the truck and it all went bad. Finally I told him I had to get back to work...‘Fuck the work, come with me back to New York!’ he tells me. I told him I had plans to go to New Zealand to see my relatives who were in the sheep herding business. He said, ‘Stop in New York on your way to New Zealand and come and see me. We have a pub called McSorley's.’ So I came here to say hello, and I ended up working in the kitchen. That was in 1964. One day, my friend asked me what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I told him I wanted to own this place– ‘Good!’ says he!

... my mother used to say;
‘We make plans; God laughs!’