Original McCarthy's: Dive Bars in the Mission

by Mary Coe

Listen up, this may be your only warning. And I'm only telling you because I want this place to succeed.

Go to Original McCarthy's. Go now, before the hipsters and swingers from down the street invade it with their Betty Page hair and swing-dancing sweat.

And go early the first time (I'm sure you'll go back) so you can soak up all the old-time, Irish-bar atmosphere: Photos of the old neighborhood; the promotional calendar from 1948 touting the Big Serve, "the largest drink for your money"; the huge boat-bow bar with short stools at one end; and, my favorite part, the waiter call buttons at each table that light up a board over the bar, such an efficient, non-hand-waving way to order another round. And order a good stiff drink or real cocktail. The bartenders are pros, knowing their daisys from their rickeys, recommending the best labels, shaking and not bruising the old-fashioned way. In fact, order the best old-fashioned in town to witness first class muddling. See, Original McCarthy's is a real drinking bar, a "traditional tavern" they call themselves. A good-looking, straight-ahead place to get a sound drink. It's been around since the 30's (our bartender's mother remembers getting lost here as a kid) but in the past few years it had declined into a Hogarthian gin mill. Taken over recently by Philip Belbur, of Cha Cha Cha and Bugaloo's fame, and refurbished to look of its heyday, Original McCarthy's has the air of a regulars place, where it's a respectable, adult thing to tie one on a few nights a week. Soon they'll be serving food from Cha Cha Cha, so you'll definitely want to go back. Food always tastes better at a bar. There are plenty of bar stools at the mammoth bar, plus date-friendly tables around the perimeter and a catywompus pool table in the back room. Located on a not too gentrified block of Mission Street, a few of the old regulars still wander in, including members of the McCarthy clan. Stop by soon and lift one in the spirit of, well, spirits.

Mary Coe

by Melinda Whitehouse

Last year, Betty Boopa and I went to New Orleans for Mardis Gras. We were real excited because it would be our first time. I'm sure we had lots of fun--the Boop and I usually do. I just wish I could remember it. I remember some of it. I remember the hotel bar. I remember meeting a cute guy from Buffalo and dragging him into a nudie bar for Hurricanes. I remember that the cute guy was a Supertramp fan, the bartender didn't know how to make a Hurricane, and the Boopa told him to just mix up three of whatever he thought would kick the most ass.

Suddenly, the next thing I knew, the Boopa was driving us home in the little, red Honda, and I had someone else's underwear on. If anyone saw me that night and knows what I did, where I got that underwear, or that Honda, please, keep it to yourself. There are some things I just don't want to know.

Likewise, if anyone knows what I said, did, or took off and threw across the room when I went to Original McCarthy's last week, keep it to yourself. I know this might diminish the journalistic integrity of this review, but I got completely plastered the night I went to gather information for my review. But I'm a positive person, I don't want to focus on what I don't remember, so I'll try to dig up what I do remember.

Hmmm.

Well, I remember going into the bar and scoping out the joint. Number one, the bartenders are cute. Number two, the decor is very New England, with lots of dark wood and brass. (I know this may sound strange, but there aren't a lot of East coast bars painted orange and purple, or all red for that matter.) Number three, there is no number three. Somebody bought me a drink, and that's all I remember.

What to do? Hmmm.

Ah yes! Paddy O'Lushly! She was there, and couldn't have possibly been as wasted as I was. Almost no one could have. But Paddy wasn't much help. She just bitched about the Guinness, going on and on about how sad it was that an Irish bar would pour a Guinness with a bitter taste and big bubbles in the head, the bubbles should be small...blah blah blah. I asked her if she could remember anything good and she said, "It's in a really bad 'hood." I knew that. "And the pool table was in a little room in the back that can't be seen from the rest of the bar." Cool, a drug dealing room.

Then Paddy reminded me that I had brought my notes and should just write the review from them. But of course! Why didn't I think of that? I dug my notebook out, but this was all I'd written: The guy sitting next to me is a complete dork. He writes poetry. Eww!

So if that helps anyone who's thinking about going to Original McCarthy's, then my job is done. If it doesn't.... I don't know what to tell you, but I think we can all assume that it's a good place to go and get completely, sloppy drunk.

Melinda Whitehouse

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