Two and Two

February 13, 2017
In this big-hearted memoir of a lifelong romance with New York City’s oldest (continuously operating) saloon, editor and sports writer Bartholomew describes a McSorley’s immersion that began with his bartender father’s tales and ends with Bartholomew pulling taps there during Hurricane Sandy. Venerability and quirks have made McSorley’s a legend: only house ale is served (two mugs per single order), women were banned until 1970, and staff irascibility is so celebrated that tourists feel insulted if they aren’t insulted. McSorley’s has been a watering hole for artists, politicians, and oddballs, a storehouse of oral tradition passed through generations of staff. Bartholomew chronicles this history and demonstrates how a crude, unforgiving, and extremely macho camaraderie sustained his family through suffering and loss. New Yorker legend Joseph Mitchell, a McSorley’s regular for over 60 years, wrote about the bar and inspired Bartholomew (among many others). Caution seems to play a role in Bartholomew’s approach, as he praises the owners and his coworkers with great indulgence. His description of his mother’s harrowing death from cancer jarringly shifts the register and introduces pathos and intensity that infuse the following pages. Bartholomew never ignores the darkness inherent in public drunkenness and jobs without health care or pensions, so his portrayal of the rough humor and blue-collar warmth feels completely earned.

March 15, 2017
A boy comes of age in one of New York's most storied watering holes.There is no bar in New York City--perhaps even all of America--with as much history as McSorley's Old Ale House, which opened on East 7th Street in 1854. It was a campaign stop for Abraham Lincoln, a gathering spot for Boss Tweed and his Tammany Hall cronies, and a hangout for decades of artists, poets, and musicians. But for former Grantland editor Bartholomew (Pacific Rims: Beermen Ballin' in Flip-Flops and the Philippines' Unlikely Love Affair with Basketball, 2010), McSorley's was just home. His father, Geoffrey -Bart- Bartholomew, was a bartender, doling out pints of the bar's signature light and dark ales for 45 years--an almost unimaginable career choice for a recovering alcoholic. As a child, Bartholomew would spend magical weekend mornings at the bar with his father, playing with the mouser cat in the basement, eating hamburgers in the kitchen, and doing odd jobs. Bart never wanted to see his son behind the bar; he was a working-class kid from Ohio who'd nearly been killed by his drunk of a father and a long-suffering aspiring writer who'd never seen his literary dreams actualized. But when Rafe had a college degree in hand and a day job as an editorial assistant at Harper's, Bart acquiesced and let Rafe pick up a few shifts (Rafe quickly realized that his tips would eclipse his full-time publishing salary). The author expertly weaves together entertaining stories from his nights behind the bar (note: never work at an Irish pub on St. Paddy's Day) with more poignant moments between father and son--particularly after Rafe's mother (who was not much a part of life at McSorley's but -was everything else-) died from a quick and unexpected bout with cancer. Bartholomew does both his father and McSorley's proud with this touching, redolent memoir.

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April 15, 2017
McSorley's Old Ale House, in the Bowery, had been a Manhattan legend for more than 100 years, the oldest Irish bar in the city, when the author's father hired on to work the taps. Son Rafe grew up loving the old man's booze-soaked stories and learning the bar's theory of customer relations: Never find fault with a man until you have all his money. Then, in his twenties and against his father's advice, Rafe joined Dad behind the taps. The book details his memories of that time, and the raffish turns are tinged with enough acid to suggest that Dad's reluctance stayed with him. There are accounts of cleaning up vomit and hitting one another with balls of feduh, the cheesy slime that gathered behind the bar. McSorley's New York is gone now, with much of the city feeling to the author like a a playground for plutocrats. We understand when Rafe wonders if his colleagues seem historical reenactors playing dress-up in a tourist trap, but the nostalgia-drenched memoir makes us want to revisit the joint in its salad days.(Reprinted with permission of Booklist, copyright 2017, American Library Association.)