THE SHAMROCK

She asked what The Shamrock was and I breathed deep, inhaling for almost a full minute before I said, in my deepest, most mysterious voice, “It is perfect for our purposes this evening.”

The restaurant was packed even at 8pm, which was actually nice because we got to sit upstairs. Just a note here: too few restaurants in Macon have upstairs. In fact, I can’t think of another restaurant that has an upstairs and that’s terribly disappointing. Sometimes, I want to look down on my fellow diners in more than just a metaphorical way.

Anyway, I’d talked up the goods so when we placed our order, we ended up with a buffet. We didn’t mean to, but it couldn’t be helped. Fried Oysters, Irish Potato Soup, dinner salads and our entrees. Neither Jaime or I like onions, and I’d been telling her how good the Shepard’s Pie is at the Shamrock, so she asked if the onions were “bad”, meaning “are there many and if so, how big?”

“I don’t remember them being a problem,” I said. “If I can handle it, they must not be bad.”

So she ordered the Shepard’s Pie. And I’ve been working out lately, kinda. My muscles were sore so I wanted protein and vinegar. I ordered the Fish n’ Chips.

Those Fried Oysters—I can’t stand raw oysters but for some reason, fried is good (it always is, isn’t it?)—were great. With Jim Shaw’s nearby, it was hard to tell where we’d ordered them from. The salad dressings must’ve been homemade because they were unique and fresh tasting. It’s more incentive to eat salads. And the potato leak soup must have been delicious because Jaime didn’t let me have any and practically licked the cup clean. She also drew pictures on her napkin and tried to make me guess who… but homey don’t play that.

As I soaked my three giant fish fillets in vinegar, I began to think back to all the times I’ve eaten at the Shamrock. I thought back through the years, the many dishes, the times I’d been tempted to try the Shepard’s Pie but had been scared off by the promise of onions. Jaime was digging beneath the layer of mashed potatoes, quietly removing the pungent pride of Vidalia. I spoke up—a confession really—“Jaime, I don’t think I’ve actually ever had the Shepard’s Pie here.”

She threw her fork down and picked it up again. I thought she might stab me in the eye. It looked like that was a distinct possibility. In the end, she ate it—most of it—but did so the same way I would’ve, picking out the onions and anything that looked remotely onion in nature. Thing is, we’d filled up on the starters so it wasn’t like either of us were going to finish our meals anyway. I mean, I got a fish and a half down—they were huge! And those hand-cut chips, man alive.

Afterwards, with no room for desserts, we were lucky enough to catch Macon’s own Brother Henry, formerly of Mt. Pilot and now of Nashville. The bar was packed, the seats on the floor the same. As we were deciding what to do, two of our childhood pals showed up—Jessica and Samantha. We all grew up in Shurlington together, and Jaime and Jessica were the best of friends. Good times, great oldies. Beers were had, stories were told, jokes were made about our younger brothers—neither of whom were present to defend themselves.

So who was right about the Shamrock being the perfect place to go? That’s right. I was.