In our team's weekly meeting today, my boss reported that there were a lot of intoxicated Irish and Irish-for-a-day types wandering the cross streets of midtown by noon: "One woman was so drunk she could barely cross 42nd and Madison."
There may be few cities in the United States that take St. Patrick's Day as seriously as New York does (or like White people do). It feels as prevalent in the streets as Christmas. Ok. Maybe not Christmas. It's like the spring version of Thanksgiving and beer is the turkey.
Last year, I was Irish twice. Once in Hoboken in early March and a second time in Manhattan on the 17th. The bars of the surrounding boroughs can't compete with Manhattan's alcohol establishments on the nationally-recognized St. Patrick's Day so the only solution is to have multiple St. Patrick's Days within a 25-mile radius of the city. It's quite nice.
Today everyone and everything was Irish, even the classic Black and White Cookie. "The cookie that says 'New York'" was saying, "Eat me. I'm Irish" today.
Phone Photo Op - The Green and White Cookie in the window of The Breadstix Cafe on 8th Avenue at 23rd Street. On a day when 99.9% of New York City was looking to the beer, Breadstix reminded us that we can still - we can always - look to the cookie. Because "if we can't look to the cookie, where can we look?"
"The thing about eating the Black and White cookie, Elaine, is you want to get some black and some white in each bite. Nothing mixes better than vanilla and chocolate. And yet somehow racial harmony eludes us. If people would only look to the cookie all our problems would be solved."
- Jerry Seinfeld, Seinfeld episode no. 74, "The Dinner Party"