Sorcha says she’s delighted for my old man. Yeah, no, as you may or may not have read in the pages of this paper, he and Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara have bought Shanahan’s on the Green and are planning to reopen it in, like, two weeks’ time.
She’s there, “It’s nice that he has something to take his mind off, well, you know–” and she means my old dear dying.
I’m like, “Yeah, no, I’m saying fair focks, Sorcha.”
This is us in the cor, by the way, on the way to the restaurant. The old man wants us to see what he and Hennessy have made of the place.
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I’m there, “But the old man running a restaurant. It’s like asking me to teach physics through Irish.”
She goes, “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. It’s Honor I’m worried about.”
I’m like, “Honor? What about her?”
She’s there, “Ross, she failed her Leaving Cert.”
I go, “She didn’t fail it,” the proud dad, always ready to jump to her defence. “She just didn’t bother her orse sitting it.”
“There you go again – always trying to put a positive spin on her behaviour.”
“What can I say? I’m a fan.”
“Well, it’s that light-touch parenting that has us where we are today.”
“Which is?”
“She has no Leaving Cert, no college place and no prospects. And she’s also, apparently, gay.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Oh my God, there’s so nothing wrong with it. I had loads of gay friends–”
“In UCD. You mentioned.”
“I just don’t know why she confided in you – instead of, like, me?”
“Like I said, we have a bond.”
“Well, bond or no bond, she’s going to have to decide what she’s going to do. She can’t live off her parents for the rest of her life.”
“Is that a dig at me?”
“No.”
“It sounded like a definite dig.”
“Well, it wasn’t. I simply told Honor that if she’s going to continue living under our roof, she’s going to have to get a job.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“A job. Is that not a bit, I don’t know, extreme?”
“A shorp dose of reality is what that girl needs.”
“Well, Ronan is the one I’m worried about.”
“Why?”
“Same reason,” I go. “Thrown out of college. Thrown out of the States. And now he’s back here. I’m worried about him falling into Hennessy’s clutches just like my old man did.”
She’s like, “I’m sure that won’t happen, Ross.”
The old man goes, “Hennessy and I wondered would you do the honours, Ross?” and he hands me a piece of string
We throw the cor in Surgeon’s, then we tip around to the famous restaurant, where our family celebrated everything, from my old man getting 10,000 acres of land in west Dublin rezoned from agricultural to residential, to the chorges against Chorlie Haughey being dropped for whatever he supposably did.
As we approach the building, I spot the old man and Hennessy out front. The old man is smoking a Cohiba the size of a dinner lady’s foreorm.
“Kicker!” he goes. “You made it!”
I notice that the sign over the restaurant is covered with a curtain and there’s, like, a photographer dude standing there.
The old man goes, “Hennessy and I wondered would you do the honours, Ross?” and he hands me a piece of string.
So – yeah, no – I end up pulling on it and the curtains port and the sign says, “Fionnuala’s on the Green.”
I end up staring at it for a good, like, 30 seconds, on the verge of literally tears.
Sorcha’s like, “Oh my God!”
The old man’s there, “Hennessy thought it would be a fitting tribute to your mother.”
I can’t actually speak? He puts his orm around my shoulder and goes, “Come inside. I want you to meet our maître d’. She’s absolutely wonderful. We were lucky to get her.”
So inside we go. And standing there, behind the little lectern at the front of house, is Honor.
“No!” Sorcha goes. “No way!”
Honor’s like, “You were the one who told me that I had to get a job.”
And Sorcha’s there, “But not ... this.”
The old man goes, “What’s wrong with being a maître d’?”
I end up laughing.
I’m there, “No offence, Dude, but with her as your front-of-house person, you’ll be closed within a week.”
His phone rings then. He goes, “Ah, my sommelier!” and he answers the thing. After a second or two, he turns to Hennessy and goes, “How many cases of the South African? A dozen?”
Hennessy nods.
The old man goes, “Yes, 12. Actually, can you pop upstairs. There’s some guests here I’d love you to meet.”
I’ve seen my christening photos. He’s handcuffed to a focking gord
And 60 seconds later, I hear footsteps on the stairs and I’d recognise that walk anywhere.
“Story, Rosser?” he goes. “Howiya, Sudeka?”
I’m like, “No! No focking way!”
Ronan goes, “I need to woork, Rosser. And Cheerlie and Heddessy offert me a job.”
I’m there, “But you don’t know the first thing about wine.”
“We’re going to send him to Bordeaux,” Hennessy has the actual balls to go, “to train at the finest wine school in the world.”
I’m like, “No, I’m putting my foot down.”
The old man goes, “What on earth is the problem, Kicker?”
I’m there, “The reason I was happy when he went to the States is because he was far away from you two crooks.”
“Crooks?” the old man goes. “Hennessy is your godfather, Ross!”
I’m like, “Yeah, and I’ve seen my christening photos. He’s handcuffed to a focking gord.”
It’s at that exact moment that the phone rings. It ends up ringing nine or 10 times before my old man goes, “Honor, you might, em–”
Honor’s like, “Oh, yeah!” and then she answers the thing by going, “Fionnuala’s on the Green – how can I help you?”
After listening for a few seconds, she goes, “No, we’re not open for another two weeks. Two weeks. Are you focking deaf or just hord of hearing?” and then she slams down the phone.
And the old man goes, “We, em, might think about sending you on a course as well, Honor.”
