Emerald Isle Classic – Notre Dame vs. Navy

As the oppressive heat of the summer breaks, ushering in the welcome relief of crisp fall air, another college football season dawns, and with it the promise of new adventure.  A clean slate to dart down another unexplored county highway, discovering new corners and eddies of the American landscape.  Football is a mere footnote to the narrative; this is an ongoing odyssey to continually explore the world around me.  The “Emerald Isle Classic”, featuring Notre Dame vs Navy, offered a unique chance to expand my journey into the international sphere with a rare international college football game in Dublin, Ireland.

With my friend Chrissy along for the entire campaign, we spend the week leading up to kickoff avoiding the crowds in Ireland.  Instead, racing a shiny black Volkswagen Passat through a different corner of the United Kingdom; the fabled Scottish Highlands.    Crossing the Mallaig ferry to the Isle Of Skye, and pressing northward into the jagged Trotternish range, we hike through the curious, supernatural landscape of the Quiraing.  Impossibly green, the plush grasses cling to towering buttresses of ancient volcanic basalt, silhouettes of eerie weathered pinnacles poking through the thick grey mist.  A few sheep graze precariously among the shrouded crags, their coats thick to fend off the constant, menacing winds.  The Highlands are hard country.  The birthplace of uisge beatha, the “water of life”.



After an incredible week of heavy food and heavier drink, we leave the rugged Scottish countryside behind to the beckoning harps of Ireland.  Cautiously weighing my luggage to avoid their sneaky fees, I board the quick RyanAir flight from Edinburgh into Dublin.  Football season is underway.

Filing into the opulent lobby of the Shelbourne Marriott across the street from St. Stephens Green, I’m greeted by a bell hop bowing in a top hat. The lobby overflows with starched blazers, khakis and floral dresses.  My wrinkled hooded sweatshirt and hiking boots seem strangely out of place here.  Despite the disheveled look, I’m upgraded to the JFK Suite, a perk of Marriott status points.  It’s bigger than my apartment and the digs come with a full living room, a few flatscreen TV’s and some chrome racks in the bathroom that preheat the towels.  There’s a framed silhouette of Jack himself hanging on the wall, a tribute to the time he spent here in the winter of 1963, a few short months before his assassination.  I’m more excited about the free breakfast.

Despite the comforts of the hotel room, we hastily hit the streets to check out the city. It’s Friday before game day, and the place is flooded with Americans, some 35,000 of them accordingly to official tallies.  Notre Dame and Navy gear abounds, the sidewalks a dawdling sea of awful, shimmering Cutter & Buck windbreakers.  Grey and silver coiffures belie a considerably older demographic than a typical college crowd, confirmed by the prevalence of tasseled loafers. We duck into the first pub we can find.

Fresh off the tap…

Naturally, I opt for the local brew; Guinness.  It flows almost continuously from the taps, set to rest tantalizingly on the bar top while the cloudy chocolate swirls gradually settle before being topped off with a thick, creamy head by the deft hand of the patient barman.  After a week of travel, the pillowy black elixir drinks exceptionally well.  I take them down in huge gulps, leaving rings of foam stacked down the glass.  Everyone insists Guinness tastes better in Ireland, but I can’t discern a difference.  I suspect this is mostly psychological, it’s vacation beer after all, and vacation beer always tastes better. Even a Corona probably tastes good on vacation.  Too bad I’ll never find out.

We hit a handful of pubs that night, O’Reilly’s, O’Donoghue’s, O’Neill’s and a handful of others with token Irish names.  They all look remarkably similar inside.  Traditional, dimly lit, worn Irish Oak covering every surface. There’s no pretension, no annoying music and flat screen TV’s blaring away, and the collars stay refreshingly unpopped.  The drinks are simple. Beer. Whiskey.  Simple men can talk with their friends, clang a few glasses, the same as it’s been for generations.  I soak in more atmosphere, and even more stout.  A few Americans sidle up to the bar next to me, boorishly waving a few euros at the bartender.  They order a round of Coors Lights and Budweiser, bottled of course.  I resist the urge to choke slam them through an oak barrel.

The Temple Bar Pub

Wake up comes early on Saturday morning and we hit the Temple Bar area to get in some pre game festivities.  Already a popular spot with tourists, the narrow cobblestone streets are mobbed with fans spilling out of the various pubs.  I elbow us into the Temple Bar Pub, a landmark tavern adorned with a colorful cascade of hanging baskets filled with white petunias and violet pansies.  After a token Guinness within the hallowed walls, the cramped quarters and long lines grow unbearable.  Retreating a few blocks away, we wander into the Mercantile Tavern and straddle a couple seats with a little more breathing room.

After a few pints, the trek to Aviva Stadium begins.  The route has been well marked with signs, and the steady herd of jersey adorned fans proves easy to follow.  Shuffling through a few residential neighborhoods, the crowd grows increasingly thick with green and blue t-shirts until the glass expanse of Aviva emerges in the distance. After passing through the entrance gates to the courtyard, the Notre Dame bookstore, never missing an opportunity for revenue, has a merchandise trailer set up.  Across from it, bathed in rays of golden sunlight poking through the puffy Eire sky, a beacon of stunning contrast stands proudly – an Irish concession trailer selling nips of hot whiskey.

Our seats are high, perched just under the massive white steel trusses that form the spine of the circular stadium roof. With 55,000 seats nested beneath the glass canopy, Aviva is an impressive, modern, structure that feels larger than the capacity would imply.  Designed by famed stadium architects HOK Sport, their resume boasts nearly every contemporary stadium design in the world.

On the field, the Irish make easy work of the Midshipmen.  I sip a few draught Guinness’s while the Notre Dame offensive line manhandles the outsized Navy squad.  At 5 euro apiece, the beers are affordably priced the same as you’d find in the local pubs. And after jumping out to a 24 point halftime lead, the listless crowd takes advantage of the free flowing concessions.  The game has all the markings of a college football contest – the players, the band, cheerleaders, etc.; but the atmosphere is noticeably subdued.  It’s an older, more refined crowd that made the pilgrimage, and the few Irish natives sprinkled in attendance seem more enamored with the contest than most. Regardless, it’s a season opener under a brilliant sunny afternoon in Ireland.  There are certainly worst places in the world to be.  Let the new season begin…


Special thanks to Chrissy for her continually positive spirit, and making this trip such a memorable one…

Notre Dame vs USC

I generally don’t write much about Notre Dame home games, for obvious reasons. It’s an impossible task for me to capture it subjectively, and because I have spent so much time there, it’s difficult to convey the story through the eyes of a newcomer.

Despite the thorough drubbing on the field, however, an embarrassing and painful loss to USC, the trip last week was particularly special for me. For the first time, my mother made the pilgrimage out to the promised land of South Bend. Although loyally following the Irish on TV for many years and proudly displaying the myriad of Irish fan gear I had bestowed upon her for several Christmas’s, this would be her first visit to Notre Dame.

As one of my friends eloquently put it; you only get to take your mom to her first Notre Dame game once. The entire weekend was truly a blessing, and I was fortunate to finally share this experience, and what make the place so special for me, with my mother.

Love you Mom.

Special thanks to Andrew and Julia as always, for their hospitality and putting on a first class tailgate. Looking forward to a couple of adventures next fall with you guys…first round is on me in Dublin.

Also, thanks to my new friend and loyal follower of the blog, Ron, for the ticket help and cold beers. Great to finally meet up with you Ron, and look forward to our paths crossing again in the future!

Fat Shirley’s in South Bend – The end of an era…

The smell of grease and cigarettes hovers in the low yellowed ceilings like a fog. The galley counter is cramped, and patrons straddle spinning vinyl stools waiting. Stainless steel flashes behind the counter, a few corners covered with grime – looks like it’s been there for about twenty years. Who cares when the coffee is strong. Drunk chatter fills the air, interrupted by the sizzle of the grill, fatty strips of bacon popping away. Students slur clumsily about politics, turning green as they struggle to finish a midnight meal. The early old timers huddle around black coffees, jabbering on about local gossip, or such and such “dumb son of a bitch”.

Barb, the short order cook, goes about her work efficiently, turning only to holler at a couple of drunks getting mouthy with the young waitress. They assume their places, returning to silence. There’s a certain authority to a middle aged woman working the graveyard shift waving a greasy masons trowel. She goes back to her work, ladling butter onto the cooktop for the next order. Everything gets cooked in butter here; eggs, potatoes, even the bacon. It sits melted in a steel tray on the grill, refreshed every few minutes with another yellow brick.

My roommate and I watch our breakfasts being cooked, strips of bacon dancing away in the heavy handed butter. I ordered the “Truckers Special”; three eggs, toast, bacon and a pile of home fries. All of it cost four bucks. Paid for up front and in cash only, per the faded paint menu board posted bluntly above the grill. Probably the only place left in America you can get a full breakfast cooked to order, flip the cashier a five dollar bill, and leave with change. With the clock tilting towards 4AM we shuffle the 100 yards home from the diner, stripping on the porch before entering the tiny bungalow we’re renting. The stench of cigarettes and grease is so strong we don’t dare bring the clothes in the house, leaving them to air outside in the cool fall morning air.

Depending on who you talk to in South Bend, that iconic 24 hour diner was known as “Fat Shirley’s” to some, and the “Gag and Heave” to others. Officially, the name was the White House Restaurant, and stories like the above were the typical ending to weekend nights during my tenure in South Bend. I rubbed elbows with a few Notre Dame Football players there, and a truck once hit the building while I was eating. Once I was sure the rickety structure wasn’t coming down, I resumed the assault on my potatoes.

Unfortunately, however, the restaurant as I knew it closed down a couple years ago. After shutting the doors for a while, it has now been reopened as Jeannie’s House. It’s no longer 24 hours, the prices went up a bit, and there are a couple new faces in the room. Fresh pine paneling abounds inside, the ceiling is a crisp new white along with a myriad of updated cosmetics. The whole place it just feels – new. Different. You’re even allowed to use your cell phone now…

Trying to dredge up some memories, I trudged back in there on the Sunday morning after the game. While the glory in Notre Dame Stadium continues to fade, so to does the aura of Fat Shirley’s. Sure the food was fine at “Jeannie’s”, and still relatively cheap, so I have nothing to complain about. But it just didn’t feel the same anymore. Maybe I needed a few dozen beers to really appreciate it, or maybe some things are just better left to memory…

Rest in peace Fat Shirley’s.

(Sadly, I don’t have any pictures of the old place…)

Polito's Meatball Subs - Still perfect...

I wrote extensively about the virtues of the meatball sub at Polito’s two years ago HERE. With changes afoot seemingly around every corner of South Bend, I’m happy to report that is not the case at Polito’s.

The meatball subs here remain the same gooey treasures they were two years ago, overflowing with spiced meat and mozzarella. Untarnished by the meddling hands of change, they’re worth the trip every time. I don’t know why this place even has a menu...

....And Our Hearts Forever Love Thee Notre Dame

Attempting to describe a football weekend at Notre Dame is an impossible task for me. If you could go to only one college football game in your life, it should be viewed within the historic brick walls of the House that Rock Built. Notre Dame is a transcendent experience simply beyond description.

Instead I will defer to the great Lou Holtz.

“If you've been here, no explanation is necessary. If you haven't been, no explanation will suffice.”

The Main Building (Golden Dome)

The side door to the Basilica. Pay special note to the inscription above the door.



Inside the Basilica.

The Grotto.

Hesburgh Library (Touchdown Jesus)


Notre Dame Stadium

Final Score: Notre Dame 20 Boston College 16

Go Irish!!!

It was great spending the weekend with old friends; Bryce (thank you for scrounging up tickets), Tim, Nebo and Nebo Sr.

Special thanks to both Andrew and Julia for putting us up at their place, and hosting an impressive tailgate despite the weather!

Cloudy with a chance of Meatballs...

I consider myself a purveyor of the finer things in life. BBQ, hot dogs, giant sandwiches, epic burritos and of course Meatball Subs. At its essence the meatball sub is a rather simple creation: spiced ground meat, marinara sauce, cheese and good hearty bread. But there is a subtlety to this art, a subtlety which seems to elude the entire state of Texas. Frustratingly, I haven’t been able to find a serviceable meatball sub in almost three years here, lest you count a limp, soggy sub roll with “meatballs” that just rolled off the Sysco truck.

Given this absence of acceptable meat spheres in a state sorely lacking enough Italian heritage, I was primed for my visit back to South Bend for one of the best meatball subs on the planet at Polito’s restaurant.

Whether you call it a hero, hoagie, grinder or sub, this sandwich at Polito’s is a genuine work of art. It’s the perfect blend of spiced homemade meatballs, gooey mozzarella and hearty marinara sauce. What truly sets Polito’s apart, however, is their bread. They have thicker almost pizza-like bread that has a good firm bite to it. Most importantly, the bread maintains its structural integrity despite being stuffed with enough meat, cheese and sauce to choke an alligator.

These gifts from the Italian gods were a staple of my diet in South Bend, and it’s no mystery why they are an integral part of my annual pilgrimage back to Notre Dame each year.

http://www.politosny.com/

http://www.politosny.com/menu.html

Fat Willy's Rib Shack

As you can guess, there’s no shortage of intestinal challenges in the city of Chicago, and if you share the same zest for gluttony and greasy gastronomy that I do, than you relish any visit to the city of corpulence. Sunday before the flight home was our chance to indulge.

After a quick inquiry to my resident townie friend and aspiring mustachio Bill, he laid out a handful of enticing options to challenge the heftiest of appetites. Unfortunately, two of those delightful temptations were closed on Sunday. Were I still living in Utah, I might expect these kind of primitive hours but in Chicago this goes over about as well as a Bears passing game.

The two closed options were:

Mr. Beef: Which requires little explanation other than the fact that it’s called Mr. Beef, and they specialize in Italian beef sandwiches. I salute their no nonsense approach.

Hot Dougs: Which had me at “Encased Meat Emporium”. Suffice to say, Hot Doug’s specializes in serving various types of hot dogs, sausage, and brats. They also give these treats some rather entertaining names, and can even be served up with a special side of “Duck Fat Fries” (French fries deep fried in duck fat). It may be worthy of a return visit for those fries alone.

I think my personal favorite from the menu was the:

The Frankie “Five Angels” Pentangeli
(formerly The Virgil “the Turk” Sollozzo and the Luca Brasi)
Italian Sausage: Keep your friends close, your sausage closer.

http://www.hotdougs.com/

http://www.hotdougs.com/menu.htm

Be sure to listen to the Hot Doug’s rock song as well, and consider adding it to your workout shuffle.

http://www.hotdougs.com/songs/rockmix.mp3

Ultimately, we settled on a third and equally tempting option, Fat Willy’s Rib Shack. And while I had some initial reservations about getting BBQ outside of Texas, my anxiety was soon relieved when I noticed a rather hefty woodpile stacked up out front.

On Bill’s recommendation, all three of us promptly ordered up the pulled pork sandwich, and I snickered amusingly after the waiter asked me if I wanted the full or half sandwich. The brawny sandwiches arrived a few minutes later much to the delight of our awaiting appetites. In addition to being a moist pulled pork sandwich, it was topped with a unique vinegar garlic coleslaw, while the huge pile of meat invited a sampling of Fat Willy’s homemade sauces.

The sandwich was so good, in fact, that I nary had a chance to take a picture of it before I had nearly torn through the entire thing. What you see are the sad remnants of soon to be finished Fat Willy’s pulled pork sandwich of satisfaction.

http://www.fatwillys.com/

http://www.fatwillys.com/greymenu908.pdf

Special thanks to Bill and Rachel for hosting us for the afternoon, and Henry Jr. for the enthusiastic entertainment.

Air Force vs Notre Dame

I made the quick 8 hour jaunt from Salt Lake to Colorado Springs, passing through some of the most ruggedly beautiful terrain the Rockies have to offer to watch the Irish visit the Air Force Academy. Passing through a few security checkpoints, we toasted a robust tailgating atmosphere with a few of Colorado's finest microbrews from Breckenridge Brewery. We then filed into Falcon Stadium where on a sunny, yet windy high plains afternoon, the Irish promptly grounded the cadets 39-17.

Fiesta Bowl: Notre Dame vs Ohio State

After a successful 2005 campaign, the Irish took the field in Sun Devil Stadium against the Ohio State Buckeyes in a compelling Fiesta Bowl matchup. The outcome on the field, however, proved to be a disappointing way to end the season and would ultimately expose the defensive shortcomings of Charlie Weis. Despite the lackluster performance, there are far worse places to spend New Years than under the bright sunshine of Tempe, Arizona, and it was certainly a welcome respite from the long winter of the Midwest.


Final Score: Notre Dame 20 Ohio State 34