An omen of death?

Day two in the dismal town of Scranton, PA delivered a combination of pleasure and disappointment.

As the whistle blew and I scampered out of work for the day, I felt an urge that I couldn’t identify, that is, until I got in my rental and out came from the speakers, Beautiful Day by U2. An ironic tune to have come on since the weather in Eastern PA is crap. Nevertheless, listening to the Irish band rock out helped me find what I was craving, an Irish pub. As if I was a mosquito on a hot summer night; these establishments are my neon light. I have always been drawn to the Irish pub. I go ahead and pull out my life tool (aka blackberry), something that I probably couldn’t function without, and Google search for an Irish pub. After quickly noticing that Scranton nearly has one on every corner, I sought out one that had some positive reviews. Eureka, The Banshee, deriving from the Gaelic ‘bean sídhe.’ If I was to open an Irish pub, I would likely not consider a name such as this, since that folks will want to eat your food and as folklore has it, a Banshee is an omen of death a messenger from the other-side. I wouldn’t want my restaurants name to be relating to death when I am trying to grow my bottom line by selling food. Nevertheless, I take my life in my hands and enter through the doors.

The building was probably built at the turn of the century and as I take off my sunglasses and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark room I begin to see the wonderful wood work; stained glass windows; couches arranged near a roaring fire; an amazing beer list and a menu that would rival the thickness of the King James Bible.

Note: As Gordon Ramsey says, always be wary of an establishment that has a large menu. Large menus often lead to food being less than fresh, pre-ordered, and reheated for consumption. May as well just go to Mickey D’s, pick up a sixer and call it an evening….although that’s not my style. I digress…

As I belly up to the bar I quickly make friends with the bartender. A middle aged man that seems to know everyone by name (insert: Gary Potnoy and Judy Hart Angelo’s early eighties hit song, “where everyone knows your name”) the talk quickly moves to questions surrounded by my presence in this town and why I ended up at The Banshee. I give him the 30k foot level explanation and move on to ask about the happenings around town, the upcoming St. Paddy’s Day parade, and of course the weather. The typical small chat continues and other locals join in on our conversation and share some laughs. Some very nice people in Scranton, so nice that I forgot to order a damn beer!

The beer list is an amazing one with a wide collection of both domestic craft brews and international cornerstones. I go with a Sam Smith Winter Welcome. For those of you that have not tried this beer, it is fantastic and I recommend giving it a go.
Zulu time strikes noon, and like clockwork, the bartender looks for his up-sale by offering me the menu. Given the size of the menu, it is no wonder the bartender walks with a limp. I open the menu and give it a good read through, taking several breaks to continue drinking my cold beer. I figured I would have to keep a good pace with my sips; otherwise the beer would turn warm therein disappointing my taste buds. This is actually a suitable rationale given the novel I was reading. Some time passes and I end up going with the bartender’s favorite, crab cakes.

As the bartender limps his way over to my spot at the bar I get a good look at the crab cakes and overall presentation of the plate. For those of you who know this already, forgive me for insulting your intelligence, but when food comes to your table, or in my case, barstool; it should satisfy all of your senses and not only sense of taste. The Banshee has done well, so far. As I begin to cut into my crab cake, I see that it has been deep fried (disgusting) and then I’m wondering where the fuck is my crab!?!? Crab cakes are to have crab in them, if I’m not mistaken, and I do not believe I am. This was all filler and no crab. As I sit there and steaming over the poor quality of my food, I come to two realizations: (1) The damn bastard, Gordon Ramsey was correct in his theory of large menus; and (2) never order crab cakes from a restaurant that is located over a 125 miles from an ocean.

The crab cake ended up wearing me down. I never thought of myself as a quitter, but I quit this crab cake. Staring disappointment in the face, I do as any real man would do, wash down my disappointment with something I know will not disappoint, Victory’s Hop Devil. For those of you out there that enjoy a hopped up bad ass beer that makes your asshole pucker, this beer is for you. It’s amazing. Thank God for this rebound, otherwise The Banshee was an absolute waste of my time. But as Bill Shakespeare says, “let’s not burden our remembrance with a heaviness that's gone.” The Banshee was a nice place for a few sips of the liquid that saved the world from Irish, but not so much for food.