Cindy, who makes our Ribbit-Ribbits, announced at our marketing dinner in December that she and her family would be spending New Year's Eve at Times Square and a few days in New York, seeing "the sights."
At the time, Cindy didn't have any "sights" in mind. So I suggested a few.
Because the BryonySeries prequel "Before The Blood" is part historical fiction, I created the "feel" of the time and locations by lightly blending real landmarks and events into the overall story.
One landmark was McSorley's Old Alehouse, which was established in 1854.
McSorley's Old Alehouse appears twice in the first installment of the BryonySeries prequel "Before the Blood" (excerpts to follow below the photos).
But first, a few facts about this old establishment, which was closed to women until 1974 and opened its first women's restroom in 1986.
The floor is covered with sawdust, the bar has no stools and no cash register, and the space is frequently standing room only. And no beer: only light or dark ale.
The menu still has original items, such as turkey and the famous cheese, cracker, and raw onion plate.
Cindy actually went back a second time for the wishbones, which she didn't notice the first time.
The legend is that McSorley's gave patrons off to fight in World War I a free turkey dinner before they left. These patrons hung their wishbones, to split when they returned.
Legend says these old dusty McSorley wishbones are from soldiers who never returned to claim them.
Now for the excerpts:
Excerpt No. 1
Helsby
looked at John.
"The ladies of the church are
hosting a tea in Miss Bartlett's honor this afternoon. When I return from
escorting her, would you accompany me to McSorley's? The ale, raw onions, and
turkey all are first rate, I promise you. It's just we two. Tommy is busy with
his studies."
"The villa's host is scorning
the toque?"
"Alas, the host's culinary
skills are so poor, even the lads on the roof won't touch his dinners."
"Then McSorley's it is."
"I shan't be long. If you like,
you may play piano in the parlor. The music won't disturb Tommy. He's deaf in
one ear."
The door closed, and John,
deliberately ignoring the leaning floor and the scrabbling behind the faded
wallpaper, wandered into the parlor. For all its shabbiness, the flat was
clean. Poverty, at least for the future Mr. and Mrs. Helsby, didn't equal substandard
housekeeping, although the abode could have used a picture here and there and
perhaps a potted plant or two to lighten its bleakness.
A small upright that shouted
"scrap heap" pressed against one wall. John plunked a yellow key and
winced at its reply. Taking a pass on torture, John gazed out the window and
tried to envision what Savannah might be doing. Next year, John vowed, Helsby
and his wife would spend their summer at the farm. He wondered if either of
them could ride. Well, no matter. Between him and Savannah, it would simple to
teach...
"Well, this is truly a first:
Master John and a silent piano occupying the same room. I'd not have believed
if my own eyes hadn't witnessed it."
John started from the reverie and
turned from the window. "I didn't hear you come in."
"I'm quieter than mice.
Ready?"
"Yes. Are we walking?"
"No, it's too far. I've called
for a cab. And no, you shan't pay for it. It's my treat. I've been saving for
it."
Lined up on the sidewalk outside the
pub at 15 East 7th Street were empty barrels, all bearing the lettering McSorley's. The sign above the door
extended from one end of the building to
the other and read, McSorley's Old Ale
House: Established 1854. Inside, sawdust covered the dark wood floors;
tintype photographs and Harrigan and Hart playbills lined the walls. After
inquiring if John would prefer the porter or the cream ale, Helsby ordered for
them both and found a table.
"So don't be mum, Master John.
What's her name?"
"Savannah Holloway."
Helsby leaned forward, eyes alight,
the color rising in his cheeks. "The robber baron's widow?"
Inwardly, John smiled. He had
forgotten Helsby's fascination with society news.
"The very same, Helsby."
"However did you meet her?
Through your father?"
"You could say that."
Their meal arrived. Each man bowed
his head for a silent prayer. After swallowing a generous forkful of turkey,
Helsby asked, "And you're actually engaged?"
"Yes."
He shook his head and cut another
slice. "A pity she had a conflict, but I suppose she must be quite
occupied with finances. Mr. Holloway had amassed a substantial fortune."
"My interest is Savannah, not
her money."
Astonished, Helsby set the fork
down. "I never meant to imply otherwise. I only wished to say her affairs
must keep her busy. But, as they say, marriage requires many sacrifices, and
they often begin well before the 'I do's.'"
"So it seems, Helsby, so it
seems."
Ticket
sales remained high for days, despite the effects of an ice storm that lasted
all week, another fallout from January's blizzard. One afternoon, soon after
the temperatures rose, and as John had launched into his final practice piece,
Henry walked up to him.
"I dying to try McSorley's. Shall
we?"
They took a cab to lower Manhattan,
with Henry chatting all the way about New York's cantankerous weather, how it
kept him busy with news articles all winter, even as it ruined one suit after
another. Despite Henry's fine manners, he seemed equally at home with the
rustic McSorley's as he had been inside Delmonico's.
Not until John picked up his ale and
took a long drink, the type of drink Jackson would approve, did he dare ask,
"So Lord Girard's ward enjoys reporting?"
"I never said I enjoyed
it." Henry raised his glass to his lips and sipped it. "Well, this is
quite good."
"Writing is not your passion?" John
couldn't fathom why anyone as rich as Henry was would engage in business he did
not enjoy, especially when he need not engage in business at all.
"Journalism is not my
passion," Henry set down his glass. "But writing most certainly is,
the main reason for my marriage to Agnes King."
"I don't understand."
Henry held out the plate. "Soda
cracker?"
John shook his head, still watching Henry.
"I prefer shocking to informing."
Henry grabbed another cracker. "Supernatural stories, not news stories.
"I
see."
"But penning content for dime
novels doesn't pay Fifth Avenue rent."
"You're renting? On Fifth
Avenue? But I thought..."
"That I subsisted off Lord
Girard's riches? Hardly."
"And a reporter's salary covers
those expenses?"
Amusement on his lips. Henry took
out a card, inscribed something on it, and then passed it to John. "This
is my address. You're welcome to call on me."
John read the card. His eyes widened. Henry
merely cut another slice of turkey and said, "I see you recognize the
address. My, did Mr. Russell have plenty to say about you when my story
broke."
"About?"
"About how Little Lonnie, who's not quite
so little anymore, would be so accomplished if you hadn't abandoned your
commitment to teaching 'the dear
one.'"
Henry, John thought, for all his
dandyisms, understood more than he showed.
"So," John said, deciding
no further remarks about the Russells were necessary, "you intend to use
the King family riches to further your goals?"
"Not exactly, no. I view it as
an exchange of resources. Trust me, Agnes King is, and will be, amply
compensated."
"I still don't comprehend why
you must marry Agnes when you have Lord Girard as a...resource."
Henry waved for the bill and then
leaned forward with a sly look.
"Lord Girard is fairly young
and healthy, making an early demise and acquisition of his inheritance unlikely
for some time."
"That's cold."
"See here, John, don't act so
coy. You and I, we are nearly the same."
"How so?"
"Similar resources, congruent
goals, but..." Henry grinned impishly. "... different
applications."
John said nothing.
