Take My Word For It, Gilhooley’s Is The Real Deal

Gilhooley’s
221 9th St.
San Leon, TX







Eight line machine and a sailor's daughter
Somethin' makes 'em crazy growin' up on the water
Playin' for my supper six nights a week

Hurricanes, Easter and New Years Eve

           -- Hayes Carll, I Got A Gig

Texas songwriting genius Hayes Carll got his start gigging in the waterfront dive bars along this hard-scrabble stretch of the Gulf Coast.

He probably wasn’t singing about Gilhooley’s specifically, but that’s exactly where my mind takes me whenever I hear that song.

It’s like I’m there. Right there in the smoke-filled low slung ramshackle dive populated by loud, long-neck swilling good ol’ boys and gals.

These folks give the term “fresh off the shrimp boat” an entirely new – and literal – meaning.

Four tin walls now there ain't much left

Lookin' like a homeless Cheers on meth

Homer's in the corner, breakin' up a fight

Good Lord, I hope I get paid tonight

I’m pretty sure Hayes was singing about some dive bar across the bay in Crystal Beach and not Gilhooley’s because this isn’t just a random smoky seaside hang-out for shrimpers, fishermen and other assorted salty ruffians to down Lone Stars beers.

I mean, Gilhooley’s is all that. But it is much more.

This dive just might be the best spot on Earth to eat oysters.

And on this chilly damp night along this narrow spit of land jutting into Galveston Bay, I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than indulge in an old fashioned Gulf Coast oyster roast.

I came to the right place.

Burnt fried chicken and Lone Star beer
Cops and the kids drink free 'round here
Girl behind the bar is takin' what she's givin'
Lyin' about her past and tryin' to make a livin'

“Where do you want me to sit?”

Shaking off the chill and inhaling the second-hand smoke, I’m sure I looked like an out-of-place out-of-towner where no one knows my name as I stood in the doorway searching for a vacant seat.

“Where ever the hell you want,” barked the gravel-voiced female bartender.

Broke pool table and some hard luck cues
Go tell your mama, I done paid my dues
Every one around here knows my name
Six nights a week in the neon flame

Head swivels all around and suspicious stares from the locals did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm.

I was here to eat some oysters!

Roasted out back over oak and pecan wood, the oysters served at Gilhooley’s are the very pinnacle of what oysters can be.

The first time I ventured into this joint, I brought a fellow suit along from Ohio who had never had an oyster in his life.

Eating your first oyster at Gilhooley’s is like losing your virginity to Scarlett Johansson.

Thanks to that magical night at Gilhooley’s, I’m pretty sure every ensuing oyster that boy eats will be a crushing disappointment.

For me, this is at least my third venture to this classic seaside dive. Whenever Houston Hobby Airport pops up on the Suit757 itinerary, I try to fit Gilhooley’s in there – even though it is a good 45 minutes out of the way from anywhere I would ever need to be.

When the weather is nice, the place to be is on a stool at the open air bar off to the side of the oyster shell parking lot.

On a dreary winter night like this one, a dark corner inside nestled between the space heater, the men’s room and an old piano works just fine.

License plates, African tribal masks and neon beer signs set the mood as my waitress brings my first of several $1.25 Lone Star longnecks.

The “National Beer of Texas” slides down even easier when you know you can get four of ‘em for a Lincoln.

But it’s the roasted Oysters Gilhooley I came here for.

And I wasn’t disappointed. Never am.

Each oyster, varying from tiny all the way up to break-out-the-knife-and-fork humongous, is encased in a parmesan cheese crust while floating in a pool of garlic-infused melted butter and nestled in its shell charred black from the oak and pecan fire out back.

The lips of the oysters are curled up slightly, a smoky scent emanates from the roasted shells and the parmesan and butter burble from their recent liberation from the hard wood roasting.

The rich flavor of the warm butter and cheese only enhances, rather than camouflages, the taste of the oyster.

These oysters, bigger, plumper and juicier than almost any other on the Gulf Coast, yield a wonderful salty, briny taste of the ocean itself.

As another famous songwriter once sang, “Give me oysters and beer for dinner every day of the year, and I’ll feel fine.”

Just fine indeed.

But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to indulge in a few non-oyster items on Gilhooley’s extensive menu.

The gumbo was chock full of even more fresh Gulf oysters along with shrimp, sausage, chicken and lots and lots of Cajun spice. Ideal Gulf Coast comfort food on a cold winter evening.

The boudin balls were filling fried spheres of sausage and rice, perfect for dipping in the accompanying ranch sauce.

There's an old lion tamer parked behind the bar
Hundred pounds of weed in a stolen car
Oil patch boys and girls who went to college
Rules you don't break and laws that ain't acknowledged

As I tilted back the last drop of my last Lone Star and paid my tab (cash only – credit cards and kids strictly forbidden), I couldn’t help but marvel at Gilhooley’s well-earned divey credentials.

Genuine as a comfy pair of Wranglers, Gilhooley’s is the real wind-battered, gravel-parking lot, all-American deal.

And I am a lucky man.

The waterman at the bar in the cowboy hat may look like he wants to filet me with a knife, but a bit of danger and discomfort only adds to the pleasure of discovering roasted oysters this good. It’s like someone lifted the velvet rope and let me in a place I was never meant to be.

And yet, I had an urge to prove I had been there.

Which must explain why I mustered the courage to meekly ask my waitress if I could buy a Gilhooley’s T-shirt.

“T-shirt? We don’t sell no T-shirts, hon!”

And you know what? I’d have been disappointed if they did.

No 100% cotton proof for me.

I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Barefoot shrimper with a pistol up his sleeve
Some will go to Heaven, some will never leave
Pills in the tip jar, blood on the strings
Oh Lord, I never thought I'd see these things

Rating: Bought the Shirt! (Or at least I tried)

Razor Clams and Other Weird Attractions of Portland, Oregon

Fuller’s Coffee Shop
136 NW 9th Ave.
Portland, OR





Portlanders are a strange demographic of Americans.

Liberal? Oh yeah.

It seems like every other vehicle on the I-5 is a Pius with an Obama sticker.

Are you kidding? Where I come from, if you spot an Obama sticker, you have to assume it was placed ironically.

The county where I live gave Obama just 27% of the vote. And, trust me, he hasn’t gotten any more popular.

Imagine that percentage if an actual REAL Republican had challenged Obama.

Portland also has a light rail system that Portlanders actually use. Weird.

Unfortunately every semi-pro, AAA minor league mid-sized city in America is trying to thrust money-sucking public transit on its taxpayers using Portland as a shining example of success.

Trust me, it won’t work anywhere but here.

Remember, Portlanders are weird. Uniquely so.

Portland is also one of the most “homeless friendly” cities in the country. Not surprisingly, you can’t go one block downtown without being accosted by some drugged-out beggar squatting on the side walk.

Build it, and they will come. Indeed.

But besides mass transportation, beggars and strong coffee, Portlanders also have a good appreciation for quality food.

Fuller’s Coffee Shop downtown is a perfect example.

Everything at Fuller’s – from the omelets to the fried seafood to the hash browns to the toast – is top notch with an exquisite attention to simple comfortable culinary detail.

None of my Suit757 trips to Portland are ever complete without at least one meal at this 65 year old institution.

A throw-back to simpler times (before taxpayer subsidized hybrid cars and needle exchange programs), Fuller’s is a nostalgic oasis. A big mural on NW 9th Avenue depicts a scene of content customers dining at Fuller’s counter from a long ago distant era.

Happily, not much has seemed to change.

Folks still come here to crowd around the serpentine lunch counter or the couple of sidewalk outdoor tables for the best breakfast and coffee in town.

Of course, if you’ve been paying attention to this website, you know Suit757 doesn’t drink anything but beer or water.

So, sorry, I have no idea whether the coffee is any good…but one can assume.

Thanks to the utter incompetence of Continental Airlines, it had been nearly 24 hours since my last meal. And it was no longer breakfast hours.

To make a long, sleep-deprived story short, instead of arriving in Portland at 2am Eastern Time, I ended up in Seattle at 3am, drove 150 miles and got to my hotel at 6am.

After a couple hours of shut eye and two meetings, I was ready for lunch. After all, it was 2pm, according to my biological clock.

By far, Fuller’s most unique lunch offering is fried razor clams.

So unique in fact that I don’t recall ever seeing them on a menu anywhere else. And Suit757 has perused a lot of menus in his day!

Razor clams are a local Pacific Northwest delicacy not for the squeamish. I mean, these babies aren’t those little thumb-sized dudes you get on the East Coast, where you can slurp them down after quick bite and a swallow.

Nope. You’re going to get a little more intimate with your clams when you order razors.

First of all, they are Jurassic-sized – up to half a foot long! You have to break out a knife and a fork to eat these babies.

While by no means chewy, Fuller’s razor clams put up a bit of tooth resistance. You’re not going to just slurp these down. There’s no bypassing getting your taste buds acquainted with their clammy flavor.

Fortunately, that’s a good thing.

Coated in a soft, pillowy seasoned batter, Fuller’s razor clams offer up a unique taste of the sea. Fried seafood perfection.

My three or four clams were served on top of a generous bed of freshly cut French fries. The good kind with the potato skin and all.

The cole slaw and tarter sauce were excellent also.

No attention to detail at Fuller’s is ever missed.

For example, every meal at Fuller’s – even a carb loaded lunch plate like mine – is accompanied by toast.

But not just any toast. Not the kind of toast Suit757 normally tosses aside in search for real food.

That would be a mortal sin at Fuller’s.

I have no idea what makes the toast here so good. Maybe it is the dense sweet bread Fuller’s uses. Or the fact that they paint every crevasse and all four corners with a generous brush of real melted butter. Or the fresh fruit preserves they provide on the lunch counter.

Gourmet toast? Who knew?

Most shocking of all was the amount on the check. Single digits for all this great food!

No doubt about it. Portland is an odd place. But amid all the panhandlers (both those screaming at you from the sidewalk and the more subtle Obama voters) as long as the sign outside Fuller’s says “Open”, at least I know I won’t go hungry. Or broke.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Feelin’ Good Again with Old School Beers and Burgers

Crystal Beer Parlor
301 West Jones St.
Savannah, GA



Crystal Beer Parlor is an important part of what makes Savannah one of America’s best cities.

You never know what you’ll bump into as you stroll through the spooky Spanish moss-draped squares and narrow side streets of the “Haunted City”.

There always seems to be some exciting hidden discovery around every cobblestone corner.

Like Crystal Beer Parlor.

I’ve been exploring the historic district of Savannah for years and never even heard of the place until I happened to stumble into it on a side street somewhere between Pulaski and Chatham Squares.

And it’s not like Crystal Beer Parlor is some Johnny-come-lately joint recently opened by some relocated Yankee entrepreneur for the hoards of tourist masses.

The place has been serving beer and burgers since 1933 – and brags that it was one of the first bars in America to open after the repeal of Prohibition.

Back then, beers were a dime and burgers a quarter.

Thanks to seven decades of central bank fiat currency printing, the prices are a bit higher today. But I’m guessing the quality of the food and beer selection has improved too.

Crystal Beer Parlor lives up to its name – and proves that you don’t have to have 200 taps to qualify for outstanding beer selection.

The back wall behind the bar is lined with about 20 taps of exciting, unusual and hard to find fresh microbrewed beer.

For example, Sweetwater Brewing out of Atlanta has become fairly prevalent at bars with decent beer selection throughout the South. But it is almost always the 420 – a standard American pale ale.

Getting your hands on a frosty mug of Sweetwater’s much more interesting seasonal brews is like scoring a young hot female TSA agent to fondle you at security. I suppose it’s theoretically possible – but it never seems to happen.

That’s why I was so excited to see Sweetwater’s Festive Ale on Crystal’s beer list.

This is a beer drinker’s beer. Dark, strong and heavy, with just a touch of cinnamon, Festive Ale lives up to its name. At nearly 9% alcohol by volume, it is definitely a sipping beer.

Not for beer chugging contests.

I tried another top notch hard-to-find winter brew, RJ Rocker’s First Snowfall, out of Greenville, South Carolina.

Lighter in color and body than the Sweetwater, First Snowfall was like pumpkin pie in a glass, with nutmeg and cloves

And what self-respecting, patriotic beer-drinking Suit could resist a pint of Brew Free or Die IPA from California’s 21st Amendment Brewery?

I felt like I was striking a blow against the imperialist federal nanny state with every sip of this hoppy, powerful beer.

Fitting its retro-style ambiance, Crystal Beer Parlor even has a menu of “Beers of our Fathers – the Beer Your Dad Used to Love”, including Stroh’s, Rheingold and Genesee Cream Ale (a favorite of Suit757’s dad).

But unless you happen to be a Ninth Century monk, man can not live on beer alone. Fortunately, Crystal Beer Parlor offers some top notch bar food.

My crab stew to start was chock full of lumpy crab meat. A bit sweeter than most she-crab soups I’ve enjoyed, this version certainly didn’t skimp on the crab. I found the meat of an entire crab claw buried under all that creamy goodness!

Better yet was the bacon cheese burger.

I know this might sound somewhat shocking coming from Suit757, but I hesitate ordering burgers in restaurants. No matter how you order it or how much you plead with your waitress, you just know the burger that comes out of the kitchen is going to be charred, dry and overcooked.

Burgers are one of those food items that almost always taste better when you grill ‘em to your own liking. As Robert Earl Keen once said, “There is nothing like your own backyard.” (I have a theory that every experience in life can be derived from a REK song.)

But Crystal Beer Parlor’s burger was love at first sight.

As soon as I saw the pink juices staining the sturdy bun, I knew this was a burger done right. Perfectly pink medium – just like I ordered it.

Juicy, greasy deliciousness.

Always on the look-out for something different, I ordered “Ocilla Slaw” on the side.

Named after a small South Georgia town in Irwin County, Ocilla Slaw is shredded cabbage, peppers and onions mixed with a sweet vinaigrette. More sweet than vinegary, Ocilla Slaw went down perfectly with my slab of dead cow and luxurious microbrewed beers.

A big juicy burger, crab stew, Ocilla slaw and three high potency beers later, I stumbled out of Crystal Beer Parlor excited. And full.

Excited that no matter how many times I return to a fantastic city like Savannah there is always something new to discover. Even if that something “new” has been around since the dark days of prohibition.

Savannah and Crystal Beer Parlor are parts of what make being a Suit in Strange Places so much fun.

“The road goes on forever…and the party never ends.”

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

Shipping Off to Guantanamo Well Fed

Blackstone’s Café
205 Scott St.
Beaufort, South Carolina





If President Obama were kind enough to offer me one final meal before he slapped on the cuffs and exiled me to Guantanamo, it would have to be shrimp & grits.

Nothing beats fresh wild caught American shrimp. And good Southern grits are one of those rare side items perfectly at home on a breakfast, lunch or dinner menu.

In combination, shrimp & grits encourages creativity. Like Mitt Romney’s position on abortion, no two versions are alike.

I’m happy to report, the chef at the Blackstone’s Café here in the heart of South Carolina’s Low Country takes full advantage.

Blackstone’s “Cajun” Shrimp & Grits are LOADED!

Onion. Green Pepper. Red Pepper. Crumbled breakfast sausage. And mounds of melted cheese.

Oh, and a good generous portion of local shrimp buried amid all that goodness and grits.

Whew!

That’s an explosion of flavor in every bite.

My only quibble with my “Cajun” shrimp & grits was with the “Cajun” part. These shrimp & grits need a bit more spice to earn that label.

On the side came a warm golden Southern biscuit which can only be described as buttery perfection.

Of course I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to sample Blackstone’s specialty of the house, homemade corned beef hash.

A mishmash of crispy fried corned beef and potatoes, this is as good as hash can get.

There’s just something about that wonderful textural variety of soft and crunchy corned beef mixed with skillet browned home fries that makes a breakfast like this worth getting up early for.

And trust me, folks here in Beaufort are happy to do just that.

Packed with that classic breakfast joint eclectic mix of hung-over partiers and freshly scrubbed after-churchers, I chose the less crowed, though less interesting, back patio to enjoy my meal.

Though quiet and pleasant on a cool morning, I kind of missed being amid the hub bub inside. Plastered with prep school banners and Marine Corp paraphernalia, Blackstone’s décor reflects its local flavor well.

Just down the road from Paris Island, Blackstone’s Café reflects the conservative pro-military bias of this corner of the Palmetto State.

You’ve got to love a restaurant owner passionate enough about saving America to post the “Tytler Cycle of Democracy” in the men’s room.

The average age of the worlds greatest civilizations from the beginning of history, has been about 200 years. During those 200 years, these nations always progressed through the following sequence:

From bondage to spiritual faith
from spiritual faith to great courage
from courage to liberty
from liberty to abundance
from abundance to selfishness
from selfishness to complacency
from complacency to apathy
from apathy to dependency
from dependency back to bondage.

– Alexander Fraser Tytler (1747-1813)

Never mind that no one can actually definitively cite the 18th Century Scottish historian as the originator of this bit of wisdom, but the message stands on its own. Nothing like educating a captive audience!

Unfortunately, Suit757 doesn’t put much stock in the “educate the masses” theory of saving the country. See above about that “apathy” thing.

Too many folks just can’t be educated – even captive with manhood in hand. Much more effective to mobilize the ALREADY educated.

But still, as I paid my tab and walked out the front door, prominently adorned with a “Fair Tax” bumper sticker, I felt good having given patronage to a philosophical soul mate.

I’m pretty sure the owner of Blackstone’s is right up there next to Suit757 at the top of Obama’s political enemies list.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty excited about that. At least we’ll be well fed down in Guantanamo.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.

Eastern Carolina Barbeque Refuses to Fade Away

Allen & Son Barbeque
6203 Millhouse Rd.
Chapel Hill, NC

Like flip phones, fax machines and virgins on the UNC Chapel Hill campus, it’s getting harder and harder to find authentic Eastern Carolina barbeque.

That’s because it’s a pain in the butt (no pun intended).

Who the heck has time to chop up hickory logs, tend to a smoldering fire around the clock and smoke a whole hog slowly over the embers for the better part of a day?

And then carefully pick the meat off the animal by hand and concoct your own vinegar sauce?

Forget it.

That’s why God invented gas smokers. Once legendary barbeque shacks all over Eastern North Carolina have shifted to this much more efficient means of ‘que making.

It’s better for the environment too.

As soon as Obama gets done forcing us all to buy electric cars from Government Motors, I’m pretty sure he’s moving to ban authentic barbeque next.

Call it the “BBQ individual mandate.” As a condition of eating in this country, every citizen must cook their meat over a gas smoker.

There’s just one problem. If you are a true barbeque connoisseur, you know that ain’t real barbeque.

But I’m happy to report there is one place tucked up here in the woods north of Chapel Hill where you can still enjoy the real deal.

Keith Allen, the “son” in Allen & Son still delivers North Carolina hickory logs to his restaurant and then saws, splits and chops it himself before burning it in a pit he fires up every 30 minutes. Just like his dad used to do going back to 1968.

There are no short cuts here. And you can taste the authenticity in every bite of the smoke-infused meat.

A textural kaleidoscope of pig parts from various orifices of the swine, Allen & Son’s barbeque offers you a different experience in every bite.

Soft pillowy white pork mixed together with darker strands of meat produces an orgy of smoky flavors and textures in your mouth.

Even a few “burnt” scraps of bark from the fire-charred outside of the pig can be found now and then, adding an intense yet satisfying bitter bite to the meat.

There is comfort in the evidence splayed before you on your hard plastic plate that you are eating pure unadulterated classic Eastern Carolina barbeque.

As per tradition here in the eastern half of North Carolina, the sauce isn’t really a sauce. It’s nothing more than a jar of salty, peppery vinegar.

When you squirt some on your meat, it immediately disappears, escaping into the nooks and crannies of the chopped up pig parts.

You might not be able to see it, but there is no doubt you can taste it.

Eastern Carolina “sauce” adds a bitter tangy zip that enhances the smoky flavor of the pig.

Legend holds that the colonial settlers in these parts, who invented this form of barbeque, were convinced that tomatoes were poisonous and thus obsessively shunned the sweet vegetables.

Personally, I enjoy tomato based sauces, but when in Rome, you don’t argue with the Romans.

If you really need your tomato fix, get a side of Brunswick Stew, as I did. Here at Allen & Son it is a delicious concoction of vegetables and shredded pork in a thin tomato-based sauce.

Other staples of authentic Eastern Carolina barbeque feats are cole slaw, hush puppies and sweet tea.

No one leaves Allen & Son hungry.

The hush puppies arrived at the table in an overflowing basket. Over a dozen of the best puppies you’ll ever taste!

Crispy on the outside, soft and warm on the inside, these sweet doughy spheres were addictive. I had to physically tie my hand to the plastic checkerboard tablecloth to keep from eating the entire basket.

By the time I pushed my wooden chair back from the table, I felt relieved. And stuffed.

Stuffed because I just consumed the better part of a hog and a month’s worth of deep fried carbs.

But relieved just know that a place like Allen & Son still exists. We live in a society where speed, efficiency and parsimony too often crowd out quality.

As Texas songwriter Pat Green once wistfully sang, “All the good things fade away.”

Many of the legends of this centuries-old American tradition that is Eastern Carolina barbeque may be switching from hickory wood to gas. But folks still flock to this wooded intersection of country roads in Orange County to enjoy the real thing.

No need to worry.

Unlike the weathered sign above the front door, Allen & Son won’t be fading away any time soon.

Rating: Bought the Shirt!

O’Rourke’s Diner Cures Irish Discrimination

O’Rourke’s Diner
728 Main St.
Middletown, CT




Look, I’ll be the first to admit, the Irish aren’t exactly known for creative, delicious cuisine.

At my Catholic Church pot luck, I’m headed straight for the dishes brought by the Italians.

Or the Cubans.

Or the Polish. Or the Hungarians. Or the Germans, Mexicans or Czechs.

Heck, I’ll even eat French food before Irish.

We Irish have a good way with Smithwicks, whiskey and words, but put us in the kitchen and we’re worthless.

Irish need not apply.

Like all our other misfortunes, I’m pretty sure the British are to blame for this one too.

Boiled potatoes anyone?

So I can understand why you might be bit hesitant about chowing down at an “Irish” Diner.

But you’d be wrong to be skeptical about O’Rourke’s Diner in Middletown, Connecticut. The joint is famous the world over for over-the-top delicious food.

This 71 year old institution is so famous and so beloved that when it was gutted by a kitchen fire six years ago, the local community went out and raised over $300,000 to help Brian O’Rourke, the diner’s owner, rebuild.

General Motors and Chrysler destroy themselves by appeasing the UAW bosses and building crappy cars and then demand a multi-billion dollar Bush/Obama taxpayer bailout.

A fire destroys O’Rourke’s and it is the hungry loyal customers who voluntarily help raise their beloved diner from the ashes.

Now THAT’S how it is supposed to work!

Brian O’Rourke repays that loyalty every day in his kitchen churning out a mind-boggling variety of unique creative culinary creations, many with an Irish twist.

The breakfast menu is eight pages. Eight!

Thirty crazy combination omelets. A dozen varieties of eggs Benedict. Half a dozen versions of French toast. I could spend all morning perusing the menu.

And miss my important Suit757 meeting. And get fired.

That would be bad. I needed to narrow the decision-making process before my head exploded.

Normally under these circumstances, I just go with whatever is the most unique, crazy over-the-top dish I can find. Which includes meat. Of course.

But that still doesn’t narrow things down much at O’Rourke’s.

Unfortunately, my waitress wasn’t much help either.

She said she just likes simple breakfasts – like the oatmeal.

Lady, I know the unemployment rate in this Obama bailout economy is high around here, but you really should think about another line of work.

Then I thought about it. How many times in my life will I find myself in an “Irish” diner?

I’ve got to go with one of the Irish breakfast items.

But which one? There were at least half a dozen by my count.

Now, I know what you are thinking.

You’re thinking, “Suit757, you just got done explaining in such eloquent terms that Irish food sucks.”

Well, my dear Suits in Strange Places reader, you are right.

But there is one very important exception.

Irish breakfast.

Ah yes. The most important meal of the day is the only meal you ever want to eat if you find yourself on the Emerald Isle.

Eggs. Tomato. Blood sausage. Brown soda bread. Baked beans. And Irish bacon as thick and succulent as good country ham.

Mmmm. I could eat an Irish breakfast for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Forget Molly Malone’s cockles and mussels, just give me some more of that sturdy Irish bacon!

Now granted, real Irishmen probably don’t eat a full Irish breakfast any more frequently than Southerners like me eat sugar cane syrup-drizzled pecan waffles and sausage gravy-smothered chicken fried steak.

Delicious, but even Suit757’s stout arteries can’t handle that EVERY morning.

So even for a true Irishman, an Irish breakfast is for special occasions.

And I think a visit to O’Rourke’s Irish Diner is just such an occasion.

The Dubliner Omelet I finally settled on was chock full of corned beef hash and melty aged white cheddar cheese.

This is heavenly hash!

Tender and flavorful, the corned beef hash was enveloped in a perfect accompaniment of melted cheese and egg.

The fingerling potato home fries were a wonderful comingling of potato, onion and spice.

But the homemade Irish soda bread topped with a spread of jam may have been the best thing on my plate, hard as that is to admit.

Suit757 isn’t normally a big carb guy. But Brian O’Rourke made me a convert.

First he made a personal appearance boothside to offer some complimentary fresh baked spice muffins.

But the sweet raisin-studded soda bread made me swear off the Atkins Diet for a lifetime. Grilled to a delightful toasty crisp on the outside, yet still moist as your grandmother’s pound cake on the inside, the Irish soda bread was breakfast dessert.

The only mild disappointment was the Irish bacon laid atop my omelet. Not anywhere near as thick, hearty and succulent as the real Irish bacon I’ve enjoyed in the motherland, this more closely resembled a poor man’s version of Canadian bacon.

The prices here are a bit steep too.

But nobody comes to a gourmet Irish diner like O’Rourke’s for a cheap meal. You come for a taste bud extravaganza.

And I’m happy to say, Brian O’Rourke delivers.

Not bad. For an Irishman.

Rating: Seriously Thought About Buying Shirt.