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America, it was the link to the ruination of your liver.
    Patrick opened the pub door for Kate, but she hesitated.
    â€œIt’s a respectable place. The Browns were good friends with our dear Peg. They’re looking out for me now.”
    The room was dark, long, and narrow. Men were playing darts in the corner. It didn’t seem like a very friendly place, but Kate had no choice. She was hungry. She felt dizzy. Patrick helped her with her coat, quite the gentleman, and then hung it on the rack by the door for her. Kate pulled off her gloves; they had indeed shrunk a bit from the rain that morning. She took off her hat. Patrick led them to a booth near the wood-burning fireplace. The scent of wood smoke was comforting. Kate closed her eyes for a moment, and it felt like Fogarty’s Pub back home, and that was lovely.
    â€œWe’ll get you some good grub,” he said. “Mrs. Brown feeds me as an act of mercy, which I pay for with steaks, chops, and the occasional chicken.”
    â€œThat’s lovely.”
    â€œI must be the only butcher in town who doesn’t cook.”
    Patrick had gotten quite thin since his mother’s death.
    The bartender brought Patrick a pint and Kate a half. “Much obliged, Mr. Brown,” Patrick said.
    The slight, wrinkled man seemed irritated by the sight of Kate. “You’re lucky,” he said to her. “Mrs. Brown says there’s just enough fish for the both of you. Ten minutes.” Then he left.
    â€œHe’s really quite kind,” Patrick said.
    Kate didn’t know the Browns. They were Sundays Only churchgoers. She didn’t know what to make of the husband. She pushed the beer away. “He’s very presumptuous. Maybe I don’t drink. Maybe I don’t eat fish.”
    She noticed a sign over the bar— NO LADIES ALLOWED —that could certainly account for Mr. Brown’s lack of enthusiasm, and the lack of a proper snug. But the sign seemed silly. On any given Sunday, rows of baby carriages were lined up outside the pubs on Dyckman Street. Inside, couples dressed more finely than they were at church sat huddled together with children in their laps, out for a nip and a little gossip.
    A sign is just a sheet of paper, after all, Kate thought. Still, it was uncomfortable.
    â€œMaybe I should leave,” she said.
    Patrick caught her by the arm. “Sit down. Think about it. Bright red hair. Pixie of a girl. Big gold cross. You are clearly an Inwood girl bearing the sorrows of your people’s history. Of course you eat fish, especially on Friday. And of course you’re going to want a halfie to wash it down. It’s Inwood.”
    â€œI haven’t been a girl for a very long time, Patrick Harris.”
    â€œIn Inwood, you’ll always be that green girl fresh off the boat. Drink up. It’s good for you.”
    Kate took a sip. The beer was dark.
    â€œLike Murphy’s back home,” he said. “Do you remember it?”
    Kate took another sip. It was. Murphy’s was a point of pride for her father—a Catholic-owned brewery. It was the beer of the working class. If a pub didn’t brew their own, they always had Murphy’s. The beer had a thick creaminess with a bit of a sweet edge.
    â€œMakes me homesick,” Patrick said. “That’s why I love it.”
    The food felt like it took an eternity. Ten minutes turned to twenty. They talked at length about the football finals at Croke Park—Offaly’s chances versus Down’s.
    â€œMy money’s on Down,” Kate said. “Two goals in three minutes from James McCartan and Paddy Doherty against Kerry last time out—and Kerry was undefeated.”
    â€œPaddy’s a fine man. A fine captain. But Offaly—”
    â€œHas no chance.”
    Mr. Brown, the bartender, brought them each another beer. When the talk turned to committee work for Good Shepherd’s Harvest Festival and Dinner Dance,