11-27-05

Cead Mille Failte

Don and Debbie James are the last of a dying breed, a breed that may not, in fact have existed in the US for a very long time.  The Jameses run a tavern.
          Okay, not really.  They run a bar called the Shamrock, but they run it like a tavern, or at least like a local British (Irish, Scottish, Welsh) Pub.  And they are good people, the kind you want watching you while you snork down liquor.  They care; they care about people and their community and a bunch of other things that a lot of other people really don't seem to give a damn about.
          For instance, all of the appointments in the Shamrock, are salvaged from the hotel bar in the Shamrock Hotel.  If you're too young to remember the Shamrock (or if you don't live in Houston) it stood at the southern end of the Texas Medical Center before there was a TMC for it to demark.  It had a history as a hip place to go and to be, and many Houstonians remember having their first date in the hotel bar and restaurant.  Even after it closed it stood there in its vacant parking lot, and many of us looked on it with hope that someone would revive it, that Houston wasn't so jaded by the boom of the 70's and the depression of the eighties (remember, Houston is an oil town, so we did somewhat better when oil was short and somewhat worse when it was plentiful) that we would just let the grand old dame die.  But we did.  The Shamrock was destroyed a few years before gentrification fever hit Houston's downtown areas, and all that remains of it can be found in private collections.
          And in the Shamrock Pub, on Gessner.  Don and Debbie rescued all of the bar appointments they could:  solid brass hand and foot rails, the highlight windows above the bar, several of the pictures and signs.  The list is actually a bit long, but the effect is wonderful.  The minute you cross the threshold you pass from the strip-mall-laden burden of Houston's present into a friendlier portion of Houston's—maybe America's—past.  Inside the Shamrock Pub you'll find people trying to be friends, or at least friendly, even if they don't agree with each other, even if they don't particularly like each other.  You'll find couples that met and married there, and somehow manage to really be happy, somehow manage not to be victims of the sort of desperate fear that usually drives relationships that began in a bar.  You'll find whites and blacks and hispanics and all of the other races that make up Houston's international citizenship getting along and not giving a crap who is what.  You'll find Don and Debbie James.
          On Thanksgiving, Don and Debbie gave all of their employees the day off.  They still opened the bar, but that day they ran it themselves, for the customers.  They held a potluck dinner and served drinks, not because they could make money, but because they didn't feel like anyone should have to be alone on Thanksgiving.  They could have closed the bar and had a quiet dinner at their own home, or they could have made one of their employees work that day, but they didn't.  That's not who they are. 
          They're good people.  They're the rare sort of good people whose goodness is natural and encourages others to try to be better.  Don, when he's there, makes a point of greeting and trying to meet, each and every one of his guests.  Because he treats the Shamrock as if it were his living room and not just a means of income.  Debbie, while not so outgoing as her husband, usually smiles and jokes with people.  Both love to sing on Karaoke nights (of course there are Karaoke nights—Thursday and Saturday).  Both love to hear others sing.  They like to see people be happy.
          And that, really, is what makes them special.

The Shamrock Pub is located on Gessner just south of US 59 in Houston.  Karaoke nights are Thursday and Saturdays.  Drop in on a Thursday and you might find me at the back.  I won't guarantee I'll be there, but whether I'm there or not, I'll guarantee you'll enjoy your time there.  It's a rare place, and if you live in Houston, you're shorting yourself by not going.