The street in front of the restaurant is absolutely rammers and I spot quite a few familiar faces – we’re talking former government ministers, we’re talking former High Court judges, we’re talking two or three former rugby internationals and one or two heads from RTÉ. Yeah, no, they’ve turned out in massive numbers for the big reopening of Shanahan’s – or as it’ll be known from this day forwards, Fionnuala’s on the Green.
I want to morch straight in, except Sorcha insists we join the queue, which is snaking out the door and around the corner. It takes us a good, like, 20 minutes to reach the top – and, of course, there stands Honor, behind her little maitre d’s lectern.
She looks us up and down – I swear to fock – then goes, “Name?”
I’m there, “Er, Honor, it’s us? As in, like, your parents?”
Ronan pours the wine and goes, ‘It’s a surprising little number with notes of candyfloss, anchovies and balsawood’
‘You were mugged in Dalkey? Things like that don’t happen there’
‘I didn’t do a tap in school and yet life worked out pretty well for me’
‘The old man running a restaurant is like asking me to teach physics through Irish’
She looks straight through me and goes, “Yeah, I’m still going to need a name?”
I’m like, “It’s Ross O’Carroll-Kelly – as you very well know.”
She runs her finger down the list.
“I don’t see you here,” she goes. “Can you step to the side please?”
I’m like, “Honor, stop focking around, will you?”
Then Sorcha, who learned to read upside-down from reading my text messages over the years, goes, “Look again – fifth from the top?”
Honor’s like, “Oh, right. Do you have ID on you?”
I actually reach for my wallet, except Sorcha goes, “Honor, stop messing around, will you? I thought Chorles was going to send you on a course to teach you how to deal with the public?”|
Honor’s like, “He did send me on a course.”
And I’m there, “Jesus – this place won’t last a week.”
A waiter arrives over and Honor – without even looking at the dude – goes, “Will you please show – I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your names – to table 30?”
So – yeah, no – the dude leads us into the restaurant, past nine or 10 tables, where the main topic of conversation seems to be what an absolute wagon the maitre d’ is. We follow him to a table in the middle of the restaurant floor, where the old man is sitting with Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara and his date for the night, a woman at least 40 years younger than him and almost certainly – and I’m not saying this in, like, a judgy way? – a prostitute slash sex worker.
It pisses me off to see my son working as – I’m just going to come out and say it – a wine waiter?
The old man goes, “Ross! Sorcha! You came!”
And I’m there, “Yeah, no, only because we’d nothing better to do.”
Sorcha, who’s a total suck-up, goes, “Chorles, the place looks – oh my God – amazing!” and then she turns to Hennessy’s squeeze and goes, “Hi, I’m Sorcha,” sticking out her hand like she’s at one of her Mount Anville alumni business networking breakfasts.
The woman just stares at her and Hennessy goes, “She’s not paid to talk,” and that ends up being that.
We sit down, then a few seconds later, Ronan tips over, in full black-tie, with a white towel draped over one orm and a bottle of red wine in his hand.
“Ah,” the old man goes, “here’s my sommelier!”
Ronan’s there, “Howiya, Rosser? Sudeka, looking gorgeous, so you are!”
He pours Hennessy a mouthful and Hennessy knocks it back.
Ronan goes, “It’s a surprising little number with notes of candyfloss, anchovies and balsawood.”
It sounds like someone else has been on a course.
Hennessy nods his approval. Ro fills all of our glasses, tells us to enjoy it and then focks off.
The old man goes, “Everything okay, Kicker?”
I’m there, “It pisses me off to see my son working as – I’m just going to come out and say it – a wine waiter?”
He’s like, “A sommelier, Ross! It’s a wonderful job! And look, all of his pals have turned out to support him.”
Yeah, no, two tables over, I spot his old crew – we’re talking Nudger, Gull, Buckets of Blood, Coke Eyes, Git Cunningham, Stacks of Money, Larry the Lifer.
Nudger catches my eye. He’s like, “Alright, Rosser?”
And I’m there, “Er, yeah, no, all good, Nudger.”
The old man goes, “I hope they’ll pay for their dinner.”
They won’t pay for their dinner.
I’m there, “What pisses me off is that Ronan had, like, an actual career ahead of him. A legal career. He was going to – literally? – Horvard?”
Fionnuala’s on the Green! Those of you who golfed with my late wife will know that’s something that was never said after one of her infamous tee shots!”
Sorcha goes, “It just seems – oh my God – so unfair to be thrown out of the States just for taking port in a student demonstration.”
“What can you do?” Hennessy goes, exchanging a sly look with my old man. “We’re living in a different world. Isn’t that what everyone’s saying?”
The old man goes, “I think I might say a few words,” and before I get the chance to tell him not to make a tit of himself as per usual, he stands up and goes, “Ladies and gentlemen,” and a hush falls over the place, “you are very welcome to the reopening of what was once Shanahan’s and is now – inverted commas – Fionnuala’s on the Green.”
There’s, like, a humungous cheer and a round of applause. People like my old man. I’ve no idea why.
He goes, “Fionnuala’s on the Green! Those of you who golfed with my late wife will know that’s something that was never said after one of her infamous tee shots!”
Everyone laughs. Seriously, it’s a total mystery to me.
He’s like, “This restaurant has been an institution for many, many years. It’s always meant a huge amount to me. In fact, two of my famous heart attacks happened in this very restaurant! It was my dorling wife who reminded me of this when she said, ‘There should always be a high-end steak restaurant in that building, Chorles,’ and encouraged me – and m’learned colleague, Hennessy here – to pursue my dream. Tonight is a special night, albeit tinged with the sadness of Fionnuala not being here to see it. So if you wouldn’t mind standing with me to toast both my late and much-missed wife and the restaurant that now bears her name. Fionnuala!”
Everyone raises their glasses and goes, “Fionnuala!”
And in that moment, the penny suddenly drops. I’ve talked in the past about my famous fifth sense. I’m there, “It was you, wasn’t it? You got him deported from the States!”
The old man goes, “Don’t be absurd, Ross.”
I’m there, “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Hennessy.”
The dude doesn’t even deny it. He just goes, “Ronan has got a big and exciting future ahead of him.”
