Conor O'Neill's: Michael Collins, khakis and the Civil War

Conor O'Neill's, located at 318 S. Main St, is an authentic Irish-American bar

Being the bar and tavern connoisseur that I am –and even more so now that I’ve started this blog—one of the most important things I have learned about my bar experiences is you need to understand ‘the scene’.

There are a lot of bars, there are a lot of different types of bars, and there are a lot of different people that go to these bars. 

Understanding these bars and how you should act in each one plays a big role on how good of a time you will have at said bar—or at least it will affect the guy in a dress shirt and khakis sitting at the bar sipping on a Guinness just trying to watch Liverpool on TV. 

Last week I was paying homage to my Irish roots at Conor O’Neill’s, the Irish pub located here. The place has a really great atmosphere when it comes to Irish-American pubs. Along with your tradition Irish beers, the wall is decked with hurling kits, Irish limericks and picture of Michael Collins (who disappointingly does not look exactly like Liam Neeson).

I ordered a Guinness and the Mary’s stew, which I recommend you try at least a cup if you stop by, and was sitting at the bar. Next to me pulled up three rather large gentlemen who took a seat next to me at the bar. 

The man next to me ordered a Bud Light and just stared at me, asking what in the world I was drinking. I responded that I was drinking a Guinness (the place doesn’t have Murphy's on tap, but I later found out that I could still order it in a can). The man was from southern Mississippi and told me that I didn’t need that fancy beer, that I should be good with a nice, crisp, American beer.

The man’s name turned out to be Bill, and Bill turned to his buds and pointed at me saying, "look at this Yankee drinking some fancy beer". The Yankee reference alerted me I was in for a night.

My new southern friend Bill wanted to know why I was standing out so much, wearing my dress shirt, khakis and drinking a Guinness. They were in t-shirts, ripped jeans and drinking a Bud Light---and I’m the one standing out.

I politely told them that since I was in an Irish bar, I like to try Irish food/drink, and they were polite with my response.

After a couple of minutes then turned to me and asked where I was from and what I did for a living. Eventually they asked, ‘Man, have you ever been out to God’s county.’

Outside of Vatican City or Israel, I’m not too sure what qualifies as God’s country, but it turns out its Mississippi—who knew.

I told them I haven’t been, and they insisted that Southern hospitality is to die for. However, my friends from Dixie were impressed with Michigan hospitality and were surprised by how nice we were. So yeah, go Pure Michigan.

Then they asked me if I ever tried moonshine. I told them I haven’t, and I prefer to get my alcohol in a bar or store and not from a bathtub. (Specifically Jamison, yes, Guinness, Jameson and stew, every stereotype you heard about Irish-Catholics is true, just go with it.)

My new friends were disappointed that I never tried moonshine, promising if they see me again they will have some of the “good stuff” for me to try. By “good stuff,” I’m guessing they mean if I drink more than a glass of it I’ll go blind.

After turning down living in God’s country and moonshine, coupled with the way I dress and what I drink, the southerners determined that I needed to lighten up and be normal. If they only knew that was impossible.

I finished my stew and switched from Guinness to Murphy’s, while the southerners were on their fourth Bud Light---I guess Bud Light must be one of those beers that’s only enjoyable when you pound it down in one take.

They asked me where they can find some college girls and how come I wasn’t with one at the moment. I answered the Blue Leprechaun was a good spot (even though my experience there would not suggest so) and that I was single—thus drinking at the bar. 

The southerners were in town for a fishing convention somewhere in Wayne County and wanted to stop by Ann Arbor to check out a college town. They were disappointed to discover that college was not in session in early August, thus a lack of young females gracing Conor O’Neill's 

At this point, they were talking with the bartender, trying to get the bar to sell moonshine, seeing as they felt the bar’s liquor selection was not good enough. Turns out Bailey’s and Jameson is for snobs, I’m learning all sorts of new things tonight.

He then offered me some southern advice and said the only reason why I was single is that I don’t drink ‘real beer’ and I wear khakis at the bar---great, glad we pinpointed the problem.

I was glad to take the sage wisdom and turned to the barkeep for another Murphy’s.

The Conor O’ Neil’s staff is very knowledgeable, and some of them do sport the slightest hint of an Irish accent that is the perfect blend of authentic and not cheesy.

Bill turned to me and asked how I could enjoy living in Michigan with the endless winter. I brought up Michigan’s incredible beer selection (which he seemed to dismiss or say was not ‘real beer’), the combination of small towns and cities (which he dismissed Detroit as place where people get stabbed) and our schools (which led to a rant about how much better the SEC is at football compared to the Big Ten, granted he has a point there, but I didn’t go to a Big Ten school, so no loss on my part).

I then asked Bill what was great about ‘God’s county’, and he happily replied the South has the best weather, best food and is the home of the greatest general ever- Robert E. Lee.

I conceded the food and weather, but being three stouts in and feeling the Irish blood rushing through my veins after downing some stew, I was in a contesting mood in regards to fighting.

I reminded my new friend that General Ulysses S. Grant sort of took Lee behind a woodshed and kicked him around all over Virginia (that and Gettysburg was a blunder amongst all blunders—but I guess it’s not Lee’s fault, he only ordered his army to attack uphill, against a bigger force, that was in trenches, and better supplied……and his troops had to cross an open field…why the hell do southerners like this guy again?)

History rant aside, I also brought up General Tecumseh Sherman, who drove through Georgia like a tank—so much that they named one after him.

Bill gave me a look of intrigue or "God, this Yankee knows too much” and went on his way. History degree shows its merit once again. 

Satisfied that I got a chance to talk about history, and realizing that I missed two Liverpool goals, I finished my Murphy’s and headed for the door. 

I’m not saying we implement a dress code for everywhere, but for the love of God people, at least pick a shirt that doesn’t have last week’s mustard stain on it. I like to think God would permit laundry detergent in his country.

Walking out the door a group of people in nice dress shirts and blouses sat down at the bar. Well crap, why didn’t get to talk to those people. And they each ordered a Guinness—snobs.