T.G.I.F.

As the great philosopher Katherine von Perry once said, "Tis a blacked out blur, but thou art pretty sure it ruled." Fridays are the day you long for all week. No one ever makes plans for, say Tuesday, but run into someone on the street and you are bound to ask, "What are yall doing Friday; we should get together."

Well, Friday is here. And soon five p.m. will roll around and you will get a familiar itch to grab a drink or go to dinner. You know just something quiet. Before you know it, it is 3 in the morning and you are desperately pounding on the door of the soon to be Taco Bell on Claiborne demanding a Big Beef Chimichanga and 3 Mexican Pizzas. Hey, it happens. Thank God.

If you haven't been yet, today would be a nice time to check out The Irish House by Chef Matt Murphy. Situated on St. Charles, on a nice night, they open the windows wide to bring in the sounds of the rolling streetcar and passing folk. The walls are covered in Guinness and other Irish bric-a-brac and there is a warm, welcoming vibe. A solid selection of beers, whiskeys, and other libations anchors a physical dominating bar space. There are tables and a tv or two scattered throughout, solid food as well. All of the above makes for a pleasant way to ease into a long night at the Red Eye er, an Adult evening.

But perhaps the biggest reason you should go to The Irish House is because of the wings. Allow me a story. For one glorious summer, I lived down in the British Virgin Islands, filled dive tanks, and piloted boats around the various islands of what may be the prettiest place in the Western Hemisphere. This is when I was still "Pre Law". Anyway, the island was nuts for wings. The three Pusser's on the island each had a slightly different version. The one in Sopers Hole had the best with a tamarind rich, spicy sauce.

But all wings paled in comparison to those at the Bat Cave in Road Town Harbor. From 4 to 6 wings were .25 cents a piece and buckets of Caribs $5. As soon as the day would end, we piled into a maroon F-150 and drove the fifteen minutes through snaking roads which hugged the sea and clung to the mountains to get to Road Town. Once there we flat out destroyed some wings and drank beers under the setting sun.

The wings at Irish House, while not traditional, fit very closely to those hallowed wings from the now departed Bat Cave. They come in a thicker, smokier sauce which more aligns with barbecue sauce than the sauce that put Buffalo on the map. The garlic aioli, is just a tad too garlicky, which means it is right on point. While I may not be 20 anymore, a few dozen wings and a good dose of beer after a hard day's work can take me right back.

Have a great Friday, wherever you end up.