Sign of the Harp
By Robert Beck

I have an autobiography written in my grandfather’s hand, in pencil, on the back of ledger sheets from the Beck Egg Farm. The story begins with his father starting a barber shop in New York City, in 1878. One paragraph describes how they would regularly send one of the boys next door to the saloon for a bucket of beer—about seven glasses worth—to keep the good times rolling until they closed around nine o’clock. Probably not the best time for a shave.

That is the earliest documented eyewitness report in my family tree, establishing a tradition. The writing part.

Barber shops and bars have come a long way since the 1800s, with bars establishing unique cultural distinctions. Consider an English Pub or a German Hofbräuhaus. There are quite a few Irish bars in New York—some famous, some a bit pretentious—but none better than the Dublin House on W. 79th. And I can tell you why.

For starters, look at the sign. The enormous neon harp with Dublin House Tap Room and Bar on it tells you these folks aren’t messing around. This is a line in the sand. Expectations will be met.

Then there is Mike, the owner. Irish down to the soles of his shoes. He gets you square in his gaze and says what he means in a brogue so thick it takes a couple of pints of Guinness to arrive at the precise interpretation, but you get the point from the look he gives you. Like most of the UWS shop owners, Mike was both hesitant and generous when I asked to paint there. I understand the caution and appreciate that he said yes.

The Dublin House is a place to go alone or with friends. There are TVs if you need them, but conversations come easy. I painted during the early afternoon when I wouldn’t be in the way. There’s not a big lunch crowd because there’s no food. But there’s no artifice either. Mike was still setting up, receiving deliveries, and mopping the floor as he served customers. He gave me my space and worked around my easel. I was treated well, and I got the painting I hoped for.

After I was done, I sat in a narrow booth in the front room, pulling on the glass of Harp Mike handed me, and I noticed the banner on the wall above my shoulder. It was in memory of nine firefighters lost on 9-11. Their names were in gold serif lettering outlined in black on a deep red background— exactly like the side of a fire engine. This is a place with a long memory, a big heart, and a touch of steel. Those are good things to have in a community.

Read other Weekend Columns here.

You can contact Robert through his website at robertbeck.net