I can explain to you what it’s like to work in an Irish pub, as well as what it’s like to be an American on 4th of July weekend, with one simple story. Feel free to read between the lines.
Our great nation’s 250th birthday came and went with fireworks, fanfare and family. And it fell on a Saturday so, as usual, you could find me behind the bar.
Three men from Southern Georgia, their accents thick as you might imagine and their beards varying lengths of ZZ Top bushy, swaggered into the bar the night of the 4th for some grub and a few frothy beverages.
One of them ordered a Smithwick’s.
Smithwick’s, if you don’t know, is THE Irish Red, or at least that’s how I describe it to most customers. The good people at Smithwick’s, which is now run by Guinness, have been making their fine red ale since the early 1700s. Whenever someone comes into the bar who wants a red but has never had Smithwick’s (pronounced Smiddicks), I pour them one and explain that when breweries make a red, Smithwick’s is the flavor they’re gunning for. That’s not entirely incorrect. Some people, who have grown up drinking Killian’s (an Irish-style red ale, made by Coors) upon trying Smithwick’s, still maintain Killian’s is better. That’s on them. Red beer is an acquired taste. So is taste.
I poured one of the three Georgians a Smithwick’s, then provided the other two with samples of other quality reds we generally carry on tap. One hails from South Florida, Tank Brewing’s Freedom Tower, the other Great Lakes’ Eliot Ness, comes from Cleveland. Both are amber lagers which, to the layperson, is for all intents and purposes, a red.
When I explained to the gentlemen that different microbreweries from all over the country (if not world) make all different styles of beer and that one Midwestern brewery sells a red, one of the men snapped back.
“What the hell is an Irish red doing coming out of the Midwest,” he asked, as if to question its authenticity, the logic confounding him.
Minutes earlier, I’d overhead this man, again, from South Georgia, tell everyone within earshot that he was “Irish.” It’s extremely common for anyone with any semblance of Irish heritage to bring this up whenever they walk into an Irish pub. They might as well be whipping out their ancestry.com report card as proof of heritage. I am down for anyone celebrating and appreciating their proud lineage but, at least in our pub, it can get out of hand. I can’t tell you how many times in the last 12 years I’ve been asked if I’m Irish to which, depending on my level of ornery, I’ll reply with a “When you walk into a Chili’s, do you ask the server if their Mexican?” Far be it from me to be logical.
So, back to our gentlemen from South Georgia. When the one seemed flabbergasted that an Irish style of beer could hail from the Midwest (Note: Coors, based in Colorado, has been making Killian’s since the 1980s), I immediately brought up the fact that I’d just overheard him tell everyone he was Irish.
I then asked where he was from. In his deep southern accent, he replied “Georgia.”
I rested my case.
We all chuckled, the red in his beard serving as perfect irony, the beer in his glass almost gone, only the froth remaining.
This July4th, 2026, we Americans who have been here for a while are at least third generation from wherever our parents and grandparents originated, our healthy curiosity to uncover our genealogy keeping those 23 and Me companies in business.
We all came from somewhere and those places aren’t all that far apart. As we celebrate the 250th birthday of our nation, I feel, at least, it’s best we keep that in mind. And raise a glass of whatever you drink to have a toast.
Red beard.
Irish.
South Georgia.
Wait. Was that me?
It was not, sir. You know your beers. No explanations necessary, Chef.