Oh, there was a cold chill in the air indeed.
It was the middle of November, though in Phoenix that only means it’s time to think about switching to jeans from shorts to complement your ensemble of a t-shirt and nothing else, and it was time for our weekly outing to wing night. The one difference: My wife wanted to come along with us to Rosie McCaffrey’s. Damnation. I agreed, on the condition that she neither speak nor look any man directly in the eyes, and I told her she could order one item off the menu under $7 but it better not be a damn salad. When she agreed, I lowered my fist away from her face and told her we’d be happy to have her!
I’m kidding, of course, and my wife is awesome, though it was a little weird to have a woman with us since it was normally two guys with 24 wings and countless beers that made up our wing Thursdays. But we pressed on because there were wings to be devoured, damn it, and because after eating at a string of good to great wing places, we were almost looking for a letdown.
We didn’t find that letdown here.
Rosie McCaffrey’s is an Irish pub in central Phoenix with a fairly loyal fanbase of folks who swear by its brand of UK flair, and for good reason. While the place is kitschy in its whole “Hey, we’re another Irish pub in America that is far far away from Ireland and there’s no way for you to verify the authenticity of a place like this!” appeal, it never feels like they’re pandering to you. It’s not like they’ve got shamrock-shaped plates and refer to their hamburgers as hamburger “paddys”, and the servers don’t have to call themselves McShannon or O’Tiffany. The place has a vibe that seems like a mixture of regulars and wanderers alike that are all welcomed into a well-worn but not-quite-dive bar.