John Foley’s Irish House

John Foley’s Irish House, O’Farrell Street, San Francisco

John Foley’s Irish House is legendary. It is about three blocks southwest of Union Square in San Francisco. The Irish pub had stained glass, lots of dark wood, and oil portraits on the walls of Irish heroes in literature, the Irish Revolution, musicians, and even Bono.

Most of the help has come over from Ireland and the accents from the emerald isle are easy on the ears. It’s a great place for live Irish music and good Irish food and beer. The bathrooms are shite, of course, facing the alley. It seems the Irish are allergic to good plumbing.

I went there many times. My wife and I would visit San Francisco now and then back in the early 2000s. My wife would shop, and I’d go to John Foley’s in the afternoon to drink a Guinness and write postcards to friends. It was peaceful in the afternoons.

My parents visited and stayed in San Francisco. I took my Dad to Foley’s. He liked the place right away. Dad didn’t drink, so on that sunny afternoon, I ordered a beer from the older Irish bartender working the day shift. He looked like and acted like he’d seen it all.

The bartender asked my Dad what he wanted. Dad said, “A mineral water. I’m flying the dirigible.”

The Irishman almost laughed. “I’ll remember that one.” He said.

…
But this story is about the first time I went to John Foley’s. It was probably around 1997. I’d flown down to SFO from SeaTac to visit my friend, Joe. Joe was one of us hippies back in Lincoln, Nebraska in the younger day. We were both about 45 years old in this story.

I’d booked us a room at the Sheehan Hotel on Bush Street. The Sheehan has a pool in the basement, Irish help, and we had a nice old room facing Bush Street. But I can’t really recommend the place.

It was only a five block walk from the hotel to John Foley’s. The clerk at the front desk recommended Foley’s to us.

Joe and I walked to Foley’s and spent the next several hours drinking beer at the bar listening to live Irish music. It was about closing time, 2 AM when we stumbled out of the bar and headed uphill back to our hotel.

As we wove our way up Powell Street, two very pretty black women waylaid us. Next thing we knew, we were sitting in their parked white Jeep Cherokee getting blow jobs. I was in the front, and Joe was in the back.

The hookers put condoms on our dicks, which was considerate of them. But we were pretty drunk, and not much happened.

Seemed like the girls were disappointed but they wanted their money. Joe was flat broke. I emptied my pockets; maybe $40. The hookers seemed happy enough though.

So, Joe and I walked up to our hotel and our room and collapsed on our beds.

We woke up about noon and felt fine.

TJM