It was a hard sell.

I was loitering around in that dark Omaha alleyway, one of those ones that still have those red bricks that bring more character than the unfilled potholes on old concrete. Next to me pale-yellow light formed a cone in the dark that ebbed out from an unchanged lightbulb above the heavy-rear door of a store. It had been quick, but the winter fought against its death and the heavy coat I chose to wear to hide my profession was too hot and was getting old quick, but thankfully my contact showed up. Her heels clicked on the bricks, announcing her presence before I could see her – Maggie.

“I got another job.”

“What’s the catch?”

There was always a catch.

Assignments and deadlines, late-night meetings. No time to take a drive with a dame down Dodge street. 

My editor shrugged,

“Nothing big, I just need you to do a restaurant review of the Irish pub, “The Brazen Head,” for St. Patrick’s Day.”

I don't even smoke, but I felt like I needed to start. I searched my long jacket for the tools of my trade: my trusty pen and little black book. This time, however I reached for my phone and told her,

“I’ll need some help, I'ma gonna call The Afghani.”

We didn’t bother saying goodbye. She would find me again with another assignment before too long.

I did get to cruise down Dodge, heading through the dark to the legendary Irish pub not too far from 72nd – but it was alone, no dame next to me trying to make me a better man. That wasn’t anything that a pint of true Guinness couldn’t fix. I called The Afghani, and ever reliable, he met me in the parking lot, already done gathering Intelligence on the place. Black-gloved hands pulled out a dossier from his leather jacket and passed it to me.

I read as he spoke,

“The bar was designed in Dublin, but they built it in Wexford, Ireland. Then they shipped the whole bar to Omaha.”

“Hm, sounds complicated." I thumbed a page, "This pub is a nod to the original and infamous one, back in Ireland, on Bridge Street?”

“The same one where in the 1790’s, Robert Emmet conspired to unite Irishmen of all faiths to overthrow British rule, among others.”

“And like a man he was caught because he wanted to stop by his girlfriend's house one last time before fleeing Dublin.” I tsked while finishing reading. 

The Brazen Head on Bridge Street in Dublin was legendary, and considered the oldest pub in Ireland, founded in 1198. Originally the pub was a stagecoach inn and believed to be named such because the brass or bronze ringed ‘braziers’ where people would warm their hands around. That could very well be true, but I knew in my secret meetings and dealings with shady characters throughout my career that there were whispers of a more ancient origin for such a name.

In ancient, medieval folklore, “Brazen Heads,” were magical, talking brass heads that contained secret wisdom and knowledge. That seemed to fit the pub just as well: a place where Irish revolutionaries would conspire, though as an afterthought – one that wasn’t true – I noted that “to act Brazen,” also means to be brave, or reckless, and that fit revolutionaries too. And the Irishman Robert Emmet: brave, but reckless in that he just had to see his girl one last time.

When I was ready,

An Afghani, and Pollock entered an Irish pub in Omaha. There is a joke in there somewhere.

Right away it was clear that the tables inside were all wood, and that the polished wooden bar was extravagant. Handcrafted and beautiful dark wooden shelves held bottles and even bright European mirrors. It was such a different feeling from most of the other American bars that I had been in, that I felt like I was someplace across the ocean.

A long time ago I had been in that same spot to celebrate a good man’s birthday, and back then they had live Irish bands who sang songs like, “The Rocky Road to Dublin," written by D.K Gavan. The whole pub had been singing along.

The Afghani nudged me to a seat as I had fallen into memory in that beautiful place.

The menu had a great amount of options: sandwiches, fish, fries, burgers, bangers, beer, and “boxtys,” which are a traditional Irish potato pancake made with flour and buttermilk. Modern variations often have them filled with eggs or meat and vegetables.

The appetizer list also looked fantastic, I nodded to my colleague who wasn’t just a guy I could rely on for information, but also because he had a worldly palette, and I could count on him for honest comparisons. Nodding to across the well-lit and warm space to him,

“It all looks great, what do you want to try?"

"Everything.”

Thankfully they had an option at the bottom for just that: The Irish Sampler had onion rings, spicy fried cheese curds, and Kill Kenny chicken tenders, served with Jerk sauce.

Well, I had no idea what Jerk sauce was, but I had been called it a few times so I figured that maybe I should see if there was compatibility. Plus: it was a pub, so trying bar food would be a must.

While listed as spicy, the curds were only somewhat spicy. Honestly though it rocked, and they were fried perfectly – something we both readily agreed upon. The onion rings were next. When I was young, my mother sought out onion rings when we ate at an applicable joint that served them, so I had plenty of comparisons to draw on. Mostly my opinion has been that all onion rings are the same, and often I dealt with stringy onion bits falling out of the breading, but not these: they were crispy and honestly deserve praise for being the best onion rings served in Omaha.

But both my comrade and I were taken aback by the Kill Kenny tenders: The breading was dark and crispy and held in moisture well: they had a tangy touch and a humble spice – I ate all three with the red Jerk sauce that I would also describe as a little tang, and a little spice. My Afghani friend preferred eating all three finger foods with the provided spicy ranch.

The waitress that came by to take our orders had no idea how shady of two guys we were: food critics. Even worse actually: well-traveled food critics. Likely because she had no idea, she was exceptionally polite as he and I hemmed and hawed over what to get.

It was quite a basket of food we had eaten – likely we both should have saved more room to try the plethora of offered foods. He, a steak man, chose to test the steak salad, while I had been told that the “Fish n’ Chips" were some of the best in Omaha.

When the food came out we split some of each other’s platters.

The steak salad was good, and large for a salad. There was little that was complex about the dish, but it presented well, and the meat was cooked exactly medium rare, that my comrade asked for. It did not fail at what it tried to do.

My two fried fish fillets were fried…. perfectly. The fish lasted not even moments between the both of us. Perfectly white on the insides, surrounded by a golden brown cloak…

Being Catholic raised myself, fish during Lent was basically all I ate, and this beat all the times that I’ve had fried fish before. While there was no spice on the brazed fish, it was done masterfully. The dipping sauces allowed for my exact choice of flavoring, and the waffle-fries that came with it were also just right. No burnt edges, no too-squishy and cold areas – they rocked. It also felt just right for the price.

While there was no music that evening, there were plenty of signs around the door, showcasing the live music. In the few times that I have been there, it has always been busy, but I have also always been able to find a seat.

The both of us having lived in America for so long means that we are certainly capable of eating a lot, but between us, we couldn’t finish all of the food.

When we left the Brazen Head with our identities and profession still undiscovered, we parted ways with much larger abdomens. I thought it was an assignment gone well, until I entered my car and found an envelope on my seat, from my editor: Maggie.

She wanted the story done immediately in time for St. Patrick's Day: “People need to know!" It read. (Haha, just kidding, she texted me.)

The Brazen Head is a well-lit, warm, and friendly, truly authentic Irish pub where excellent food and great Irish music can be found. Thank you, Mustafa, for your great company.

(On a side note, I'm absolutely getting the same Irish Sampler next time I am there.)

Have a great St. Patty’s Day, Omaha!

Austin Petak is an aspiring novelist and freelance journalist who loves seeking stories and the quiet passions of the soul. If you are interested in reaching out to him to cover a story, you may find him at austinpetak@gmail.com.