Martha Cooney

For a couple of years in the early 2000s, I worked in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I know this is a politically controversial thing to say, but I stand by it: Their burger culture is better than ours.

 

The burgers had fun names. They tasted better. Irish cows are happier and eat greener grass. The people dedicated to the holy work turned out burgers to Friday-night lines at fish and chip shops (“chippies”) and from highway vans near the southern border. At 2 a.m. closing time everyone moved directly from the nightclub exit to the back of the next-door takeaway burger bar line in the same automatic group motion as a herd of frequent fliers going through airport security. It created an instant party that spilled into the cobblestone streets and landlocked the waiting taxis. With my roommates Brenda and Lisa, who were locals and pointed the way, I fulfilled my cultural duty to keep a perfect-attendance record in the burger line. I always ordered the Mousetrap (huge pile of cheese) and often overheard somebody getting a Boston (huge pile of mushrooms.) There was another spot where burgers were named for the Seven Dwarves. (The best seller was the Grumpy: bacon, cheese, onions, mayo.)

 

They liked puns for their food spots, like Thai Tanic, or Oh My Cod, and somehow pulled it off better than when U.S. establishments tried to get creative. (I once saw a storefront in D.C. that read All About Cremation.) All their expressions were tastier, too. Goodbye was a genuine “All the best.” “What’s the scandal?” meant “What’s the gossip?” and to say that a kid turned out like their parents it was “It’s not off the grass they licked it.” Some good ones I heard at work that would’ve worked well as cautionary examples in an HR training video were “The sun shines out of her arse” (she’s great) and “Things are tits up” (it’s a disaster.)

 

It surprised me the places where naughty language popped up. Churchy grandmas’ jokes were Canterbury Tales-level (have you read it? Straight porn!) Brenda used a sandwich-shop ad’s double entendre to teach me “beef” as local slang for the male anatomy. 

 

Some words drew the blurry line between cultures. “Bird” was British-speak for a girl; “lass” would only be used by an Irishman. In different sections of the city language changed with the football jerseys and the colors around you. Catholic neighborhoods had curbs painted green, white and gold underneath Irish tricolors and murals featuring hunger strikers and the political leader Gerry Adams with the slogan “Tiocfaidh ar la” (“Our day will come.”) Protestant areas had United Kingdom flags, red, white and blue curbstones, and murals of paramilitary groups, the Queen, and the political leader Ian Paisley with the slogan “For God and Ulster.” Since I was an American, I was an outsider no matter how many words I knew to “Danny Boy.” (All of them.) I could walk in any area without the psychic burden that everyone native to Northern Ireland lived with.

 

I toured myself around the green, white and gold, and spent time in red-white-and-blue East Belfast for my job as a community worker with senior citizens. The nonprofit I worked for was friends enough with the local government council for me to have a desk in their office. It was only seven years after the official peace treaty; the Northern Ireland Assembly was suspended and power-sharing on hold while arguments over terms continued, and here I was with a behind-the-scenes view from my own gray-walled cubicle. Who knows what I might witness? 

 

The most dramatic thing that happened was Davy from IT sending an unpunctuated lowercase email to the whole building saying “whoever is eating my bread out of the break room please stop.” The second most dramatic thing that happened was when George Best – one of the top football (soccer) players in the world and an East Belfast man – died, and the office went nuts because they were working with the family to plan the funeral, which was going to be a world-is-watching, fans-are-coming-on-pilgrimage-to-line-the-streets affair. The council director ran around the office on fumes laced with a whiff of excitement that could, if one wasn’t careful, give the impression that the thrill of proximity to celebrity landed one too close to the wrong end of the “how do you feel about the fact that someone has died?” scale. 

 

I wasn’t involved, because I was just a squatter, but being close to the action made me feel connected; same with the job itself. I got to work with regular people all over the city. Pretty soon I knew which double-decker bus route took me to senior Tai Chi class, what type of cookie (“biscuit”) to put on the table at a neighborhood task force meeting, the right name to drop at the police station to get an event permit, and the chip shop we’d walk to when I visited World War II vet Alan and his wife Molly. Stevie, who ran one of the community centers, called me “The Yank” and thought it was hilarious how loud I was every time I came in. I explained that I was loud not because I was American, but because I was from Philadelphia. 

 

I tried to be conscious of not being the obnoxious foreigner, but I played the card both ways, because like I said, my status gave me that neutral access to travel in any community; at the same time, having cred with locals was a form of access, too. I loved the people. Everybody welcomed me, and after my year in the job I hated to leave.

 

The initial reason for me being in Northern Ireland was a boyfriend, but like C.S. Lewis (also a Belfast guy) unfeelingly said about the wardrobe-owning-professor’s housekeepers at the beginning of the Narnia series, he doesn’t really come into the story, so we can leave him aside and nameless for now. By the time I left, my relationship wasn’t with the guy but with the city (I’m pretty sure I can’t take credit for that line, but I can’t for the life of me find who said it, so if you know, let me know so we can give them their due) and after I came home, I missed Belfast. A couple years later, I went back on a tourist visa and nannied under the table.

 

Along with nannying, I was freelance writing now and trying to build up a portfolio. I was bored with slaughtering words for low-hanging assignments (Editor: “Give me ten paragraphs that say the same thing about memory foam mattresses but in different ways”) (Editor: “For the book reviews, don’t worry about actually reading the book.”) Back in Northern Ireland I could scout for things to write travel and culture pieces on, and get some good clips; already having local knowledge was a bonus. 

 

My new place was around the corner from my old roommates Brenda and Lisa; we hung out at their apartment on Ava Ave and they often gave suggestions or advice for my stuff. Brenda’s boyfriend Ryan introduced me to a competitive Irish dancer friend of his to interview, and to research the sport of hurling, I went with Brenda to watch Ryan play in a match (wooden stick, small ball, goals, points, happy dogs on the sidelines; field with backdrop of green hills and yellow wildflowers.)  

 

We picked up where we left off with my food education. Lisa introduced me to steak-flavored crisps and the concept of buttering a biscuit, which, you remember, is a cookie. (Buttering is a religion in Ireland and deserves its own book report, so like the nameless boyfriend, I’ll save that for another time.) I ate beans on toast. At the Tesco grocery store I admired new-to-me brands; the string cheese packet character that looked like an inflatable wind guy outside of a car wash; the red-yellow-and-blue cans of custard. In my old job when I visited kindly grannies and sat at their lace tablecloths with a cup of tea they poured custard on hot apple crumbles and dishes of fruit; because of custard, tinned pears seemed novel, and I bought both. 

 

On Saturday nights, Lisa and Brenda and I went out to the bars, checked into the burger line, and saluted the public health service vehicle parked at the intersection. It was known as the Drunk Bus and invited anyone who needed it to stagger aboard and sober up with hot chocolate and cup-o-noodle soup before being put into a taxi home. The next morning we picked up the Sunday papers and sat in the pub with other Sundayers listening to live music, paper sections spread on the table between pint glasses of cider. Everybody read the papers. There were The Sun and Daily Mirror tabloids, and broadsheets Irish (The Irish Times, Irish Independent), British (The Guardian, The Independent), and, if you can trust it, neutral (The Belfast Telegraph.) I guess you’d call it the “print era,” and I ate up all I could find. I loved the differences in writing style and topics covered. (Recent headlines at home: “Video Shows SEPTA Bus Driver Pushing Vehicle Sideways Down Road in Philadelphia;” “Philadelphia Loon Hangs from Moving Train.” Irish headline: “Is Your Bus or Train Always Overcrowded? Share Your Story.”) 

 

I always picked up free publications, and came across a small paper that covered Northern Ireland arts and culture. I emailed the editor, said I was an American journalist, and proposed I write a piece on the debut of a new play about a local historic prison. “Journalist” conveys badge on plastic lanyard from official outlet, but it was the truth in the same sense as when someone, after being asked what they do, says “I’m a basketball player” when they play at the rec on Saturday mornings wearing braces on both arthritic knees and sports goggles over their bifocals. Open your own doors! 

 

The editor gave me the assignment; I went to the play, talked to the playwright, wrote the piece, sent it in, and took a pair of scissors and cut out the article when it came out in print. While I waited for the check in the mail, I saw a flyer for a book festival that included a talk from Barbara Best – George Best’s sister – who’d written a memoir about growing up in East Belfast and having a world-famous footballer in the family. I remembered the front-row seat from my cubicle. An interview with Barbara Best would be a great clip to have, and I felt connected to her already, like we went to the same high school but different years. I secured a meeting and got the green light from the arts paper editor.

 

I bought Barbara’s book (Do your research!) and read it while the baby napped at work, and while I sat up in bed at night on my puffy yellow duvet eating movie theater pick-and-mix gummy candy out of a white paper bag. You could buy snacks from the lobby without paying to see the movie; like the Drunk Bus, an example of a practical and innovative public service. 

 

I liked the book. I love life details – like George winning a potato-eating contest  – and it was exciting to read the names of streets I’d walked down. The book mentioned the same community center where Stevie called me Yank, and the council director who’d banged around the office. Just as I suspected. The world does revolve around me! 

 

She wrote about her childhood memories: the wringer washing machine, the ice on the inside of the bathroom window on a cold Christmas. When George got famous, Barbara had to lift their youngest brother over the fence into the neighbor’s backyard every morning so he could walk to school without being hounded by the paparazzi in front of the house. The whole family was in a commercial for a local sausage brand, and the little sister threw a fit when the film crew told her she wasn’t allowed to eat the sausages. 

 

George’s celebrity status was so high in the sixties that people called him “the fifth Beatle.” Barbara put it this way: “He became as famous for his romantic exploits as for his football” and that his name was “associated with many women.” Ah ha. I’m getting the picture. She wrote about how George’s alcoholism sent him down a dark path; he hit his wife, drove drunk, did jail time. She was honest and made no excuses for George, and also talked about the pressures of fame, his impact on football, and how they rekindled their estranged relationship later in life as he tried to straighten out. She talked about how his controversies pained her father, who wanted his son to be remembered for his football, not his failings. Really, it was a story about family, and dealing with addiction. I decided the interview needed to focus on Barbara, not George. Not rehashing scandals, not a praise-for-his-football thing, but Barbara’s experience, and what it was like for her to write the memoir. 

 

I wrote up my questions, put batteries in my dictaphone (it was a long time ago! Give me a break!) and at Ava Ave the night before, I mentioned the next day’s interview to the group. Ryan was impressed. “Ask her if she’s had the George Best burger,” he said. “From the chip shop in East Belfast.” 

 

Always wrap up an interview with a fun question. Plus it would enhance my local-knowledge cred. I added it to my notes. 

 

I headed off the next day wearing a nubby white sweater and synthetic black laptop bag that involved Velcro. Barbara and I sat across from each other at a table. Be professional. She was kind and down-to-earth, and right away I played my card about working in the neighborhood and knowing the people and places mentioned in the book. Find common ground! 

 

She loved it, and then it was like being in my old job, talking to a retiree about their life, making space for laughs and serious emotion. We discussed her grieving process (Therapist!) and favorite authors (Book club gal pal!) At some point I used the phrases “it’s really put it on the map” and “things happen for a reason.” She shared about being an ordinary family going through difficult times (I am Oprah!) “I want people to remember him for the right reasons,” she said. 

 

It was time to bring it home with the last question. “And have you tried the George Best burger?” I asked. “Did you know there is a George Best burger?” I’m locally knowledgeable AND we’re having fun! 

 

Her face changed. She started waving her arms. “I know, how awful…I cringe when I drive past, I just cringe…”

 

Uh oh.  

 

She carried on. “What was somebody saying – that it was bird on beef – I cringe – there’s just something about that, it’s really shocking and my poor dad… he wasn’t very happy with it…”

 

She kept going and my brain flashed to a serial-killer investigation wall map with red string connecting index cards pinned to the wall. Card one: What an East Belfast British Protestant means when they say “bird.” Card two: What everyone in Northern Ireland means when they say “beef.” Card three: Local love of cheeky puns. Card four: Fun names for burgers. Card five: George Best was “associated with many women…”

 

The burger was a crude joke. Check. Your. Facts!

 

I had to make a quick decision. I could fess up that I’d had no idea what the burger was and look like a hack journalist who didn’t do their background research or think through their questions. Or I could maintain that I was as clued in to local culture as I acted and appear an obnoxious American intentionally asking a sweet old lady about something vulgar right after she talked about remembering her dead brother for the right reasons.

 

I made the worst choice – to make no choice at all – and left it up to interpretation. Because she was classy, she wound her speech from upset to accepting and back down to “...I suppose if we’ve had sausages already, what’s wrong with a burger?” 

 

We exchanged more pleasantries before she had to go home to let out her golden retrievers. That night at Ava Ave, Ryan asked about the interview. I started to tell him that I asked her about the burger and it sounded like something dirty and his mouth legit fell open. “You asked her about the George Best burger?” he howled. “I was joking!” Brenda and Lisa started laughing like maniacs and confirmed that yes, it was dirty, and yes, it was insane that I had brought it up.

 

Ryan had both hands to his head. “I can’t believe you asked Barbara Best if she had the George Best burger,” he moaned. 

 

“How was I supposed to know?!” I said.

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I fact-checked after the fact. The chip shop was called For Cod and Ulster and besides the George Best burger, they had a Gerry Adams (the Catholic political leader) and an Ian Paisley (the Protestant political leader.) Except for the fried onion ring added to the Ian Paisley (and some parsley, for the pun), the two burgers were exactly the same – a joke about how the two men were so similar beneath their ideologies. The shop also sold a plain side of chicken called All the Breast. 

 

I was in the process of writing up the interview when the editor reached out and said he was so sorry, but when he assigned me the first article, he hadn’t realized I didn’t have proper paperwork to be paid legally in this country, and unfortunately they couldn’t accept any more pieces from me, and would I mind if for the prison article instead of a check they sent me a Tesco voucher?

 

I said I didn’t mind. I went to Tesco and bought a month’s worth of groceries, including custard in the red-yellow-and-blue can. That custard brand is called Bird’s, but there definitely is an icon of an actual bird on it, with wings and everything. 

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