Irish Names and New York City by Brendan Loonam

Writing as I am now only from the New York Metropolitan Area, it occurred to me to put in something extraordinary about New York City and Irish names, something that at one point in time were thought to be synonymous, and unfortunately, now are really only considered together automatically when bars are mentioned. It will be seen, however, in these two stories, that bars and Irish names are inextricably interwoven. For the first, I must thank an old and dear friend, John Murray, for passing on the investigation that his father had in turn shared with him. This dates back to the time when New York City was among the forerunners when it came to installing indoor plumbing. As the largest metropolitan center in the Northeastern United States, New York City had the largest work force, in addition to the greatest commercial marketplace. These forces would, daily, bring together great numbers of people, mostly men, and in New York City, at its beginnings, most of those working men were Irish. Some genius realized that the thirsts of all those Irish working men would have to be slaked every day while they ate their lunch. Another genius realized that he could provide that lunch for a pittance and make a fortune selling spirits to go with it. It wasn’t much of a stretch to extend the drinking hours throughout the working day, and then, of course, carry on after work. With all that drinking going on, it stood to reason that the sanitary needs of the drinkers would have to be looked after. Unfortunately, the foresight of many of the proprietors of those early saloons did not extend beyond a shallow channel running from a pit behind the establishment out to the gutter and into the street. The accumulation of the waste thus expended caught the attention not only of the neighbors and hapless passersby, but also of the Authorities, and in fact, where none existed, causing Authorities, such as Boards of Health, to come into existence. Like many businesses and services that were aborning at the time, in the mid 19th Century, plumbing services and fixtures had to be brought into being. Now, is there anyone still alive who remembers Jack Paar’s contretemps with the Media Powers for uttering, in the face of the American Viewing Public a joke containing the vile phrase, “water closet?” Poor Jack; the least offensive man who ever appeared on television, allowing a euphemism for “toilet” that could have been recognized only by natives of Great Britain, but some NBC television executives deemed it sufficiently repulsive that they deleted it from the show before it could be aired . Paar so resented this censorship that he resigned from hosting the Tonight Show, citing the hypocrisy of the ultraconservative Fox Media Empire as his reason for doing so. But I digress; this hesitancy to mention toilets has existed for centuries. The installation of toilets in late 19th Century New York City, particularly in the Public Houses or Pubs, was accomplished using fixtures manufactured by a man named John Murray, and featured prominently in the center of both urinals and toilets was the name of that gentleman: John Murray. So striking was the contrast between the black letters of the name and the white porcelain, that it was immediately imprinted on the consciousness of the viewer. From as far back as the 1870’s, it seemed to be a race for everyone to get their indoor plumbing installed, and it soon became a status symbol to have it done. In pubs, where men would go to relax after work, they wanted to be able to drink and then relieve themselves without any undue stress; therefore, when they first poked their head in the front door, they would ask, “Is there a John Murray in the house?” Receiving a negative answer, the prescient drinker would move on to the next ale house. This, of course, happening enough times would educate the proprietor as to the wisdom of acquiring a toilet. Also, in the way of fast-moving, fast-talking workingmen, the ones poking their heads in the front doors soon transformed their question to, “Is there a John in the house?” A tradition was born; a name was created. ”Where’s the john?” “Straight back.”
The second piece about an Irish name and New York City was revealed to me by my sons. First, by Brendan, the elder, who rented an apartment around the corner from the place for five years, and then by my younger son, Matthew, who tended bar there as a second job for about three years.
Before I go any further, I think I should explain the milieu in which it was all engendered. During the 1920’s, in New York City, Boxing was controlled by the Irish, or at least that part of the Irish-American population that could control things like the sport of boxing, with some Mob intrusion. If a young man wanted to pursue a successful career in boxing, the word on the street was that if he didn’t have an Irish name, he could just forget about it. In Hoboken at that time, there was an Italian-American young man who felt he had the skills and courage to battle for the Lightweight title; his name was Anthony Sinatra,. Unfortunately, as stated previously, there was no way he could vie for that title with a name like Sinatra. In a stroke of genius, his Manager stepped up and for the purposes of fighting the good fight, changed his ring name to Marty O’Brien Sinatra, which he used during his career of over 40 bouts. He also later became a captain in the Hoboken Fire Department and had 24 years of service before his retirement. Parenthetically, he was also the Father of Frank Sinatra, world renowned singer and entertainer. He died January 24, 1969 at 74 years of age. ,
Pete Hamill, long a chronicler of the Irish in America, also created what is considered to be the definitive book about Frank Sinatra, Why Sinatra Matters. While Liam McCormick was thinking about a name for the Pub he was about to open on Second Avenue, between 87th and 88th Streets, he was filling in his down-time by reading the Hamill book on Sinatra. After reading about Anthony Sinatra’s tenacity in pursuing a boxing career, Liam slammed the book down, leapt, laughing, to his feet and allegedly thanked God, Sinatra and Pete Hamill, for he had just found the name for his pub: Marty Obrien’s Pub. Affixed to the wall, right inside the front door, is a black plastic plaque explaining the significance of the Marty O’Brien name, and when the unsuspecting visitor reaches the part about Anthony Sinatra, it usually elicits something approaching a squeal.
Liam is glad to have created a memorial for that extraordinary step taken by that young man from Hoboken.