Emmett O'Lunney's

Emmett O’Lunney’s Irish Pub

Emmett O'Lunney's

I should have known going here after a Michael Jackson event was a bad idea. From a bizarre Roseland Ballroom filled with MJ impersonators and general freaks, to an equally oddball Irish Bar in Times Square didn’t help me get my reality equilibrium. The free drink tickets at Roseland probably didn’t help either. But walking into this insanely deep and unwieldy bar was like descending into the bowels of a giant leprechaun. There were twists and turns and cantilevered terraces and lighting right out of a Sir Conan Doyle novel. I’d have felt high walking in this place even without the six previous vodka sodas. It just kind of defies the senses, and serves no imagined purpose other than to overwhelm. I mean there are giant neon signs inside the bar! And not like small neon signs; giant neon signs. And there seemed to be like a fucking house or something inside the damn place. If I took mushrooms, this joint definitely would have given me a bad trip. Maybe this is all based on my assumption of what the place was going to be like seeing it on the outside. I was expecting a prototypical midtown Irish pub with its wood and brass and maps of Ireland and gunk on the walls, but stepping inside just kind of blew my mind with its grandness and stunning use of space. They did serve beer, though, and seemed to have a lot of varieties, so I suppose it can’t be all bad. I suppose if I were to ever have a reunion with my entire college graduating class, we could do worse than this joint, but we all know I didn’t graduate from shit. Or did I; I can’t seem to remember. [MF]

210 W 50th St. (bet. 7th & 8th Ave.)