Bananas And Rice & Whiskey In My Tea

I once worked with an Irish guy named Paddy who would sometimes pour whiskey into his coffee. He called it an Irish Coffee. Most of us would call it an Irish Coffee as well – although it may come prepared at a restaurant or cocktail bar a little bit different than his mug. His mug had no sugar around the rim, nor whipped cream floating on top.

In fact, I knew another Irish guy who also enjoyed whiskey with coffee. His name was Joe, short for Joseph. It seems there are quite a few Irish guys I’ve come across named “Joe” – I am not sure if there full names were always “Joseph” as most of the time, they would just call themselves “Joe.”

Both Paddy and Joe, my acquaintances, were pretty smart guys even though Irish folk are often seen as a bit dumb with a sense of humour. I sometimes wonder if that isn’t part of the charm of some Irish men – they will describe themselves in ways that are not bragging – they recognize the humble place their grandparents were in. Yet they worked themselves hard to get into good positions and occupations that obviously required some brain power. Paddy worked on the railway, and Joe was a policeman.

If there ever was a situation that involved the Irish Community in any State or Province in North America, I just cannot imagine either Paddy or Joe standing up in front of TV cameras and claiming, “Being Irish is more than about whiskey and coffee.”

Or tea for that matter. Even though there is an Irish folk song called “Whiskey in My Tae,” I have my doubts Paddy or Joe would get in front of cameras and state to the entire nation, while speaking of their Irish Community, “Being Irish is more than whiskey and tea!” and repeat it several times.

Now, while I have had experiences with some Irish people, I’ve also spent a bit of time in Toronto in a district some would call “Little Somalia.” Indeed, those people are nothing like the Irish folk I’ve met who were smart and intelligent, and who might at times, pour a wee bit of whiskey into their tea or coffee.

And yet, I had no clue that “Bananas and Rice” was a “thing” in Toronto’s Little Somalia. Who knew? Maybe I wasn’t invited over for dinner or snacks enough. What I was more used to was watching Somalians with their Hookahs. This may say less about Somalia and more about the places I tended to loiter.

That brings me to the now almost universally watched broadcast of the Somalian lady in Minnesota who repeatedly claimed that being Somalian wasn’t simply about being about “bananas and rice.” I feel sorry for her in a way – this was the best the Somalian Community could produce? I am willing to even forgive the fact that the poor woman was put on stage without much preparation – but seriously, talk about “bananas and rice” repeatedly? She appeared to have been given exactly one note card, on which someone had written, in very large letters, “BANANAS AND RICE” just in case she forgot.

Might be time for me to head back to Toronto, try to find Paddy and Joe, meet up in Little Somalia. Have some whiskey in our tea, politely decline the whipped cream, and solemnly debate whether bananas and rice should be served separately, or layered – as tradition, apparently, demands.