Where There's No Smoke

At midnight last Saturday, bars around New York City became smoke free, more or less. Since I was down the Jersey Shore smoking and drinking while celebrating at the sister's wedding, I didn't give the smoking ban any thought.

Sure, I read about it and even enjoyed pieces like the Irish Echo's account of the clock striking midnight and the butts being snuffed out.

"I just saw them gathering up the ashtrays," one ashen-faced man croaked at about 11:45 p.m., sucking on a cigarette in Rocky Sullivan's.

The Mexican bar back Sergio Hernande went from bar to table and back again, collecting ash trays with an impish grin on his face and stowing them behind the bar.

Smokers looked around at each other nervously. Was it really happening? they seemed to ask with their eyes. When midnight struck, was everyone really going to stop smoking?

It was enough stress to make you reach for another Marlboro.

Then two nights ago, after a busy afternoon of Manhattan sightseeing with the relations from England, I found myself thirsty for a pint and ended up in McFadden's at 42nd and Second. McFadden's used to be a grand old Irish bar for old Daily News staffers when the News was still in the old News building on 42nd Street. These days I don't care for the after work suits and the little women with big pints of Bass in their tiny hands. But still the bar is fine enough for a refreshment.

The drink was grand and doing its job. But soon enough I felt the urge for a wee smoke. I freed myself of the blasted things for three months last year but have had no joy quitting this year. Maybe Monday.

In any event, looking down the long bar at McFadden's and not seeing the white air was only sad. When I give up the fecking fags for good, I still want to walk in and see, feel and smell the romance of an old smoky Manhattan bar. The clean and healthy scene simply felt wrong. And since I still smoke, it was uncomfortable as well. Just couldn't relax.

After visiting another Irish joint on Third Ave, with smokers puffing fast and bitching outside the front door in the cool evening air, I retreated home to Jersey City. And I hate to say it, but it felt brilliant and bloody liberating to sit at a Jersey bar, order a bottle of Bud and light up a Marlboro red without drama.

It should be interesting to see how all this works out when the ash settles. Bars are looking for loopholes. Then lawmakers with close them. It will probably be months or more until we truly know what bars are smoker-friendly in New York City.

Until then, and until I quit the fecking cancer sticks, I think I will say on the Jersey side of the Hudson when going out for a pint. Here you relax with a cigarette and your drink in a bar. And the drinks are cheaper on this side of the river as well.