Text by our guest blogger Steve Trygg
Last Thursday, March 17, in the name of the patron saint of Ireland – we’re talking the second half of the 5th century, folks – New York put away a little more beer and whisky than usual. Well, a lot more. It was, of course, the annual Celtic spring rites of St. Patrick’s Day.
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Steve (left, in Guinness shirt) ready to party |
The sky was baby blue. Crocus out in full bloom in Central Park. Girls in flimsy tops and teeny shorts. (Guys, too, to be fair.) Silly hats and other adornments in the compulsory Erin-Go-Bragh green everywhere.
New York’s Finest (the cops) and New York’s Bravest (the firefighters) together with assorted Irish societies and clubs marched up Fifth Avenue to the sound of bagpipes, drums, and fifes. Lots and lots of them. Quite a spectacle. And the bars and pubs offered standing room only, if that.
There are three genuine Irish pubs within a two-block radius from my Upper West Side home: The Emerald Inn on Columbus Avenue and Malachy’s and P D O’Hurley’s on 72nd Street, proudly displaying the three-leaf Shamrock in their windows. I visited all of them on St. Patrick’s Day; let’s call it marketing.
Not long ago, Mackmyra, through the Swedish-American Chamber of Commerce in New York, asked me to help guide their steps when making landfall in Manhattan. I was delighted. I’ve lived and worked in the United States for 28 years, and this must be one of my most interesting challenges to date. (And I’ve seen them all, believe me.)
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"Belly up to the bar, lads!" |
As I said, I paid a visit to each one of my three local outposts of County Cork. The scene was the same – everything that you can picture in your mind, and more. A jostling, rowdy crowd. Loud music. Brisket, cabbage, and potatoes. Spilled beer. Shouting. Laughing. Spontaneous Riverdancing by – underage? – girls. Toothless senior citizens in the corners, smiling and sipping Jameson or Tullamore Dew. Off-duty band members in kilts and bearskin hats and with drumsticks tucked into their knee-high socks. A few serious men with green sashes pronouncing their membership in AOH (The Ancient Order of Hibernians). Soccer hooligan look-alikes belting out “Danny Boy” and “The Wild Rover” miles off key. More spilled beer. Sweat. Friendly Pardon me’s.
The first year ever I experienced St. Patrick’s Day in a New York pub, I thought to myself, this must be what it’s like for an Irishman to be thrown into a Swedish crayfish party at around eleven PM.
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| Let's call it market research |
Just for the heck of it, I braved the din and asked all three bartenders and a couple of waitresses for a Mackmyra. Straight up, please! What did you want, son? A Mackmyra whisky! I shouted back. Sorry, never heard of it! Well, now you have! What is it then? Single malt Swedish whisky! Bring me a bottle, lad, and this Bushmill’s on the house! Thanks, will do!!
I walked home with “Whisky in the jar” ringing in my ears, content that at least five Manhattanites now had heard the name of Sweden’s next great export. This will be fun. Onwards, Christian soldiers!
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| Here come's The Emerald Society band marching up Fifth Avenue |
Footnote:
Steve Trygg has signed on as a non-compensated mentor to Mackmyra’s US team.
He is the only Swede in Wall Street Journal's prestigious "Advertising Hall of Fame", having built his reputation on marketing campaigns for world-brand clients like Agfa, Dow, Ericsson, Microsoft, NCR, SAP, and Sony, among others.
