The truth is that I don't remember anything about my night at Shamrock. Nothing at all. My blood alcohol level was so high that my brain, which was meant to remember what exactly I'd ordered, said, or done, failed me. I knew I'd be facing raised eyebrows from my editor, but how was I supped to write an article if I didn't remember a thing? I did actually remember something with glasses…does that count? Until a more suitable solution could be found, I tried to reconstruct the events of the night…let's call this CSI: Netanya.
The night started in the car. It was big. And black. A., who plays a central role in this investigation, said that it seems that it was her husbands Jeep. The bartender remembers midori sours (melon based) and a fidgling sours (figs) that flowed like small rivers towards our table. Along with the river, we were served crisp chicken fingers, quality chips and an excellent roast beef sandwich (that's if you believe the waitress – but she looks quite trustworthy to me.)
Within the reconstruction I found clovers all over the place: on the walls, the napkins, and even at the bottom of the glasses. This seems connected to the fact that Shamrock is an Irish pub from the cellar to the rafters. The atmosphere, the music, the alcohol and the even the chicken fingers (ok, maybe not the chicken fingers) are steeped in the Irish legacy, and there's something there, in Ireland, that does the soul good.
When I pressed the bartender further, he admitted that there had also been chasers: peach schnapps and apple schnapps.
I then moved on to each and every witness. I mean, how many people go out to a pub on a Wednesday night in Netanya for goodness sake? Haven't they heard about the recession?
The final result of the investigation was conclusive. I have no choice but to inform A. that we'll have to return to the scene of the crime. I hope that the Jeep will be available.
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