Big Jim's in the Run
When I asked Peter Oresick if he'd like to drink with me, I suggested one of my favorite Pittsburgh bars, Big Jim's. Big Jim's isn't like the other establishments Drinks with Poets has featured this week; it isn't a re-done dive bar or a bar with artisan anything. It's, as I like to say, a bar-bar. A place where you can get a thin yellow beer and a shot of whiskey–a basket of fries. A place where the bartenders will change the channel to Law and Order as easily as the Steelers. Big Jim's is, as they say, "in the run." The run is a little section of lower Greenfield where many steel workers once lived, and amongst those families was one named Warhola.
When I asked Peter if he'd like to get a beer with me on Sunday, he said, "Of course. I'll be at church down the street. Why not show up early with your camera and I'll give you a tour?" The church, a conveniently short walk from the bar, is St. John Chrysostom Byzantine Catholic Church. And this is the church that Andy Warhol himself attended all of his Pittsburgh life. Its roots are Carpatho-Rusyn, as were his, as are Peter's.
I have, for years, wanted to see this church, knowing the influence it is said to have had on Warhol and his work. Peter snuck out of the service to retrieve me from the street, and I sat quietly while the priest (who was going on a little long this day, Peter whispered) finished up. The heavy smell of incense–art everywhere. Crazy colorful panels of art. I could only imagine Warhol as a boy staring at this eccentric beauty, letting it soak in, taking it with him to New York City. And we all know what happened next.
We strolled down the street after church. A beautiful sunny fall day. At Big Jim's we wanted breakfast and beer. Over the murmur of TV sports, we pulled up chairs into the soft light at our table and talked Carpatho-Rusyn, Warhol, and poetry for an hour or so.
St. John Chrysostom Byzantine Catholic Church
Part of the church's ornate interior
Drinking Beer After Church
By Peter Oresick
A Rooney's Old Irish Style Ale and Big Jim's Breakfast
After church each Sunday, our clan
drifted to the opposite end of the block to my grandparents’ house for food and
beer. I grew up in a small Ukrainian immigrant colony in a factory town on the
banks of the Allegheny River. The priest gave us a sliver of wine-soaked bread
on a golden spoon; our grandmother climbed steps from her coal cellar to offer
chasers of beer.
Beer, back then, was a Pony Bottle of
green glass with white painted lettering. “Rolling Rock. From the glass
lined-tanks of Old Latrobe we tender this premium beer for your enjoyment, as a
tribute to your good taste. It comes from mountain springs to you. ’33.’” I
don’t remember what mystified me more: the painted white pony or the meaning of
33.
But my father always wanted “the prince
of pilsners.” “Have a Duke!” was the motto of the Duquesne Brewing
Company. Then, in 1963, the Pittsburgh Brewing Company changed us all with the
first pull-tab beer can. We loved Iron City from then on. And litterbugs were
born all over town.
Since my college days, I’ve grown even
fonder and more mature about beer. And extreme beverages. In central Turkey I
saw the ancestral home of King Midas and I met Professor Patrick McGovern, the
great archaeologist of ancient brewing. I’ve tasted his Midas Touch, and his
Chateau Jiahu from 7,000 BCE, and his Egyptian Ta Henket re-brewed from
residue in a pyramid chamber.
Beer appears in many of my own poems,
but here is an ancient poem–from a clay tablet written by a Sumerian poet
circa 1800 BCE–that is said to be the oldest. Na zdorovja!
Hymn to Ninkasi
(translated by Miguel Civil)
Borne of the flowing
water,
Tenderly cared for by the
Ninhursag,
Borne of the flowing
water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Having founded your town by the
sacred lake,
She finished its great walls for
you,
Ninkasi, having founded your
town by the sacred lake,
She finished it's walls for
you,
Your father is Enki, Lord
Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen
of the sacred lake.
Ninkasi, your father is Enki,
Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen
of the sacred lake.
You are the one who handles the
dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with
sweet aromatics,
Ninkasi, you are the one who
handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with
[date] – honey,
You are the one who bakes the
bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of
hulled grains,
Ninkasi, you are the one who
bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of
hulled grains,
You are the one who waters the
malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even
the potentates,
Ninkasi, you are the one who
waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even
the potentates,
You are the one who soaks the
malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves
fall.
Ninkasi, you are the one who
soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves
fall.
You are the one who spreads the
cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
Ninkasi, you are the one who
spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
You are the one who holds with
both hands the great sweet wort,
Brewing [it] with honey [and]
wine
(You the sweet wort to the
vessel)
Ninkasi, (…)(You the sweet
wort to the vessel)
The filtering vat, which makes a
pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a
large collector vat.
Ninkasi, the filtering vat,
which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a
large collector vat.
When you pour out the filtered
beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of
Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who
pours out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of
Tigris and Euphrates.
Permission from: "Copyright J.A.
Black, G. Cunningham, E. Robson, and G. Zlyomi 1998, 1999, 2000. The authors
have asserted their moral rights." Scholarly Versions at their Home Page The
Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature, Oxford University.
**
Peter
Oresick is a poet and editor, with Nicholas Coles, of Working
Classics: Poems on Industrial Life. His
most recent book is a serial portrait in verse of Andy Warhol—Warhol-o-rama.