Going Home: The Emerald Rose Irish Pub
Turkey, wine and memories at The Emerald Rose Irish Pub.
My cousin walks in the door and bows her head as she speaks to the woman at the front desk.
She announces we have an 11:30am reservation for ‘Ercolini’.
The woman at the front desk takes off her glasses and her eyes lit up with recognition and happiness.
She embraced my mom like you would embrace an old friend finally coming home.
We shuffled into the restaurant, sliding our marshmallow jackets in between white tablecloth tables with single roses.
The general manager came out from behind the kitchen counter and hugged my mom like he was our distant uncle we only saw on holidays. Warm and longing to hear all of her stories.
Food was brought to us like Meme was cooking it in her kitchen. There was cheese and bread and warm conversation.
and sweet squash
Suddenly I was sitting at our kitchen table on Lindenwood Road.
My mom had spent all day roasting a turkey.
She mashed potatoes with care and weight watchers.
The light shines through the side doors, kisses the table and wraps me in warmth as I watch the crisp trees.
My grandmother would have used excessive butter.
Suddenly I was entertaining my grandparents and great aunts and uncles.
I was picking the tails off of shrimp.
I was pouring wine for my sister.
I was turning on the Christmas music
I was slipping off my shoes.
My mom was setting the table so we could share a meal together before my Dad needed to get to work.
He hated going to work. But the restaurant industry was unapologetic.
But I was in his restaurant now. And my dad’s framed picture was on the wall here.
And the wait staff told stories about him. And the wait staff looked at my sister and I like we were long lost family members.
They looked at us like their own children. They hugged us like their own children.
They looked at us like we were home.
Someone else’s mom made the turkey. Someone else’s dad mashed the potatoes. Someone’s grandma poured the apple cider.
But it felt warm and happy and comfortable.
So if you’re in Massachusetts, and you don’t pronounce all of the syllables in Billerica.
The Emerald Rose
785 Boston Rd
This is Emily Ercolini’s first Waddle story.