Wintercold in predatory descent upon Lewiston, ME. Hamfisted polar swell haranguing upon the city with apish destruction and clearblack freeze seizing the roads. Sliding down Main Street goes a dented Volkswagen the color of sharkskin, carrying myself and three of my closest friends (Jack, Zack and Abby), freshly returned to campus, each of us squealing with hunger. The Volkswagen speeding, hangs a sharp roger, back wheels skidding on the ice, into the parking lot of one local Pedro O’Hara’s, Home of L-A’s One and Only Authentic American-Mexican-Irish Dining Experience. We four escape the VW and rush for the door, swing in, stomp the slush from the grooves in our boots, and make our presence known. Table for four? “Yessiree,” says the waitress, dressed in sweats, and corrals us into the O’Hara half of Pedro O’Hara’s: a pubbish place, walls metaled by novelty license plates, sporty decor and memorabilia adorning here and there, TVs buzzing the game at full volume, and a great big bar at nucleus; many lads and lassies circling it. Our waitress seats us into a corner of this space and asks us, “Can I start you guys off with anything?” And we say (executively, hungry), “Yes, Miss Maytruh Dee, how ‘bout some nachos for a band of famished youth?” And she runs off with the order. From our corner, we can observe the scenery of the pub. Many dudes fixing their attentions to the Titans-Chiefs game (yelling, slamming hands, coaching the little figures in the TV screens), couples and gangs chatting, most of the in-pub population somewhere between easy breezy buzzed and blasted despite it being only 7:15. One man approaches (correction: teeters and dodders towards, his recent drinks blushing in his cheeks and blood, a general stink of no-good about him) two ladies seated at a table, splitting nachos, and asks, “Eshcuse me, pahdon me, could I haavve a nasho please?” And the ladies, politely, hand him a nacho and he takes it and eats it and thanks them with great compassion, and then attempts to begin conversation, and everybody privy to this exchange freezes and doesn’t at all know what to do. He stays there, besieging these women, with measly, and not at all charming, chit-chat for a long amount of time. Our waitress returns with our own nachos and glasses of water, which bounce and ripple in the overblown bass of the pub’s speakers. The nachos, though hot and cheesy and fine enough for some hungry bodies, were too few chip, too much olive, and certainly not meal enough for my party. Perusing the menu, one notices that it is halved into Pedro’s (Mexican fare) and O’Hara’s (Irish fixings) and that the restaurant does not serve some sort of freakish Mexican-Irish fusion cuisine in the vein of Guinness-soaked chimichangas or corned beef burritos. We order and wait and watch our surroundings degrade before us. Another man has joined in bothering the two women at the table. The waitress dances poorly with a patron. A skunk-drunk customer drops it low and fails to return to standing position. There is suddenly yelling irrelevant to the game, which is in favor of the Titans. Who knew such chaos wrought in L-A? Our orders arrive and in general, across the table, they’re fine, a solid six-outta-ten. My Reuben sandwich is sort of limp and soggy, like a sock out of the wash, but certainly tasty. Abby’s shepherd’s pie is mostly cheese. Jack’s chimichanga will return to destroy him. Zack finishes his tuna melt and pushes away his plate with a shrug. We leave as soon as we can.