You notice the pandemic a little bit less at Seamus McCaffrey's.
Not that the downtown Phoenix pub isn't abiding by the rules. On a recent Saturday evening, seating is spaced to appropriate social distancing levels. Masks are being worn when people aren't sipping from pint glasses. There's no live band, only a Spotify playlist. Scruffy-looking doorman John "Jersey" Mazur, clad in a black hoodie and neck gaiter, is keeping things at half-capacity.
But Seamus McCaffrey's has rowdy good times built into its DNA, and in many ways, this COVID-era weekend night isn't unlike the thousands that have preceded it here on the ground floor of the Hotel San Carlos, at Monroe Street near Central Avenue. Out front, smokers swap stories at full tables. The sound of clinking glasses and laughter punctuates a thrum of Celtic punk coming from the sound system. Packs of drinkers five or six strong keep rolling up to the front door, IDs in hand. Inside, the clientele reflects the changing neighborhood that surrounds it. Upwardly mobile loft-dwellers sample the bar's vast selection of single-malt scotches. Ragamuffin artists loiter, pints in hand. Service industry workers from nearby bars belly up, having clocked out early.