Going for "One" (And Other Beautiful Lies)

There is a phrase that lives quietly in Irish pubs and relationships alike: "We will just go for one." It sounds innocent. It sounds reasonable. It sounds like a statement. In reality, it is a folk tale, a myth, a soft promise whispered into a pint foam that already knows better.

We are off to Ireland today—the wedding is coming—and last night we popped into Boland's to say goodbye. As we were heading out, Lisa confirmed what every veteran of pub diplomacy is trained to confirm:

"You are only having one, right?"

I know how this works, so I did not answer. Silence can be strategic.

She clarified, like a barrister approaching the decisive question: "If you are having a beer, it is only going to be one, right?"

Now, I am not an idiot. "Yes," I said. "One."

We got there. Lisa ordered her tea (civilized). I ordered my one (brave). We visited, hugged, said see-you-soons—the good craic you would bottle if you could. Then I went to pay. Lisa drifted to the patio to get in a few last "mind yourself"s.

That is when it happened.

Card minimum: ten dollars.

Tea: complimentary.

Bill: morally insufficient.

Reader, I was duty-bound. We are a society governed by rules. And when the rules say your tab needs a friend, you do not argue with the constitution. You add a pint. I took a G-splitting gulp, squared my shoulders, and carried my honorable burden out to the patio.

Now, I did try to finish it quickly. Truly. Efficiency is also a virtue. But then I looked up and saw the parade of goodbyes—those long Irish goodbyes that are actually just Irish hellos in reverse. You stand, then sit, then stand again. Someone remembers a story. Someone else remembers a cousin. You nod, you laugh, a hand finds your shoulder. The pint is not a beverage anymore; it is a timer on community.

And then—like fate wearing a smile—Michaela put a fresh pint in my hand. The stare. The smirk. She knew. We all knew. I was now in "one" plus "one for the road," and now “one for the ditch” which any mathematician will tell you is three, and any Irish mathematician will tell you is the beginning.

Here is the joke, the truth, the ritual:

• “One“ is two.
• “A couple“ is four.
• “A few“ is... well, you know.

Because "one" is not a number in a pub; it is a key. It opens the door to the room where the stories live, where time loosens, where strangers and friends become indistinguishable in the best possible way. "One" is the wink before the evening gets honest.

So yes, we are off to Ireland. And yes, I promised "one." But as every proper pint teaches: we do not count drinks, we count moments—how many laughs, how many squeezes of the shoulder, how many "say hi to your mother"s. We count how long the foam holds a name. We count how often the night says, "You are among your own."

I had one, and a second, then another. I paid the minimum, I satisfied the maximum, and I kept faith with the real rule:

Settle in. THIS pint will not drink itself.

Sláinte

—Mike

P.S. To the brave partners who ask the question—"You are only having one, right?"—you are the guardians of balance. And to the bartenders who wink and slide a pint at exactly the right moment—you are the poets. Between you, the rest of us get to pretend we have control while the night gently proves otherwise.