A few blocks south of Columbus Circle on Eighth Ave., the Star was one of a rapidly vanishing class of Irish steam-table bars that were a warm embrace. A diminutive and quite old man named Pat, from Queens, served up a murderer’s row of comfort foods — piping hot pastrami, roast beef, meatloaf, brisket, turkey, with mashed potatoes and gravy and some other alleged vegetables. In the back was a large room with linoleum floors, booths and sturdy tables and chairs, bad lighting and dodgy bathrooms. It had its regulars and, with a bus stop right out front, its transients. Behind the long bar along the left wall was another Patrick, young and stout, by way of Ireland’s County Wexford, who became my best friend during my years there. And on the business side of the bar were men like this one, recognizable in any city anywhere. (1995)