From the outside it’s a fairly unassuming white wooden-panelled building with nothing to indicate what lies within.
Stepping through the door is like stepping back through time: the walls are dark wood adorned with black and white photographs of athletes; oars hang from the walls and ceilings; the plain tables have initials and symbols carved randomly across them. Even the dim yellow lighting seems to belong to another time and place.
306 York Street is the current location of Mory’s whose origins lay in an alehouse on Wooster Street run by Mr and Mrs Moriarty in the 1860s. Who knew that America actually has some history?!
Mory’s is a private club which wouldn’t seem out of place in Oxbridge. Formerly membership was restricted to men. Women were allowed on the premises but had to sit upstairs hidden away from the men-folk. Following Yale’s enrolment of women to the university (in 1969) it was only a matter of time till the gender barrier was broken. As you might expect, there was initially much opposition to allowing women to become full members. The local government threatened to remove Mory’s liquor licence if women were not given full membership. Unsurprisingly, this quashed any opposition and from 1972 all Yalie genders have been able to enjoy being in the club.
There were a group of twelve of us (all women except me) who went for a meal. The food was okay but it was worth paying purely for the atmosphere.
Which brings me nicely to the Whiffenpoofs. Incidentally, I believe that the “poof” bit is pronounced as in “poof - the magician made the homosexual disappear”. The Whiffenpoofs were founded in 1909 and took their name from “Little Nemo”, an operatic Broadway show which was based on a comic strip that ran in the New York Herald.
A Whiffenpoof, as best I can tell, is a type of imaginary fish. The Whiffenpoofs are an a cappella group of 14 Yale seniors (all male) who traditionally sing at Mory’s Temple Bar (to use its more formal name) on Monday evenings (in addition to touring the world).
During the course of the evening they performed a number of songs for the delight of the diners. And they were good. Very, very good. These young men, dressed in ties and blazers, had the ladies swooning. Too good looking for their own good if you ask me. Bastards. Anyway…
They have some interesting rituals which involve them drinking from cups (as in sporting trophies) filled with differing blends of champagne, rum, beer and liqueurs into which a large block of ice is placed to keep the concoctions cool. These trophies are in fact bigger than Mrs G’s head (see photo above).
Most of the people we were with left fairly early but Mrs G, Rebekah and I wandered out back to join the Whiffenpoofs while they smoked and finished off their cups. We were treated to some more singing and were asked to help them finish off the four cups. We, of course, obliged. Rebekah obliged quite a lot actually and made giggly girlie noises while being serenaded.
Sadly, the evening had to come to an end so we made our way back to our apartments having had a thoroughly pleasant time.
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