A Glutton’s Guide to Tulsa – Exploring Tulsa’s Food Scene in a Poem by Jay Rafferty

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Tulsa is a city that feeds the soul as much as the stomach, and Irish poet Jay Rafferty has captured its essence in this sumptuous prose poem. More than mere reviews of eateries – they’re snapshots of life, love, and local flavour, immortalised in words as rich as the meals themselves.

Whether you’re nursing a pint at Sound Pony, unravelling the layered heritage of Kilkenny’s, or embracing the unapologetic indulgence of a Fat Guy’s burger, Rafferty’s lyrical voice invites you to taste Tulsa from a perspective that’s equal parts gluttony and reverie. From the glowing heart of Thelma’s Peach to the hunger-inducing aroma at Lone Wolf, this guide is as much about the people, places, and moments as it is about the food.

Pull up a chair, sip the stout, and let Rafferty’s words guide you through a city that speaks through its eateries. Each stop is a story; every bite, a poem.

A Glutton’s Guide to Tulsa

Sound Pony
The hideaway of the super-secret-teachers’ happy hour. Vinyl you swear you’ve never heard before but feels like a hug from an old stoner uncle spins behind the bar. Storefront barely letting the light in past the stickers plastered across its glass. Cycling skinsuits, handlebars without bells, bicycles pulled asunder and hung above retro games cabinets, pixels blinking in the dim light. F5 is the best shout. Tornadoes on tap. Guinness is too although who would travel the world to taste home?

Kilkenny’s
On the menu: Finn McCool O’Fish. Translated from the Irish it means “Finn son of cool son of fish.” The Guinness is good, don’t get me wrong. For America at least. Maps on the bathroom walls include Wales, Scotland, England. An Irish bar should have, in its own right, a map of the republic, hopefully the other six counties too, or county names beyond the one above the door. The staff are pooled from Tulsa’s finest. Immigrant patriots. More akin to the Irish than WASPS will ever be. I remember Salvador shared his kinship with me, and I for his people. South of the border, down Monaghan way.

Fat Guy’s
Stacks of whatever you ask for. A burger joint that gives you exactly what you need to a tee. Meat, no meat, veg, no veg. If you asked for two toasted buns with a can of Daddy Hinkle’s Original Dry Rub between they’d serve it to you without judgement. In the shade of the ballground’s stands thrives Fat Guy’s kitchen. I go there every time I’m in town. I’d say guilty pleasure if I ever felt guilty about it.

Thelma’s Peach
It doesn’t look like much outside but looks can be deceiving, like the piano in the corner that barely plays, however pretty it may be. I didn’t know neon came in that colour. The peach above the bar glows green and a light Cheeto orange. Above the makeshift stage, done up like a cosy Ikea snug with carpets, a dozen lamps of all shapes and makes and a curtain you’re not sure blocks anything at all, glows the emoji-like emblem in its own spotlight. Local artists hang on the walls. Local beers slide across the chipped brown wood bar. Local bands wail and jam and rock on those old carpets. And locals pack the place every weekend without fail.

Lone Wolf
Down the street from Magic City Books but always visited after. One should have a book cover by their lunch. And standing in queue the diners’ hunger is mirrored on the black tiled kitchen wall. The panting wolf head on the exposed concrete ceiling salivating as though it can smell the kimchi fries from the kitchen or the steam rising from your calamari, from your spring rolls. Careful it doesn’t drip onto the fresh pages from down the street.

Dead Armadillo Taproom
A room made of light. Sunlight spilling through great glass panes or, when the wall is raised, nothing at all. Sunlight spilling from the glass pints in an amber tide. Walls of pale gold wood, tabletops like caramel, black armadillos on mustard yellow. Tulsa Flags are canned out the back and at the bar Pickleritas with the spiced rim are raised to stouts as deep and aromatic as Yankee candles. Raised, clinked and downed.

Jay Rafferty is a redhead, an uncle, an Irishman and an eejit. He is a guest lecturer on Irish Literature and poetry as well as a Programme Committee member of The John Hewitt Society. He is the author of three chapbooks, Holy Things, Strange Magic & All That’s Between Us is Time and a 2024 recipient of an Irish Writers Centre Professional Membership, awarded by the Arts Council of Northern Ireland. You can read his poetry, essays and articles in several journals including The Paper from Good Press, FU Review Berlin and HOWL New Irish Writing.

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