In the fog, somewhere near Limerick, a man named Joe Sheridan whipped up warmth on a winter night in 1943. The world was tumbling into chaos, flights circling like lost souls in the dark, and Foynes Port was more than an airport—it was a temporary refuge.

Passengers, tired and weary, shuffled into the restaurant, their faces etched with disappointment. Joe watched them, a mix of pity and determination swirling in his belly. He took the black nectar, added a splash of Irish whiskey—a sweet wake-up call—and sprinkled it with sugar. Then came the cream, cold and rich, floating on top like a lazy afterthought.

As the concoction slipped into their hands, silence fell over the room. Those weary travelers, expecting the ordinary, were served a taste of something extraordinary. One brave American, breaking the quiet, asked, “Hey Buddy, is this Brazilian coffee?” To which Joe replied, “No, that’s Irish Coffee.” And just like that, amidst the hum of planes and life’s relentless grind, something beautiful was born.

From that night on, the drink spread like a good rumor, finding its way into the hearts of the desperate and the hopeful, a balm against the bitter chill of the world outside. It wasn’t just a drink; it was a moment of warmth, a rebellion against the cold—a reminder that sometimes, the best things come from the most unpredictable nights.