Ah, March 17. St. Patrick’s Day.

The one day of the year when I can tell people that I lived in Ireland for three years in the early 1980s without watching them stifle a yawn or roll their eyes.

Why establish my Irish credentials? Because I’m about to burst the bubble of people whose knowledge of Ireland comes mostly from the back of Lucky Charms cereal boxes or newspaper food sections.

Here goes:

Far be it from me to throw cold brown beer all over your Paddy’s Day plans, but if you’re planning to get drunk or gorge on corned beef and cabbage today your American is showing.

Drinking first: Until the 1970s St. Patrick’s Day was a holy day in Ireland and the pubs were closed.

Yes, you read that correctly. The Irish - who rarely drink at home and instead imbibe mostly in bars - went dry on that day.

They say the only place you could legally buy a drink until the 1970s was at the Royal Dublin Society fairgrounds where the annual Royal Dublin Society Dog Show took place. 

Perhaps this accounts for the Irish affection for canines. Just a theory.

I’m not saying the Irish don’t get drunk. They do. But they don’t wait for March 17.

Now let’s talk corned beef and cabbage.

In all the time I lived in Ireland, I never saw corned beef on a menu nor served in a home.

Not once.

A traditional Irish meal on St. Paddy’s Day involved either lamb or Irish bacon. Corned beef came on the scene in AMERICA when Irish immigrants came to New York City and lived adjacent to Jewish immigrants. When the Irish couldn’t procure traditional Irish bacon - delicious, by the way - they switched to corned beef.

Then again, cabbage is a staple of Ireland so those searching for a traditional Irish meal might consider a steaming plate of that vegetable tonight.

Or a big bowl of slaw.

When I lived in Ireland the concept of a Paddy’s Day parade was just catching on. Back then, 90 percent of the marchers in the Dublin parade belonged to American bands and organizations. It was kind of comical, watching middle-aged Americans from the Ancient Order of Hibernians trouping along O’Connell Street in their trench coats and tennis shoes, two things the Irish never wore.

(In fact, I was always amazed that no matter how wet the weather most Irish people wore wool coats, never raincoats or slickers. They did have clear plastic tents they put over their strollers, however, to protect their gorgeous, rosy-cheeked babies from the rain. But adults just got wet, shook out their coats and hung them near a heater.)

I’ve talked to Americans who have gone to Ireland recently for the Paddy’s Day holiday and they rave about the Americanized, almost Mardi Gras-like, debauchery that takes place in Dublin: green beer, packed pubs and gargantuan parades. 

Thanks, I think I’ll pass. I could see that in Chicago or New York or Ocean View in Norfolk.

I’d suggest a trip to Ireland in September when the weather is glorious and the colors are as vivid as they are in Virginia.

Better yet, go in June, when the sun rises before 5 and doesn’t set until 10 p.m.

The only drawback? No corned beef. Ever.