"The bartender is Irish. Jumped a student visa about ten years ago but nothing for him to worry about. The cook, though, is Mexican. Some poor bastard at ten dollars an hour--and probably has to wash the dishes, too. La Migra take notice of his immigration status--they catch sight of his bowl cut on the way home to Queens and he'll have a problem. He looks different than the Irish and the Canadians--and he's got Lou Dobbs calling specifically for his head every night on the radio. (You notice, by the way, that you never hear Dobbs wringing his hands over our border to the North. Maybe the "white" in Great White North makes that particular "alien superhighway" more palatable.) The cook at the Irish bar, meanwhile, has the added difficulty of predators waiting by the subway exit for him (and any other Mexican cooks or dishwashers) when he comes home on Friday payday. He's invariably cashed his check at a check-cashing store; he's relatively small--and is unlikely to call the cops. The perfect victim. The guy serving my drinks, on the other hand, as most English-speaking illegal aliens, has been smartly gaming the system for years, a time-honored process everybody at the INS is fully familiar with: a couple of continuing education classes now and again (while working off the books) to get those student visas. Extensions. A work visa. A "farm" visa. Weekend across the border and repeat. Articulate, well-connected friends--the type of guys who own, for instance, lots of Irish bars--who can write letters of support lauding your invaluable and "specialized" skills, unavailable from homegrown bartenders. And nobody's looking anyway. But I digress..."