Like millions of other Post readers, for most of my life, I knew my uncle Pete Hamill – the legendary columnist and novelist who died five years ago this week age 85 – through his writing.

I devoured his books, pored over his columns, and annotated his magazine articles like there was going to be a quiz.

It’s a tall order to get a large Irish-Catholic family all in one room, and – outside of a handful of family reunions – I didn’t see him much.

Until, that was, the summer of 2018, when we were having lunch in Park Slope at my great-grandfather’s old bar of choice, Rattigan’s, for the first get-together in a decade.

The former watering hole is now a Mexican restaurant – like everything in the city – and had been Pete’s favorite since his days studying art at Mexico City College. 3

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