Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition: Epilogue – Lost in Space.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition:

Epilogue – Lost in Space.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, SUPPLEMENTAL: After 21 installments, the Third Lost Expedition disappeared without a trace.

There was no explanation of this radio silence in The Buffalo News. The Nightlife page of Gusto kept steadily spotlighting the bar of the week with no mention of the sipping safari. It was simply gone.

Truth be told, the expedition was scrubbed on orders from high command. The irascible Chief of Mission Control, managing editor Murray Light, pulled the plug in June 1986, declaring that this epic exploration was promoting alcoholism. Friction between the Captain and the Chief over the Captain’s outside activities also was suspected of playing a role.

Before it vanished, however, the Third Lost Expedition chalked up some significant achievements.

During its 21 sorties, it covered almost 32 miles of fabled federal Route 62 from the west side of Niagara Falls to the southern edge of Blasdell, south of Buffalo.

It visited 109 licensed establishments, usually five of them a night. They included at least four bowling alleys and four Pizza Huts, which in the opinion of some of the crew members was three Pizza Huts too many.

Size of the exploring parties varied from a mere four brave souls who took the first venture onto Route 62 in Niagara Falls on a sweltering Friday night in August 1984 to an overwhelming 21 on one of the last missions. And the Captain is happy to note that every crew member succeeded in leaving orbit and shuttling back to Earth safely.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XXI: A big night in Blasdell.

May 16, 1986

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XXI:

A big night in Blasdell

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XLIII: Pulses quickened when the Captain announced the designated staging area for the Third Lost Expedition’s latest exploration of fabled federal Route 62 in continuing pursuit of their quest, namely to lift a liquid libation in every licensed establishment along that highway from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they can get.

        This time they would assemble at coordinates of wide renown, Ilio DiPaolo’s Restaurant and Lounge, 3785 South Park Ave. in the heart of downtown Blasdell, the domain of a retired wrestling star of a generation ago. Scouting reports indicated not only that the food was good, but that the party also stood an excellent chance of encountering the great man himself.

        They gathered in the Ringside Lounge, a dark, intimate room full of souvenirs of DiPaolo’s career. There were formal photos and action photos, autographs and framed newspaper clippings, even a set of ropes from the ring installed upside down on the ceiling, where they outlined the perimeter of the bar.

        There was no doubt who the proprietor was as he strode through the swinging doors at the back of the bar. Still trim, the years have little changed him, aside from the touches of grey in his full head of wavy hair. He was ready to give autographs at a moment’s notice, inscribing business cards which carried a photo of him from his pro days on the reverse side.

        “Eh, campari,” he greeted the Captain, clapping his shoulder with a hearty stroke. His hands were mighty, so big that they engulfed the hands of well-wishers as he shook with them. He was particularly pleased to speak Spanish with one expeditioner, the Cosmic Caballero, having spent several years in Latin America between the time he left Italy and when he came to wrestle in the U.S.

        Settling in finally at a table for 15 in a banquet room that was surprisingly understated, the crew took full advantage of the family restaurant’s gourmet touches. No chicken wings ($4.50 for a large order of 24, not 20 pieces), no pizza for this bunch. The result was complete fulfillment. The sauces were zesty, the fish fry generous, the garlic bread superb. They thanked the proprietor profusely as they departed.

        Cheers erupted as they arrived at their next destination – McPartlan’s South, 3726 South Park. They walked in at the very moment the Montreal Canadiens scored the goal that clinched their victory in their Stanley Cup semifinal series against the New York Rangers. Also cheering was the sight – and eventually the sound – of singer and guitarist John McCann, who was setting up for an evening of entertaining in the back room.

        McPartlan’s South was so exuberantly Irish that it seemed like it was still St. Patrick’s Day. Everywhere the eye came to rest – including the plaque identifying the proprietors, Tom and Judy Gilbride – there were shamrocks. Lining the upper walls were drinking mugs, hundreds of them. Thus inspired, the expeditioners scanned a sign on the wall which offered half a dozen import beers for $1.35 a bottle and ordered a round of Beamish Irish Cream Stout.

        Had they been hungry, McPartlan’s South could have handled that, too. The place offered a fish fry not just Friday, but every day, plus a series of $10.99 Mother’s Day dinners for two. Nibblers could find solace on the back bar, where there were not only candy bars, but also a jar of pickled eggs for 35 cents apiece.

        Accommodations didn’t end there, however. Like many other oases in this part of the galaxy, McPartlan’s South is a darts bar. “Welcome, Darters,” signs proclaimed and three boards awaited them. An obliging barman not only cleared tables from in front of one of the boards, but also brought out an assortment of darts and scorekeeping markers for the party. Needless to say, that necessitated another round of Beamish.

        For their third exploration of the evening, the crew was obliged to backtrack north around a bridge-construction detour to reach the Stop Inn, 3445 South Park, which stood at the very corner of the turn-off. This also was a two-room affair, roughly the size of McPartlan’s, which offered a Friday fish fry, along with chicken wings five nights a week, and a special consisting of a roast beef sandwich and a Genesee beer for $2.50.

        Amusements were abundant – a pinball machine, a dartboard, a Trivia video game and a pool table, plus a live band, the Willie Mays Blues Band, turning out righteous renditions of such classics as Jimmy Reed’s “Big Boss Man.”

        Circling the detour to the south again, they docked in the parking lot of a Convenient Food Mart across from the Blasdell Inn, 3868 South Park, where the most prominent decoration was an immense sign promoting the Multiple Sclerosis Society’s Ugliest Bartender Contest, which has just begun its month-long run. The man behind the bar certainly had a line on it – a gruff but obliging fellow, he was quick to pick up on the trekkers’ requests for $1.25 bottles of “Molson’s Red,” the red-labeled export ale.

        Diversions included a jukebox full of old and new rock records, an electronic dartboard, a Trivia machine and a pool table, where teams of attractive young women were holding their own against the males in attendance. The Billiards Technician and the Chief Science Officer couldn’t resist the challenge and actually won the table from the women. But their triumph was short-lived. They lost to the guys by sinking the eight-ball on the next round.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XX: Rediscovering suburbia

Once again a chapter was missing in the Chief Science Officer’s otherwise splendid collection of yellowing Gusto magazines from the 1980s. And once again the Captain ventured back to what’s left of the library at The Buffalo News to probe the ancient metal filing cabinets filled with microfilm. This time he also brought back a photo. 

April 11, 1986

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XX: 

Rediscovering suburbia.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XLII: Try as he might, the Captain couldn’t nail down the coordinates for the next designated staging area.

        “What’s it near?” crew members would ask when they heard that the Third Lost Expedition would rally at a place in Lackawanna called Bella Pizza at 3140 South Park Ave., from there to continue their mission to lift a drink in every licensed drinking establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        The problem was, Bella Pizza wasn’t near anything. The only landmark the Captain could summon up from his memory banks was Father Baker’s basilica. Find that and go about six blocks south, he instructed. You can’t miss it.

        Following that flight plan, it became clear why this location was so hard to pinpoint. Six blocks south of Father Baker’s, the landscape became a panorama of déjà vu – brightly-lit convenience stores and chain pharmacies. It could have been anywhere. It had to be the suburbs.

        The déjà vu got even thicker inside Bella Pizza. On one side was the order counter and the kitchen, which was doing a lively delivery trade this particular Friday evening. On the other side was a sit-down area. Done up in stucco and wood, with yellow Formica tables and a couple of video games, it was populated by a clan of teens in high school jackets. Out front a sign read: “Adult Help Wanted.”

        Choices at the counter came down to chicken wings, submarine sandwiches and, of course, pizza. Reinforcing the choice of pizza was a prominently posted article touting Buffalo pizza as the least expensive in the nation. Prices on Bella’s pizza, unfortunately, were somewhat above the local average – $4.05 small, $5.25 large – and the precisely-weighed portions of cheese on top proved no match for the generous spread of sauce.

        There was but one alternative when it came to adult refreshments – Stroh’s on tap at 65 cents a glass, $3.25 a pitcher. Ordering it brought about one of those crises that prompted the help-wanted sign. The keg had to be replaced and it couldn’t be done until one of the delivery drivers returned.

        The continual arrival of crew members – 17 showed up, in all – further aggravated the help-wanted situation and had a deleterious effect on the life forms in the sit-down area as well. The teens retreated to a table nearest one of the video games and clustered there sullenly, waiting to reclaim their turf.

        The large expeditionary force had a similar impact across the street at Swifty’s Pub, 3167 South Park, which was known as P.J.’s Lamp Post when the scouting party had charted this region.

        Freshly-painted inside, Swifty’s also boasted a brand-new pool table smack in the center of the bar room. The Billiards Technician and the Chief Science Officer quickly put it to the test. The table was terrific, but the area reserved for it was a trifle tight.

        Pouring drinks behind the bar was a young fellow assisted by a red-haired slip of a woman who pursued all her activities – even her trips to the basement for extra glasses – with a baby slung on her hip. Though the Sabres were playing on TV, visual interest centered on a large fish tank above the bar, where a number of sizable specimens swam about, gobbling up goldfish. A few minutes of this and the female trekkers began lobbying heavily for a flight to the next outpost.

        They retreated north to investigate a place they’d skipped, the Sunset Saloon at 3036 South Park. It proved to be a much more commodious game room. Here again were darts and pool and video games and space aplenty to stretch out and play them. An FM station played the Temptations.

        Behind the long bar was a long-haired woman named Tricia Hoffman, who relinquished her post to the owner, Angie Giles, and came forward to team with one of the regulars in a pool game of epic length. Between shots, they joined with the trekkers in Motown choreography to the music. In the end, Tricia wielded the deciding cue.

        Shuttling southward again, the safari pulled in at May and Gene’s, 3292 South Park, and found still another rec room, or what looked like one, what with all the knotty pine paneling and the hand-painted baseball banners and football helmets adorning the wall above it. Behind the bar was a short, motherly woman pouring 50-cent Genesee drafts.

        There were billiards here, too, along with a bowling machine and a jukebox full of loudly-thumping hits. The Chief Science Officer, having greeted two strangers in green Happy Birthday sweatshirts at the bar, discovered he actually did have an acquaintance here, a fellow by the name of Travis Rupert whose mother-in-law tended bar here and lived upstairs.

        “It’s not so great,” she said, nodding toward the jukebox. “You get tired of the noise all the time.”

        More invigorating were the jukebox selections across the street at the Farmer’s Inn, 3305 South Park. They were almost all country tunes and a good number of them were oldies. Couples danced in front of this jukebox and Jimmie Rodgers’ ‘50s hit, “Uh-Oh, I’m Fallin’ in Love Again,” provided an enthusiastic sing-along on the choruses.

        “You Must Be 25 and Able to Prove It,” warned the sign at the door, but nobody inside had a problem meeting the age limit. Some of them could have doubled it. They were a genial lot, scattered along the long, smoke-filled bar, and their bartender was an off-duty Lackawanna policeman.

        Equally vintage was the bowling machine, which operated with balls, not pucks, and which required only 10 cents per play. The trekkers couldn’t resist. Next time they needed a landmark in suburban Lackawanna, they’d know exactly where to look.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XIX: The highest holiday

March 21, 1986

The Third Lost Expedition, Part XIX:

The highest holiday.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XLI: Not often has the Third Lost Expedition’s itinerary promised to be as scenic as it would on this installment of their quest to quaff a drink in every licensed establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        This time their coordinates were set for the southernmost part of South Buffalo, programmed to pass through that predominantly Irish preserve at the very start of its highest holiday, St. Patrick’s Day weekend. What’s more, they would swing past a pair of magnificent memorials from the area’s golden age – the glass-domed South Park Botanical Gardens and the immense Italianate basilica erected by Father Baker in the heart of nearby Lackawanna.

        The Captain had no trouble touting the glories of the mission to the crew, but finding proper provisions for them was another story. Determined to avoid repeating the foodless follies of the last outing, he scouted the route relentlessly, only to emerge without a clue as to which taproom would have something to eat. There was nary a Friday fish fry to be found.

        Faced with the prospect of designating a Burger King as the evening’s staging area, the Captain turned to a native of this galaxy, the Poignant Flashback. After a few milliseconds of memory search, she had the answer – the Wayside Family Restaurant, 2301 South Park Ave. It didn’t serve liquor, but it cooked 24 hours a day and, as the Flashback pointed out, it’s about as characteristically South Buffalonian as you’ll get.

        As promised, the Wayside was brightly-lit and basic, all fluorescent lights and Formica. It was also inexpensive. Few items on the menu required more than a $5 bill. The only anomaly was that it wasn’t Irish at all. It was Greek. A photo of the Venus de Milo gazed down on the crew as they pushed all the unbolted-down tables into a communal barrier which nearly blocked off the rest rooms.

        In the end, there were more trekkers than places to put them at the table – a grand total of 21 in all – and they inundated the first tavern they transported to, the Poplar Inn at 2146 South Park. They jammed the narrow, dimly-lit bar area, with its old-fashioned tin ceiling and dark veneer paneling, overwhelming a handful of regulars quietly watching network TV.

        The 50-cent drafts of Busch, Schmidt’s and Genesee beer and ale that the barmaid poured had a funky flavor, so most opted for $1 cocktails or bottles of Molson’s Golden for $1.35, then repaired to the side room for video games and billiards, although a couple of young, checkered-shirted habitués of the place felt obliged to recapture the pool table by invoking house rules. “You want slop or no slop?” they demanded.

        Lest the hospitality run any thinner, the safari slipped across the street and a few doors north to the Avenue Pub at 2113 South Park, where Official St. Patrick’s Party Headquarters posters from Guinness Brewery decorated the front door. Indeed, there was St. Pat’s paraphernalia all over the place.

        Behind the bar was a burly fellow in a bright green Avenue Pub sweater which identified him as Larry and a right efficient host he was, snappily serving up drafts of Genny Ale, which were 40 cents a glass until 10 p.m. Popular bottled brands were a mere 90 cents at this hour. For the festive weekend, there was Guinness Stout at a most reasonable $1.50 a bottle. And for every woman in the place, there were roses.

        The Avenue Pub, aside from being a party headquarters, also was a rallying place for the sports-minded. “This place has more trophies than the YMCA,” the Quartermaster remarked. A sign announced a benefit beer blast March 22 for the bar’s fast-pitch softball team. Posted prominently on the wall by the pool table and the foosball table were the South Buffalo Billiard Association standings.

        While most of the party took over the video games, the Captain inquired of Larry whether bar had a set of darts to borrow. Larry produced two sets and obligingly switched on the light over the dart board, which was set up precariously close to the entrance for the ladies’ room.

        So amenable was the Avenue Pub that the trekkers lingered for quite some time. Ultimately, however, they ventured into the thickening fog and plunged southward to Recckio’s Lanes, a bowling emporium at 2426 South Park, settling their shuttlecraft down in front of Mangano’s Bakery, a major doughnut manufacturer across the street which, fortunately, was closed.

        Recckio’s, being Italian, had little in the way of St. Pat’s decorations, but it did offer pizza. It also was the first place in many a light year to realize that the sipping safari was headed their way. Posted next to the bowling machine was a sign welcoming the expeditioners.

        At this hour, some of the 18 lanes were vacant, so a number of the trekkers decided to try their luck at real bowling. The best they could register was a 135.

        From there, it was to be a scenic cruise over the city line into Lackawanna, but the heavy fog obscured all but the front door of the Botanical Gardens and the most earthbound of the angels on Father Baker’s basilica. They almost missed the next stop, as well. Bokan’s at 2847 South Park had changed the sign out front to read Club Le Bok at Bokan’s.

        Club Le Bok was definitely in a transitional stage. Windows in the rear were freshly covered with insulation, but not yet walled in. Although there was still the same tight three-sided bar and the same series of tiny anterooms, one of them was now given over to a pair of dart boards and some serious competition.

        Some of the crew grabbed 40-cent Genesee drafts and lingered at the bar. The rest retreated to the back room, where they found still another Trivia video game and an empty popcorn machine. A brief conference settled the matter of whether to press onward. By this point, it was decided, the expeditioners were getting a little foggy themselves.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVIII: Party animals on the loose

Feb. 21, 1986

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVIII:

Party animals on the loose.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XL: Little did he realize it at the time, but the Captain should have activated the blarney detector when he signaled ahead to a place called the Blarney Castle at 1856 South Park Ave. Sure, the kitchen’s always open, the hearty, husky voice boomed through the communicator.

        The Captain was grateful for this assurance, since there seemed to be little prospect for provisions elsewhere, except perhaps in some stand-up sub shop, on this Saturday night march through a succession of South Buffalo party bars.

        Imagine the chagrin, then, as the hungry crew members of the Third Lost Expedition discovered that the Blarney Castle’s always-open kitchen was taking the night off at the start of this latest installment of their quest to quaff a drink in every licensed establishment along fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        “There’s no cook tonight,” reported a mild-mannered fellow named Bob filling in behind the bar for the owner, who was off ice-fishing. Evidence of what a cook might do was posted on the wall behind the bar – sandwiches and even a $4 Friday fish fry. The trekkers grumbled into their 50-cent drafts of Genesee, Old Vienna and Stroh’s, ordered bags of beer nuts and envied foresighted folks like the Chief Science Officer who, sensing a snafu, stopped up the street at the Red Brick Inn for a preliminary round of chicken wings.

        They found no comfort in the other amenities of the place – the bowling machine, the trivia video game, the computerized jukebox, the darkened dining room in the rear. Sports trophies and a generous collection of snapshots were on display, while the place of honor in the middle of the back bar was reserved for a color photo of the pub’s castle namesake in Ireland.

        Nor was this the only Irish aspect of the décor. A native of the South Buffalo galaxy, the Poignant Flashback, pointed out that the wood beam and stucco motif harkened back to the traditional whitewashed mud cottages of the Hibernian homeland.

        Still famished, for the most part, the safari swung to the northernmost point on their itinerary, a party bar of long standing at 1791 South Park near the triangular intersection with Southside Parkway. Newly sold and, the Captain had been told, renamed Rogo’s, it still sported signs identifying it by its old moniker, Argy’s.

        At this relatively early evening hour, it had the air of that morning’s cleaning solution, though the youngish crowd was doing its best to exchange it for cigarette smoke. Serious gamesters they were, both on the dart board and at the pool table, and challenging them seemed out of the question for everyone except the Chief Science Officer. After waiting half an hour for his turn, however, he wound up sinking the eight-ball on his breaking shot.

        Better luck was to be had on the video games, especially Sex Trivia, where the Poignant Flashback excelled, registering her name second among the all-time winners.

        There was nothing in the way of food, however, aside from $1 chili. The 10-cent chicken wing special must have been swept out with the former ownership. The old menu signs listed last year’s softball schedule. The barmaid was leisurely, to say the least, as she drew 50-cent drafts of Schmidt’s and Genesee.

        It was but a short trudge to Sterlace’s at 1805 South Park, which was called Pittston Junction the last time this area had been charted. Here the crowd was older and so were the selections on the jukebox, which worked out just right for dancing. The ten members of the expedition joined in the festivities and generally filled the place out, to the point where one middle-aged couple peeked in the door, pronounced it “too crowded” and left.

        Instead of stucco, this place had brick. A string of pinlights hung above the bar. Hockey played soundlessly on the TV set. A sign behind the bar promised a free drink when Andreychuk scored on TV, which might have made for quite a party the night he bagged five goals. Hosting was the owner, Sue McLaughlin, serving up $1 bottles of Old Vienna and Genny Cream Ale. Aside from chips and nuts, there was no food here either.

        Ms. McLaughlin, out of curiosity, asked where this group of strangers was from. The Captain and the Chief Science Officer gave each other a cautious glance and decided to tell her.

        “Lost Expedition?” she said. “Never heard of it.”

        Next the troupe transported several coordinates to the south to Black Dog’s Tavern at 2015 South Park, familiar to the First Mate as a stop on the summer volleyball circuit. An old establishment with a tin ceiling, it seemed still to be undergoing the remodeling that had begun four or five years ago.

        Here was a young clientele much like the one at Argy’s, engaged in billiards and foosball. The sound system played an FM rock station. Early scouting reports had noted the presence of a buffet in aluminum take-out containers. Some of it still remained, mostly fried chicken and baked beans.

        The hungry crew fell upon them like jackals. Demanding more paper plates, they got them and virtually wiped out the victuals. Eventually, they got to the bar, where they discovered 50-cent Genesee drafts and $1 bottles of Molson’s Golden.

        It was a short hop across the street to Felong’s at 2050 South Park, a three-room, tin-ceilinged tavern with tables in a side room and a pool table and video games in the back. MTV provided the music. Scouts found more food in the side room – a couple of cold and apparently neglected pizzas – but were chased away by young patrons who asserted that they were for a private party.

        Had the kitchen been operational, the trekkers could have indulged themselves on 70-cent cheeseburgers. Prices over the bar also were unbelievable bargains. A glass of Genesee draft was a mere 35 cents, a pitcher $2.75.

        The finale was Talty’s, another venerable South Buffalo institution a couple doors down at 2056 South Park. Irish cottage décor prevailed here also. The Talty family has been keeping taverns in this town for upwards to 100 years, the Poignant Flashback noted.

        Here was a place filled with leisurely pursuits – pool, darts, video games, a full-length shuffleboard – and plenty of young adults to pursue them. Posters proposed a night at Buffalo Raceway. Other signs advertised the 4 to 7 p.m. happy hours weekdays, when 75-cent vodka drinks are the rule. The troupe, refreshments in hand, met the leisure-time challenge head-on. When Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” came up on the jukebox, they gave the place the one thing it lacked for a fully festive Saturday night – an impromptu chorus line.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVII: The portals of South Buffalo

Jan. 17, 1986

The Third Lost Expedition, Part XVII:

The portals of South Buffalo

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXIX: The crossing that lay ahead of the Third Lost Expedition as they set forth onto fabled federal Route 62 this particular Friday night was one which had confounded generations of their predecessors. Even as mighty a planner as Frederick Law Olmsted threw up his drafting pencil in dismay when confronted with it 100 years ago.

        This would be their passage out of the East Side and into South Buffalo, through a morass of meandering highways, railway viaducts and heavy industry, over the lowlands surrounding the once-treacherous Buffalo Creek. Needless to say, they couldn’t lift a drink in every licensed establishment along the highway from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas (or as close to El Paso as they could get), without taking the plunge.

        There were no way-stations on this part of the route, so a bit of preliminary fortification was in order. For this, the crew warily pulled up to dock outside a place at the corner of Bailey Avenue and Clinton Street called Desi’s Market Restaurant. From the outside, Desi’s resembled an old-fashioned neighborhood tavern, presumably pouring shots and beers for the drivers and the food wholesalers from the nearby Clinton-Bailey Market.

        On the inside, however, it was basic truck stop – white, Formica-topped tables, a long lunch counter and grill and signs covering virtually every square inch of wall space, offering things like pizza at 95 cents a slice and daily specials, which meant a $3.50 fish fry.

        Even so, it still had many of the amenities of a neighborhood bar. A draft of Genesee Beer or Cream Ale, normally 50 cents, could be had in a frosted schuper for 75 cents. One could indulge in chilled shots of vodka or peach or apple schnapps, 10 for $5. One could also buy six-packs to go. Clientele ranged from a pair of leather-jacketed bikers to a frisky group of young revelers who pushed together a bunch of chairs and tables, downed one drink and left. A car in the lot outside proclaimed: “Norman Skulski, Polish Prince of Painting.”

        Diversions included a bowling machine, a video game and a juke box, though the sound system played rock oldies from the ‘60s. The Native American Guide learned that they were compiled by a fellow named Mark, who is a cousin to the Desiderios who have the dinner theater restaurant in West Seneca. He lives upstairs.

        Reassured that there was no danger of the kitchen closing – it was open till midnight – the safari, which numbered 10, leisurely ordered an array of sandwiches, fish fries and wings, discovering that the daily 5 to 9 p.m. 10-cent chicken wing special was still in effect. They came from the grill in a leisurely fashion also, in servings that revealed what made the low menu prices possible.

        Next they set off to stiffen their resolve and sharpen their reflexes at an emporium half a block north at 727 Bailey Ave. called the Bowl Inn. Entering via a door off the parking lot, they passed a dozen bowling lanes with record scores posted above them and found their way to the tables and booths of the lounge and snack bar, lit partially by the glow of neon behind glass bricks.

        Beer was cheap here too – 50 cents for a Schmidt’s draft, 55 cents for Labatts 50 Ale on tap, $1 for a bottle of Ballantine’s India Pale Ale. The tables held little placards bearing the beaming, all-too-familiar face of Olympic gymnast Mary Lou Retton and the message: “C’mon, America. Go for 10. Go Bowling.” Though a couple lanes opened up, the trekkers opted to exercise their coordination at the video games instead.

        Then it was time to buckle into the shuttlecraft and head into the void. “How do we find the next stop?” someone asked the Captain.

        “No matter what happens, just keep following the Route 62 signs,” he instructed. “Sooner or later, you’ll wind up on South Park Avenue.”

        Amazingly, the perilous passage to South Buffalo went without incident, at least until they walked through the front door of McPartlan’s Grill, 1586 South Park Ave. at Alamo. Sitting smack in front of them was the Billiards Technician, his mate and their grown-up daughter. They had just finished a fish fry. “We couldn’t find that other place,” they explained, “so we decided to see if you’d show up here.”

        In truth, they may have had the better deal of it. McPartlan’s had a cozier décor – wood paneling, cloth covers on the backs of the chairs. It had cheaper beer – a Genesee draft was just 45 cents a glass. And its menu was less expensive. The haddock was $3.25. A beef on weck went for just $2. What’s more, the amenities included malt vinegar for the French fries and a beer cooler that housed half-liter bottles of foamy Spaten Club Weissbier, served with a tall glass for a mere $1.75.

        From the quiet of McPartlan’s, they transported to quite a different atmosphere at the Red Brick Inn, 1626 South Park. The long bar was crowded with amiable standees of both sexes and the computerized, space-age jukebox thumped with Motley Crue’s “Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room.” The Billiards Technician’s mate took one look and declared, “This place is hoppin’.”

        Even so, this wasn’t your basic South Buffalo hangout. There was no pool table, no hardcore loiterers. It was more like a singles bar with a strong neighborhood feel. Here a Genny draft went for 55 cents. A Molson’s Golden was $1.25. The décor included signs for the bar’s social club and primary election posters for Mayor Griffin. The grill behind the bar was still open to serve snacks – the fish fry had run out at 8 p.m. – and the Captain decided to see whether the place still served the specially spiced chicken wings it used to be known for.

        The wings were as small as those at Desi’s, but meatier and extraordinarily peppery, though they weren’t swimming in sauce. But was that special spice there? The Chief Science Officer couldn’t detect it. The Captain thought he could. To settle matters, they asked the manager, Dave Oake. “It’s still the same recipe,” he reported. “Maybe it’s a new jar of sauce.”

        For the nightcap, they ventured on to a pair of classic South Buffalo saloons that stood side by side at the corner of Folger Street – J&B’s Cozy Grill at 1757 South Park and the Capitol Bar at 1761 South Park. Oddly, the Captain hadn’t noticed them when he took preliminary readings of the sector.

        The Cozy Grill had a pool table, where the ultimate victor was the young bar assistant. It also had a fish tank standing in the center of the bar. The droll, middle-aged bartender explained there was a free drink waiting for anyone who dropped a coin into one of the shot glasses that stood on the bottom.

        The Capitol had no sign over the door, just a number. Inside was a long, looping bar and décor that could best be described as unfinished drywall. Behind the bar was a middle-aged woman with threads of grey in her hair. The pool table was full of waiting quarters. The Billiards Technician, having gone off in search of his kin when they didn’t show up at the Cozy Grill, checked back in and said he was going to go down to Argy’s at 1797 South Park to see if they were there. Sure enough, there they were. Their sensors hadn’t even picked up these two other places.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVI: Back to the basics

The bar at Pristach's. A classic shot-and-a-beer bar, it closed in 2010. 

      When Chief Science Officer Bob Riley gave over his gallery of Gustos from the distant past, he said that at least one of them was missing. He underestimated. Three of them were not there, including the next installment. Fortunately, they are preserved on microfilm. Once again, the Captain dug into the remnants of the library at The Buffalo News and, bolstered with magnifying devices for better accuracy, keyed this pre-Christmas journey from 1985 into his recorder. 

Dec. 20, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVI: 

Back to the basics.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXVIII: Blown by the wind, blinded by the snow, the Captain and the First Mate skidded gratefully into a trackless parking lot next door to the designated staging area, Marg’s at 875 Bailey Ave., corner of Dingens. Did any of the others make it, they wondered. There was only one way to find out. They buckled up their protective gear, gritted their teeth and plunged into the gale.

        Breathlessly, they burst through the airlock in the interior of this, the southernmost station on this evening’s itinerary – a tour of the lower reaches of Bailey on Buffalo’s East Side – as part of their continuing quest to quaff a drink in every licensed establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        As their eyes adjusted in the haze of cigarette smoke and the dim reflection of the red neon lights outlining the hexagonal front windows of the place, they saw they were not alone. As a matter of fact, half a dozen other crew members already had established a base and were quickly making themselves at home.

        The Captain had hoped to find nourishment for the troupe at Marg’s – after all, the sign out front had promised “Fine Food” – but none was to be had at this hour. The place no longer served dinners, only a short lunch menu. What preoccupied the handful of regulars, virtually all of them flannel-shirted males, were the pool table in the back room and a full-length shuffleboard behind a row of tables in the bar area.

        But this was something more than a just a neighborhood recreational center, the trekkers soon discovered. The ceiling was ornate tin. The walls were paneled not in cheap veneer, but in tongue-in-groove mahogany up front and cherry in the back. And tending the bar were its namesake, a small, determined, white-haired woman, and her gregarious husband, Joe.

        Taking a reading on the beer supply, the Captain and the Chief Science Officer learned that the four taps labeled Pabst were inactive, so they opted for Molson’s Golden ($1.40) and Genesee Cream Ale ($1.25). There were no European imports. The most esoteric domestic in the old glass-doored cooler was Schmidt’s Classic.

        It wasn’t long before Joe engaged them in conversation, expounding conservative politics and then telling how his parents left Russia because they saw the revolution coming. With the arrival of additional expeditioners, he suddenly sensed just who this pack of strangers might be. He gave the Captain a couple of quarters with instructions to play some Christmas songs on the jukebox.

        Santas smiled benevolently behind the bar and so did Joe. He offered to buy a round, hoisting a toast with his own favorite potion – club soda with vodka. Russian, indeed. He said he and Marg had run this place since 1948.

        The effects of that extra round reminded one and all that food would be essential to the success of this evening’s travels, so despite Joe’s invitation to stay and have another, they filed into the frigid night and set their coordinates for a place they knew would have provisions until midnight – the Old Bailey Inn, 1305 Bailey at East Lovejoy.

        What recommends the Old Bailey Inn most is that it makes beef on weck sandwiches in the manner of the late, lamented Bailo’s, which stood for many years on the opposite corner. No longer simply a neighborhood eating place, under new management it’s evolved into a clean, spiffed-up regional restaurant with nautical-flavored décor.

        Beef on weck has become such an attraction that the Old Bailey Inn menu offers it five ways – plain, with gravy, with coleslaw, vegetable and potato, open or closed and, finally, the famous triple-decker, with prices ranging from $3.50 to $6.50.

        The crew, which now numbered a dozen, clustered around tables pushed together opposite the bar and divided their orders between the beef and the $3.95 fish fry, which turned out to be just as generous and delicious as the beef. The jukebox here played Christmas songs too. Tinsel garlands hung from the ceiling and behind the bar. Holiday lights brightened the windows.

        Backtracking north, the safari set down in the first of what the Billiards Technologist’s Mate dubbed “basic bars.” This one at 1386 Bailey, corner of Stanley, was called simply K’s Tavern. Behind the bar was a blustery old gent who maintained an above-average selection of brews, ranging from Matt’s Premium on tap for 45 cents a glass to the big half-liter bottles of Spaten Weissbier, the wheat beer, which went for $2 and was served with a large embossed glass.

        “Do you know how to pour this?” he inquired gruffly as he brought one out. “That’s right,” he growled as the Captain tipped the glass steeply so that the effervescent brew didn’t erupt into a cascade of foam.

        A giant wreath hung behind the bar and the mirror there was sprayed with imitation snow. A Christmas tree stood in the back room, where the pool table was. A deposit was required to use the cue ball. Other crew members explored the bowling machine, the video games and a complimentary snack plate containing fresh rye bread, Limburger cheese and onions.

        Next they ventured north of Broadway to an outpost at 1598 Bailey where the sign above the door read JN’s, while hand-lettered messages in the window proclaimed it the Klub Kaz. Like K’s, it had been remodeled with a dropped ceiling and veneer paneling, but it featured a much livelier bunch of denizens.

        Dominating the scene was a hotly-contested game of indoor rubber horseshoes, which was set up just inside the front door and ran to the doorway to the back room. It obliged everyone else to either cling to the bar and dash to the tables on the other side of the room, where the bowling machine stood. It too was decked for the holidays with tinsel, paper bells and red balls hanging from the ceiling.

        The crew had to trudge only a few doors north to the final stop, Pristach’s at 1634 Bailey, which had all the basics in place. There was a tin ceiling, the walls were painted red and there was a lazy sense of permanence in the middle-aged barman and the three regulars who sat silently at 10-foot intervals along the bar. Not even the salubrious sight of the First Mate at the pool table stirred them.

        Prices were definitely basic. A Genesee Cream Ale ran only 85 cents a bottle, while Old Vienna was a mere dollar. Food offerings were basic, too – chili, barbecue burgers, Polish sausage, plus candy bars and nuts behind the bar.

        For a final touch, there were a few bits of saloon philosophy posted around and about. The best of them proposed: “Yesterday is but a dream and tomorrow is only a vision, but today is a real bitch.”