Adventures of the Lost Expedition: Epilogue

Sept. 2, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition: Epilogue

NOTES ON AN EPIC PUB CRAWL: Little did the Lost Expedition realize when this mission began April 16, 1982, how much Buffalo tradition stood behind what the party crowd commonly calls bar-hopping. After a couple episodes, tales surfaced telling of all kinds of sequential drinking endeavors. The most heroic involved tippling along South Park Avenue from downtown Buffalo to the city line, a total of 42 taverns once upon a time, in a single day. That day would start, of course, when the taps opened at 8 a.m.

Our intentions were much less strenuous, given the capacities of the crew. This was not a night out with the boys, but rather a couples affair. We soon found that the most we could reasonably expect to explore in one evening was half a dozen bars. One night we ventured to a seventh. The next day nobody could remember the place.

Inebriation was a hazard. Despite its noble intentions, this was still a TGIF. Myself, as captain, and co-conspirator Bob Riley, the chief science officer, often had the will to go all night long, while our respective mates – Monica Neuwirt and Pat Riley – usually had the sense to know when to quit. Not Riley and me, however. On more than one occasion, the two of us carried on right up to closing time.

Incredibly, none of the crew got sick, passed out or got arrested. Extra caution prevailed, however, once the trek reached the outer suburbs. Faced with a half-hour drive back to the city, we developed an informal car pool, with the least loaded taking the wheel. To ease the impact of the mornings after, we added a post-expedition breakfast at an all-night restaurant.

As the safari rolled up Main Street, it grew. From the timid threesome that tested the most treacherous stretch, the crime-ridden corner of Virginia Street, it expanded to eight and more once it reached more benign neighborhoods. Though there was safety in numbers, there also was inertia. The bigger the group, the harder it was to move it.

What’s more, the nature of the trek changed as it progressed. At first, there was much wide-eyed observation, sociological note-taking and the sort of good behavior that goes along with being strangers in a strange land. Ultimately, the expedition became a phenomenon in its own right. By the time it reached the Clarence Strip, the tavern keepers were hip to this also. They made up welcoming signs and stood ready for a Friday visitation. Due to the expedition’s erratic schedule, however, they never knew exactly which Friday it would be.

In the meantime, the crew established certain preferences. Formality came to be looked upon as an inconvenience, especially since the finery required at the fancy places meant being ridiculously overdressed at the funky joints. The favorite places turned out to be those with modest prices and a couple video games, or better yet, a pool table. Beer by the pitcher, exotic mixed drinks, a personable bartender and a good snack menu were also plusses.

Though we were acquainted with maybe a third of these establishments before we started, there were some unexpected and outstandingly pleasant hangouts. Here are half a dozen:

– Fields’ Pub in the Ellicott Square for happy hour hors d’oeuvres, splits of Rolling Rock beer and the wisdom of W. C. Fields himself on the walls.

          – Ray Flynn’s Golden Dollar next to the old Courier-Express building for stocking those old Buffalo brands, Iroquois and Simon Pure, along with its behind-the-bar snacks, its geniality and its perfect preservation of a ‘40s atmosphere.

          – The Steer at 3151 Main for its cozy, club-like setting and its fine kitchen, which stays open till 2 a.m.

          – Kane’s Red Carpet at 5507 Main for its chicken wings, its mature singles scene and the amazing waitressing of Annie Ettepio.

– Placey’s at 5953 Main for its unpretentiousness, its cheapness and what some claim is the best shuffleboard in the area.

– Kick’s Place at 9000 Main for the astute irreverence of proprietor Denny Ryan, its good-time crowd and its wealth of diversions.

Also high in our affections were Sebastian’s, the Central Park Grill, the Stuffed Mushroom, Bagatelle, P. J. Bottoms, the Deli Place, Adam’s Rib, the Eagle House, the Williamsville Inn, the Hackney House, Brennan’s Bowery Bar, Syracuse’s Pizza Plant, the Gravevine, the Meeting House, the Asa Ransom House and the Clarence Bowling Academy.

Apologies are due to Quinton’s Court, just past Main and Transit, which we mistakenly thought was attached to a motel. It isn’t.

Did we hit them all? According to Chief Science Officer Riley, who computed the statistics, the Lost Expedition touched down at 86 drinking places and consumed an average of 10 to 15 rounds per night. However, we didn’t imbibe at several places that weren’t open when we passed – the Aud Club at Memorial Auditorium, the restaurant atop the Marine Midland Center, the Studio Arena Theater and the Theater Lounge (now Maxwell’s) at 611 Main.

We’ve seen a few changes too. Jingles has become Thumper’s. T’s Tavern has become Poor Cutts. The Checkboard has moved. The Plaza Suite at One M&T Plaza has closed. So have Shane’s, the Copper Kettle, Truffles and the infamous Richie’s at Main and Virginia, although the equally infamous Clancy’s still thrives next door.

At this point, the expeditioners plan to take some well-earned rest and relaxation. When they recover, a new challenge beckons, straight out of the Guinness Book of World Records.

It seems that the street containing the most bars per mile is right next door in North Tonawanda. Oliver Street. Back when draft beers were a dime, there was a grand total of 47. Brazen locals would start out with a $5 bill, intent on having a glass of brew in each place, finishing with a 30-cent shot of whiskey. From what we’re told, nobody ever made it.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XVI: Lost and Found.

Sept. 2, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XVI: Lost and Found

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XVI: It was a seasoned squad of space travelers that gathered for the final leg of the Lost Expedition’s quest to have a drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street, from downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line.

          Most of the crew that assembled in the designated staging area, the Old Country Inn at 10900 Main St., Clarence, consisted of veterans of previous missions.

          It was also an overwhelmingly large bunch. The party quickly swelled to 10, and then a dozen. Happily, the Old Country Inn, a homelike, wood-paneled series of dining rooms with pottery on display, had spare tables to push together. An altogether obliging, motherly staff kept the provisions coming – $4 pitchers of Old Vienna and Friday night fish, fried ($3.95) or baked ($4.25), delicious either way.

          A review posted in the hallway acknowledged the hominess (this used to be an old farmhouse) and the hospitality (the work of three women named Mary Ellen, Karen and Mary Fran). As the safari exited, it encountered the three members of The Deans of Dixieland and Swing, who were about to set up for an evening of music to accompany the late-night menu.

          Though scouting reports had led the Captain to believe there were just two more outposts to visit before the long-sought Genesee County goal was reached, those reports were wrong. Right across the street stood a place not included on the charts – the Hadi-O Café at 10875 Main, put together by an expatriate Iranian architect. His touch could be seen inside in what might be called Eclectic Mission décor – antiques of various eras and greenery under stucco and dark wood, a motif that was delightfully carried over into the restrooms.

          It was not delight, but chagrin that greeted the expeditioners, who now numbered 14, as they settled into the small back room, inspiring lingering friends of the management into flight. That and their free and easy rearrangement of tables depreciated one and all in the eyes of the waitress. Nevertheless, $4 pitchers of imported beer were procured, along with victuals for the latecomers, who gave glowing praise to the gourmet kitchen.

          Eager for action after two sit-down stops, crew members found all that their hearts desired in Chris’ at 11825 Main, near the big flea markets beyond Clarence. Not only was there puck-style bowling and a video game, but smack in front of the bar was a pool table, which the Billiards Technician and the Chief Science Officer quickly put to the test.

          What’s more, Chris’ was easy on the budget. A bottle of Beck’s Beer could be had for a mere $1.25, with other brands correspondingly cheaper. The specialty of the house – a fruit drink called a Papaya Cooler – was $1. An order of wings went for $2.25. Until the expedition arrived, maybe half a dozen regulars hung at the bar. The big dining room was dark. A sign noted that last call came at 1:45 a.m. and closing at 2:15. The trekkers might never have taken to their transporters had it not been for an unforeseen environmental factor – the heat. No air conditioning.

          At this point, there was but one stop left in Erie County. In fact, Two Ski’s at 11986 Main in Akron is the only Main Street bar in the whole township. The proprietors, the Demblewskis and the Pasinskis, had been waiting. Posted on a ceiling beam in front of the bar was a big welcome sign.

          While the safari took over the video game and the pool table and peeked at the vacant tables on the upstairs level, the Captain ascertained that there was no further point in maintaining anonymity. Dennis Demblewski behind the bar and his sister, Pat Pasinski, in front of the bar, were incredulous at first. The Captain offered assurances. Then, just as he was about to roust everyone to the county line, Demblewski made an offer nobody could refuse – a celebratory round of drinks.

          Full of accomplishment, the expedition flew to that magic roadside marker in the middle of the countryside. The Captain broke out the provisions he’d gathered especially for this occasion – Groucho Marx noses and four bottles of champagne on ice. A toast was raised to Main Street and all its bright lights. But as the crew packed up to go, they couldn’t resist venturing on to just one more. They would have to have their last round at the first bar in Genesee County.

          It was a long time coming. Many light years passed before a sighting was made of neon beer signs all the way over in East Pembroke at a rough-and-ready place called Jim’s Saloon. It had a glorious antique back bar and equally glorious low prices, but since Genesee County closing time is 2 a.m., the safari arrived only moments before last call. The country band was packing up to leave. Barmaid Lynn McVay pulled the plug on the bowling machine.

The course back to home base was long and perilous. What’s more, all the friendly way stations on the Clarence Strip were dark. At one point, an alien cruiser appeared, closing the distance behind the expeditioners at great speed, with lights flashing. The crew slowed, edged to the side and put up deflector shields, anticipating one last adventure. The cruiser flew by, scarcely giving notice.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XV: Down in the valley.

Aug. 12, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XV: Down in the valley.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XV: Sipping a beer at a picnic table outside the designated staging area, Teso’s Pizza Café, 10325 Main St., Clarence, was the newest recruit, the Rochester Renegade. Through sheer logistics, he was the first to arrive. The Lost Expedition had traveled so many light years on its mission to drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from the shores of Lake Erie to the Genesee County line that he had a shorter trip from his summer base in Oakfield than the rest of the crew did from headquarters in Buffalo.

          Teso’s, he informed the Captain and the California Co-Pilot, was something of a gathering place for families and teenagers alike in these parts. A clean, airy barn of a building, it offered a perfect place to beat the heat – a front patio – and the means to beat it. The Captain procured a $3.75 pitcher of Michelob, ordered a pizza and settled back to await the rest of party.

          By the time the waitress brought the order, the expedition was at full strength. Another table was commandeered and seconds were summoned. The patio was indeed a pleasant place to linger, at least until sundown brought a new breed of hungry visitor – the mosquito.

          A quick transport brought the safari to the Coachman’s Inn, 10350 Main, a sedately sumptuous supper club with a series of dining rooms that extended back almost endlessly. “Nice place to have your 50th anniversary, the Neon Knight remarked as the trekkers trouped the considerable length of the place to the lounge in the rear.

          Scenes of 19th century turnpikes and canals decorated the walls. Cocktail pianist Joanne Privatera blithely enumerated the hits of Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond. Craving stronger stimulation, the crew drank and departed, pausing long enough to seek out a salacious passage in a modern book among the old volumes that lined the vestibule.

          The next outpost, the Meeting House at 10465 Main, is also noted for its elegance, antiquity and cuisine, but offered a far more rustic aspect. An open loft overlooked the large main dining room, lined at one side by a bar. The walls, which date to 1844, were exposed stone. Above the bar was a sign, emblazoned with a spaceship, welcoming the expeditioners.

          The party arrived moments before the 11 p.m. kitchen closing, so engaged instead in a round of drinks and conversation with young bartender Ray Emmer, a culinary manager who said he’d soon take charge of the kitchens at another star in the Turgeon galaxy, The Steer near UB.

          The First Mate, disappointed at missing dinner, asked about lobster. Emmer offered to cook one, but she demurred: “Why don’t you just bring one out to play?” He did. Fresh from the tank, it took a brief stroll on the bar and got a thorough examination by the Chief Science Officer. Within a day or two, it would be bathing in drawn butter.

          Passing the darkened Asa Ransom House at 10529 Main – closed Fridays and Saturdays, the proprietors are Seventh Day Adventists – the expedition set its coordinates on the Clarence Bowling Academy at 10718 Main. It too was dark. The party warped right past it, on up the hill. Doubling back, they discovered it wasn’t closed after all.

          Yes, there were life forms inside, but so few that owner Jim Gsell, a Buffalo fireman who bought the place last year, decided to unplug the beer signs. Now he relit them, much to the delight of the Neon Knight.

          The party explored the bowling part of the business, a neat little installation of eight alleys in the rear. In the summer, they’re mostly shut down, Gsell said. It’s been too hot to bowl. Their big promotion would be a ‘50s party complete with vintage cars.

          The First Mate set out to match wits with the Rochester Renegade, himself a graphic design student, on the line-drawing Qix video game. The telephone rang and Gsell’s sidekick, Dick Blemel, son of the former owner, returned asking for the Captain by name. Unsuspectingly, he picked up the communicator and heard a click. No longer was the safari anonymous. Gsell outdid himself with hospitality, buying a round and offering free games on the video machines, an offer some of the crew felt was beyond the call of duty. The Captain, for his part, vowed to ignore the communicator in the future.

          The game lovers, having whetted their appetites at the Clarence Bowling Academy, found paradise awaiting them across the street at Rosel’s Valley Inn, 10651 Main. Though the youthful clientele held sway at the pool table, there were plenty of other pastimes to go around. Quarters plunked into slots left and right, culminating in a less-than-epic found of foosball. When it was over, who should be at the bar but Gsell and Blemel.

          Sampling the highly touted delights of the Asa Ransom House meant a special auxiliary expedition Sunday. Here the gentlemen wore jackets and the waitresses wore little hats, long dresses and aprons. As promised, the provisions were superb. The party set about determining which was the best daiquiri – raspberry was the favorite – before they plunged into the champagne. Such celebratory occasions don’t come cheap. The bill ran $25 apiece.

          Though the Asa Ransom House was serving Sunday night, the other spots in the valley were not. The Billiards Technician proposed a retreat to the table at Kick’s Place, 9000 Main, but that was dark, too. Just as all were ready to transport to home base, they spied a spot that hadn’t shown up on their scanners.

          A motel and restaurant complex not far from Transit Road, Quinten’s had just started up again last month under the aegis of two women who used to work at the Charlesgate. The big U-shaped bar was surrounded by a comfortably upscale crowd that would have been more comfortable with air conditioning. Even with the big windows open, the place sweltered.

          Holding down one end of Quinten’s bar was the owner of Kick’s Place, Denny Ryan. Sundays are dead on the Clarence Strip, he confirmed. He’d closed at 6 p.m. And by the way, that was him on the communicator the other night. The guys at the Clarence Bowling Academy called and asked what the expedition looked like. He couldn’t really describe it, he said, so that was the only way they could be sure.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XIV: At warp speed, toward a Labor Day landing.

July 15, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XIV: At warp speed, toward a Labor Day landing.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XIV: As they ventured deeper into the nebulae of suburban Clarence, the Lost Expedition was increasingly invigorated by the realization that it had completed roughly 80 percent of its gargantuan quest. Could it all be wrapped up by Labor Day? The Captain was uncertain as he rolled up to the first of this evening’s stops, a pizza and sub shop called Outlaws at Main Street and Sheridan Drive.

          There remained a formidable number of elbows to be bent before this sipping safari raised a drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from the heart of downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line. According to no less a denizen of the taverns on the Clarence Strip than Denny Ryan of Kick’s Place at 9000 Main, there were still 17 to go.

          Had it not been for Ryan’s tabulations, the expedition might not have stopped at Outlaws at all. From the outside, it looked like any other family-run fast food outlet – mom in the kitchen, a counter for take-out, a handful of booths inside and picnic tables outside, a couple video games. Except for a single line on the menu sign, one might reasonably assume that the offerings were totally non-alcoholic.

          Nevertheless, there it was. Old Vienna, draft only, 85 cents in a frosted mug, just right after a long, hot transport out of the city. Once served, the First Mate set about establishing a new high score on the Pac Man machine while the Captain and the Chief Science Officer explored the tacos. Hot, of course, they were enlivened by a sauce based on chili rather than the usual Tabasco. Other cheap delights included pizza at $2.80 and $3.80 and chicken wings at $2.60 and $3.85.

One down, 16 to go. With this small tactical patrol of three, picking up and moving to the next set of coordinates was a snap. It made for an unobtrusive entrance as well. No heads turned as the tiny party ventured into the Eastern Pearl Restaurant, 9415 Main. This could have been another troupe of Chinese cuisine fans for the dining room. Or a fresh set of reinforcements for the big bar and cocktail lounge, populated with softball players and other friends of the bartender.

Across the bar’s back shelf was a line of decorative mugs, reserved for sippers of the $2-plus Polynesian drink specials. The Captain, seized by a tropical affection for a tumbler bearing a face with a Fu Manchu mustache, decided to order whatever drink came in it. The potion in question was called a Dr. Wang. It consisted of fruit juices and bourbon. Quite a bit of bourbon, the Captain reflected woozily when he got to the bottom.

To eat or not to eat, that was the question that haunted the safari at its next stop, the family-run Biagio’s Italian Kitchen at 9780 Main. The troupe took seats at the small bar that had been walled off from the dining room, sampled the scent of Mr. Biagio’s cuisine emanating from the kitchen and buried their noses in the menu, which, like the décor, promised a quietly classy and well-put-together interlude.

But would pasta be the fuel that would get the expeditioners up to warp speed with the most dispatch? The Captain and the Chief Science Officer had their doubts. So did the newly-arrived Billiards Technician and his first mate. With great reluctance, it was decided not to decide, pending a peek into the place next door – a Clarence Strip hometown hangout called Kennedy’s Cove at 9800 Main, which has something of a reputation as a steakhouse.

Menus once again were procured, but soon the party was distracted by the games near the door to the bar. While the First Mate was confounded by the disappearing aisles on the Pac Man machine, the Billiards Technician displayed his mastery of the bumper pool table, introducing the fine points of the game to the other expeditioners, then trouncing them soundly. Another favorite was the jukebox, which offered a broad array of rock and country hits.

The specialties of the bar, meanwhile, included $1 bottles of Genesee 12-Horse Ale, which the barmaid said the brewery was touting as the successor to its Cream Ale. “It’s not as sweet,” she added. Right she was. The expedition set about diminishing her supply of it.

At length, the urge for going struck again, leading the safari to another stalwart Clarence Strip hangout. The Clarence Haus at 10005 Main, having followed the crew’s previous meanderings down the street, was ready for a visit. A T-shirt hung behind the bar proclaiming: “Welcome, Lost Expedition.”

The Science Officer, in his delicate fashion, asked the barman what this T-shirt was all about. “It’s this bunch of critics in the newspaper,” he replied. “They come in and drink in your bar and they review it.”

“When are they coming?” the Science Officer inquired ingenuously.

“I don’t know” the barman answered. “They should’ve been here a couple weeks ago, but they haven’t showed up.”

With that, the troupe transported to a classic cocktail lounge scene. Saturday Night Life couldn’t have done it better. The Pillor and Post at 10205 Main had it all, from the lush-life décor to the white-belt-and-shoes couples. Topping it off were the organ stylings of Emmett Nolan, best remembered as the prime mover of the dreamy Three Suns, who scored a series of hits in the late ‘40s and early ‘50s.

Nolan, doing what he calls Yesteryears, backs singer Eddie Boudreau, whose showbiz chutzpah is exceeded only by comedian Bill Murray. Except Boudreau isn’t kidding.

“You have to be drunk to properly appreciate this,” observed the Chief Science Officer’s First Mate. As a result, the crew appreciated it roundly, except for the Science Officer himself, who hovered over Boudreau with the suggestion that he sing “Buffalo, New York,” instead of “New York, New York.”

In time, Boudreau was supplanted by a woman from the audience named Marion, who apparently has been singing even longer than Nolan has been playing the keyboards. She did old songs like “It’s Only Make Believe” in a style straight out of the Golden Age of the Movie Musical. Equally full of old-fashioned goodness was the waitress, Lee Jones, who said she’d cook the orders for chicken wings herself. Like Lee, they were terrific.

Did the expedition dare plunge on to a seventh stop? The answer was unanimously affirmative, although in retrospect, few in the party remember much about Finnlock’s Café at 10250 Main. One thing clear, however, was that in the realm of suburban lounges, Finnlock’s was the obverse of the Pillor and Post. In other words, all restraint.

Unfortunately, the crew arrived too late to catch more than the finale of singer and guitarist Dennis D’Asaro’s set, though that sampling was delightful. The Captain’s memory, meanwhile, was dispatched by a specialty of the house called a Creamy Plum, a purple concoction which included fresh plums and plum liqueur. Full of accomplishment, the expedition stumbled into the starry night. Yes, the Captain reflected, we’ve done it. The quest will be ours by Labor Day.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XIII: The Clarence Strip

May 27, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XIII: The Clarence Strip.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XIII: Assembling the Lost Expedition for a march through the distant suburban nebulae was getting tougher.

          There was considerable doubt in the Captain’s mind, as he glanced at his chronometer, that they’d ever find their way to the designated staging area for the latest installment in this mission to drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from the depths of downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line.

          It was clear now that he’d been overly optimistic in arranging docking for 10 at 7:30 p.m. in the Old Red Mill Inn at 8326 Main, a busy restaurant that’s appended a railroad car onto a 19th century house.

          Last time out, the safari had just missed the pre-midnight closing here. Going for an earlier time slot, however, meant risking an encounter with that nefarious network of interplanetary highway cloggers, the Anti-Destination League.

          Nonetheless, the tiny bar at the Old Red Mill was a pleasant promontory. The busy old-fashioned décor was augmented by a busy bartender and old-fashioned prices. No $2 cocktails here. Not much elbow room either. Two’s company here. Six is a crowd.

          Once the Chief Science Officer and the Neon Knight arrived with their first mate, space demanded an adjournment to the tables.

          The unexpected inexpensiveness of the Old Red Mill pervaded the menu, too. Few entrees commanded double-digit dollars. A bottle of first-rate New York State Seyval Blanc ran a modest six bucks. The dinner rolls were outstanding, as was the mathematical prowess of the waitress, who put computers to shame with her speed in tabulating the bill.

          Lest they run afoul of another midnight closing at the Japanese steak house, Arigato’s at 9074 Main, the safari skipped ahead to it. Few mealtime experiences can top the tableside display of culinary crafts here, but it all has a price, as the trekkers discovered at the bar. Here the $2 cocktail held sway.

          When in a Japanese setting, many in the crew decided to do as the Japanese do, settling into the cushioned lower section of a bunk-bed-like nook with tiny china cups of warm sake. By the time they were done sipping and scrunching their faces at the taste of the stuff, the safari had swollen to record proportions.

          It was a reassuringly huge gang of 14 that trouped back to the territory that had been touted as the most threatening. The clientele at the Grapevine Lounge, 8900 Main, it was said, would make the tattooed troops down the street at Justine’s look like 98-pound weaklings.

          Inside that place, the trekkers discovered that what had been heard through the grapevine about the Grapevine was no longer operative. Once upon a time, this had been a tough place, but now the heavy business here consisted of hard partying, with a pool table, a country and rock jukebox and an abundance of drink specials to help it along.

          Depending on the time and the day, the bar would dispense $2 pitchers of Miller’s (Mondays), $1 shots of Jack Daniels or some other high-octane hooch (Wednesdays), $2 pitchers of Old Vienna (Saturdays plus afternoons till 3) or a shot and a beer for $1 and 5-cent chicken wings (happy hour).

          At the moment, the joint was jumping with young, good-natured revelers, tossing down 75-cent bottles of O.V. and 75-cent shots of a concoction called a Schnapple. It tasted like cider and kicked like schnapps. A young lady at the bar introduced herself as the girlfriend of the bar manager, a strapping fellow named Dudley, and he did right by the expeditioners with several rounds of Schnapples.

          Also remarkable was the Grapevine’s turnover. The crowd changed almost completely before the Captain shouted out a five-minute warning and mustered the massive troupe to the next stop, a homey little place at 9000 Main, half the size of the Grapevine. Kick’s Place, it was called, and the first kick it delivered was a sign posted prominently behind the bar.

          “We’ve been expecting you guys,” said Denny Ryan, the owner, “but we figured you were coming next week.”

          The neighborliness of Kick’s Place didn’t end there. Holding down one end of the bar was Dudley’s boss, Bob Falconer. Next to him were the proprietors of the next spot down the line, Al and Patti Boergers. Welcome, they said, to the Clarence Strip.

          While the expeditioners expropriated the pool table, the jukebox and the puck-style bowling machine, the Captain learned from the assembled potentates that hard times had befallen the 20-odd bars on the Clarence Strip. First, there was the economy. And then there was this new crusade against drunken drivers.

          “People aren’t staying out late like they used to,” Al Boergers remarked.

          Kick’s Place was so cozy that the Captain’s five-minute warnings were to no avail. To escape the gravitational pull, it was necessary to invoke the full power of a revelation that the go-go girls at Mama G’s, Main just past Sheridan Drive, stopped dancing at 2 a.m.

          A down-at-the-heels supper club, Mama G’s imposed no cover charge. Instead, the tariff was taken with each drink over the bar. The Billiards Technician plunked his quarter onto the pool table out front, ignoring the attraction that drew the rest of the crew to the big back room.

          Cavorting on a low stage for an audience of about a dozen young men was a topless young woman who periodically stepped over to the jukebox to plunk in a quarter to play a new tune. Flashdance, it wasn’t. In fact, the lady merely shuffled and jiggled and accepted with a peck of a kiss the tucking of dollar bills into her G-string.

          No problem separating the safari from Mama G’s. One round and they were ready to retreat to the Leisure Tyme Lounge at 9195 Main, where they found Al and Patti Boergers behind the bar. To celebrate, the Captain summoned up a round of their least pricey champagne while the crew scattered across the modishly darkened and thinly populated expanses to the pool table.

          As the champagne disappeared, it became clear that Al Boergers wasn’t kidding about early evacuation of the Clarence Strip. The expeditioners were the only ones left in the place. At length, someone suggested beaming back to a pancake house for breakfast. “Better detour over Sheridan Drive,” the Boergerses advised. “The cops are out on Main Street tonight.”

Adventures of the Lost Expedition: Part XII: Outer Spaces.

May 6, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XII: Outer Spaces.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XII: Was it the onset of spring or was it simply the prospect of venturing into new galaxies in the Outer Suburbs that quickened the pulse of the Lost Expedition as it renewed its quest to have a drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line?

          Perhaps it also had something to do with the nature of the designated staging area. The pleasures of drinking, dining and dallying at Brennan’s Bowery Bar in the Clarence Mall at Main and Transit were well known to most of the trekkers and they were eager to repeat the experience.

          Unfortunately, none of them could muster themselves early enough to take advantage of happy hour’s endless hors d’oeuvres and half-priced drinks. By the time they arrived, the goodies were gone and prices stood at their standard levels – 80 cents for a draft Labatts 50 Ale (all the beer is draft here) and $1.80 for mixed drinks. Then again, early arrivals might have had to orbit the place a few times before they could land.

          Even as twilight approached, the crowd stood two to three deep around the bar and 20 and 30 minutes deep on the waiting list for the dining room. The expeditioners milled about, admiring the touches of old New York, the mooseheads on the walls, the advertising messages among the ceiling tiles and the presence of a Pac-Man pinball machine – more pinball than Pac-Man, it turned out, with a surprise bonus of 200,000 points for the final ball.

          Sensory satiation continued right through dinner – meaty chicken wings at $3.10 a single, $4.95 a double; ribs at $6.25 that scored points for tenderness and an immensely adequate fish fry at $3.75 and $4.50, all washed down with pitchers of Labatts 50. Tip and all, the crew escaped for what seemed like an eminently reasonable tribute of $7 apiece.

          En route to the next stop, Charlie Brown’s Restaurant at the Main Street end of the plaza, the party stumbled over a previously uncharted outpost – Syracuse’s Pizza Plant, which served beer. They pledged to return later, when one of the tables might be empty.

          Finding a vacant table was the least of the concerns in the villa section of Charlie Brown’s. Where the senses had worked overtime at Brennan’s, they retreated here from the Florentine excess of the décor. Nor could the crew take advantage of the somewhat larger selection and somewhat lower prices on the menu.

          They contemplated the bar list instead. Bottled beer was 95 cents. Cocktails ran $1.25 and $1.35, with a special double at $1.75. One of the newer recruits, the Neon Knight, took a sip of his Black Russian and grimaced darkly. It had been laced with generic coffee liqueur instead of Kahlua. They had no Kahlua, the waitress said. He sent it back.

          By the time they emerged, docking was available at Syracuse’s Pizza Plant. The party quickly took exploratory readings. The walls were paneled smartly with slanted wood, set off with a bit of stucco. The beer list was stunningly exotic – St. Pauli Girl, Kirin, Carlsberg Elephant, Carta Blanca and those 25-ounce cans of Foster’s Lager from Australia, not to mention a handful of American and Canadian brands.

          The menu, meanwhile, was pizza, pizza, pizza. Not just your regular pies with options, but all sorts of wild variations on the basic pasta. There were stuffed pizzas and then, shades of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, there were pizza pods – little 90-cent croissants, as it were, filled with extras at 20 cents a condiment. They were exquisite.

          The Captain elected to overshoot the next stop, Stage One at 8200 Main St., and return for a nightcap when the evening’s rock band was in its final set. In contrast to the full parking lot at Stage One, the asphalt around the Red Mill, 8326 Main St., was deserted. A quick scan detected only a few lifeforms in the place. It was 11:30 p.m. and they were cleaning up.

          The expeditioners plunged ahead to a modest plaza storefront called Justine’s at 8595 Main. Instead of a band, there was an FM radio station playing heavy metal, a pool table with a chalkboard waiting list and a shuffleboard-style bowling machine. Hand-lettered signs proclaimed nightly drink specials. Guys outnumbered the women by a ratio of better than five to one and there was a preponderance of tattoos.

          One round of games and the trek transported to a universe that, in terms of elegance, was light years away from Justine’s. In truth, Ashley’s Pub at Samuel’s Grande Manor, 8750 Main, is a fancy bar attached to a fancy restaurant attached to a fancy wedding caterer.

          In the main ballroom, dancers whirled to a band playing “New York, New York” as the Tripi-Quinn nuptuals wound down. Wedding portraits adorned the walls. Beyond the windows was a garden for photo-taking, complete with gazebo. The waiters and waitresses had retired to Ashley’s to await the clean-up.

          Ornate ceiling fans cut lazily through the Tudor atmosphere, a rock station played Echo and the Bunnymen and the serving staff ordered another round of a white concoction which the bartender identified as a Horny Girl Scout.

          “Crème de menthe, crème de cacao, roncoco and a little cream,” he explained. “It tastes like a thin mint.”

          Even after a few of these, one waiter had enough presence of mind to forestall an impulse by one of the crew to sneak a couple pieces of leftover cake. Then he disappeared, returning a few minutes later with two napkin-wrapped slices of the coveted confection.

          Returning to Stage One, the trekkers found berths in the parking lot, littered as usual with empty six-packs consumed by customers before they went inside. It was nearly 2 a.m., but the doorman wanted $2 anyway.

          “The band still has another set to play,” he asserted. After a few moments of negotiation, he compromised and lowered the tariff to $1.

          It wasn’t much of a bargain. The place was half-full of scruffy, blue-jeaned youth not much over the new drinking age. The floor was wet. The air quality was that of an open hearth furnace. Even the video game room hung heavy with smoke. The Captain sipped his mixed drink from a plastic cup, noting that it was the raunchiest version of this potion he’d encountered all the way up Main Street, and came to his first conclusion about the Outer Suburbs. Here there’s no boundary between the high life and the low life. They simply co-exist.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XI: Williamsville North.

April 8, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XI: Williamsville North

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XI: The next milestone looked like an easy mark as the Lost Expedition gathered at the designated staging area, an unassuming double storefront called Placey’s at 5953 Main St. On this mission to have a drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from the heart of downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line, the dividing line between the inner and outer suburbs – Transit Road – was only a couple stops away. Or was it?

          “Isn’t there a little place across the street from the Hackney House, where the Chelsea Station used to be?” the Billiards Technician remarked as he sank the eight-ball and ended the Captain’s reign over the pool table in the side room at Placey’s.

          “And if I’m not mistaken,” the Chief Science Office surmised, inserting his quarter for the next game, “there’s another little place in that plaza on the north side of Main just before you get to Transit.”

          At this early point, however, it was becoming evident that the toughest part of reaching Transit Road would not be the discovery of new worlds, but escaping the gravitational pull of Placey’s. Wood-paneled, unpretentious and cheap (a Schmidt’s draft was 45 cents), it had all the requisite comforts and distractions.

          The jukebox played everything from Hank Williams singing “Your Cheating Heart” to Dexy’s Midnight Runners doing “Come On, Eileen.” The side room contained not only a pool table, but also what some claim to be the best shuffleboard in the metropolitan area.

          Beauty, George,” one of the senior regulars shouted beerily to his partner at the other end after a particularly advantageous placement of the puck. Once they finished, the safari put the long board to the test. It passed with sliding colors.

          “Hey, I just want to tell you that Lee Placey’s buying the next round for you and your friends,” the motherly barmaid informed the Captain just as he was about to urge the party on to its next stop.

          “Why, thank you,” the Captain replied, somewhat taken aback by this unexpected expression of hospitality. “Are you Lee Placey?”

          “No, I’m Helen,” she said. “Lee left two hours ago.”

          By the time the expeditioners were able to pull clear, all agreed they couldn’t continue another millisecond without food. Quality of the provisions at the Hackney House, 6600 Main, were unknown, but it didn’t matter. They fell upon the menus like wolves as they waited at the muted, wood-beamed bar under the light of an immense console TV while Doreen the waitress readied a table for eight.

          Their pleasure at the prices (nothing over $10, most items around $5) was exceeded only by their praise of the culinary arts behind them when the orders emerged. The Friday fish special was exquisitely spiced. The chicken wings (25 for $5.25) sported a hearty barbecue sauce. The raspberry dessert came with fresh raspberries, not canned or frozen ones. This place must be one of Williamsville North’s best-kept secrets.

          An even better-kept secret is the place across the street, Katnip’s. Spanking new, staffed with a pair of barmaids, it was primed for action. But no cats were prowling, aside from a couple female video game wizards on the machines just inside the front door. A series of short ramps – catwalks? – put a fun-house aspect into navigating from the bar to the tables or the splashy computerized jukebox, flashing messages across the empty dance floor.

          “We’re about to close,” the bartender cautioned at the second newly-discovered world, Domenica’s, a freshly-opened Italian restaurant in a small plaza just south of Transit Road. The three-sided bar was small, a mere appendage to the two dining rooms at the rear. The wallpaper and wood paneling struck a note of formality and restraint.

          The price of good taste was reflected in the menu. At the bar, too. The barman poured frosted glasses of Old Vienna draft for $1, then turned aside to answer the otherworldly signal of a cordless telephone. More patrons arrived, young, stylishly-dressed and apparently regulars. There was no further mention of closing.

          Few contrasts in the galaxy are greater than stepping from this scene to the one across the street in Melanie’s Pub at 6861 Main. Loud, crowded and incredibly smoky, it was the essence of the rough, devil-may-care enthusiasms of youth. A trio of motorcycles stood parked outside the front door, their owners apparently heedless of the frosty night. Patrons were equally impervious to the cold as they bounced in and out of the place in shirtsleeves.

          Hang out there long enough, the Captain reckoned, and you’ll see a Harley-Davidson T-shirt from every state in the union. The girls danced to earsplitting Bob Seger and Lynyrd Skynyrd. The guys watched, drank, struck poses and wrestled with one of those dome-covered, locally-manufactured hockey games.

          At length, the First Mate tugged the Captain’s arm. She couldn’t breathe this thick, toxic atmosphere any longer. Eyes stinging, gasping for air, they exited. The lights of Transit Road twinkled in front of them, lights everchanging, from green to yellow to red.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part X: Creature comforts.

March 4, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part X: Creature comforts.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE X: No, said the billiards technician, he wouldn’t be joining the Lost Expedition at its latest staging area. He held no aversion to the Eagle House at 5978 Main St. in the heart of Williamsville. Indeed, that was one of his regular haunts. There he’d learned that the proprietor was dreading the arrival of the sipping safari. He might even eject the whole crew from the premises.

Despite this warning, the Captain refused to be swayed. A mission was a mission. Come hell or high water, he was going to drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from the depths of downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line. If it meant filing an anti-discrimination suit with the state attorney general, so be it.

Nevertheless, conviviality was preferable to confrontation. The Captain and the California Co-Pilot decided to take the quiet route in. They arrived inconspicuously at the height of the Friday evening dinner hour. All the caution was for naught. Instead of hostility, there was hospitality. A hostess informed them there would be a short wait if they wanted a table. They joined the crowd that filled the bar.

Nor was there a hitch in getting provisions from a bartender wearing a radio earpiece tuned to the Sabres game. Armed with a pair of $2 mixed drinks, the Captain surveyed the place and wondered what all the worry was about.

The walls and the ceiling were adorned with some of the finest woodwork the Captain had ever seen in a drinking establishment. A real wood fire burned in a brick fireplace that took up most of one wall in the lounge area attached to the bar. The final touch was wallpaper in an antique floral motif.

Bowls of pretzels and chips adorned the bar and the cocktail tables, along with tiny tubs of jalapeno cheese dip. As the bar emptied into the dining room, the Captain and the California Co-Pilot commandeered a small table, then a larger one, called a most obliging waitress named Debbie and settled in to savor the pleasures of the place.

Before long, reinforcements arrived. The Science Officer showed his bearded face and brought back glowing reports about the lavatory. A contingent of Marines landed, dressed not in battlefield khaki, but in the blue and grey uniforms of Marine Midland Bank. One of them reported that the Eagle House served great stuffed mushrooms.

Mark Stone from the Pierce Arrow Restaurant rolled in to pick up a big jar of donations for the Variety Club Telethon from behind the bar. The Erie County Liquor Licensees Association promotion to benefit Children’s Hospital was turning out to be a great success, he said. As he left, the Captain glanced at his chronometer, counted the ever-expanding crew and determined that if the party didn’t move on, it might stay here all night. He called for the tab and gave Debbie an American Express card.

Heeding a report that the Creekside Restaurant at 5629 Main might still be too crowded to accommodate such a large number, the expeditioners trekked instead to Sorrentino’s Pizzeria, an Italian eating place at 5640 Main with an ambiance halfway between a pizza parlor and a full-fledged restaurant and lounge.

The small bar area included a table-model Pac Man video game, which immediately lured the more dexterous members of the crew. The rest repaired to the dining room and secured a row of tables, a round of drinks, a bucket of hot chicken wings and extra servings of blue cheese dressing. Hot at Sorrentino’s was what would pass for a zesty medium at some other wingeries, but it proved to be an excellent compromise for all the tastes involved.

The crowd was gone when the expedition finally crossed the street to the Creekview. Taking note of the incomparable dining room window overlooking Ellicott Creek, they settled into the knotty pine bar, where the sports network played on cable TV and the bartender poured 85-cent drafts of Old Vienna.

The Creekview proved as commodious as the previous stops this night, a cozy backdrop for lingering conversations. The Captain, ever mindful of making a minimum of five bars per evening, was obliged again to exhort the party to drink up and proceed to the next outpost.

And what an outpost! The Little White House at 5877 Main has long been considered one of the classier culinary experiences in the area. The safari did not venture into the vast dining room, however. They found a series of tables in the lounge instead, where they admired the leaded glass, the brick, the wood and the fireplace.

Also present was an all-purpose lounge combo called Sassafras. The instrumentalists in their vests and ruffled shirts seemed well-suited for the seamless renditions they gave to Willie Nelson’s greatest hits, while vocalist Cheryl Ferris, willowy in her white satin suit, provided the pizzazz for the pop tunes.

The White House manager, Dave Ring, joined the party. Learning that the kitchen was still open, the Captain decided to test the lobster bisque, since chef Bruce Dorr built a reputation concocting that specialty for McMahon’s in Snyder. The $2.50 bowl of bisque emerged equal to its billing – thick and meaty, leaving no doubt about the presence of sherry in the recipe.

After this extended evening of dalliance, the itinerary was supposed to finish with a down-to-earth flourish in Placey’s. But, alas, here it sat at 2 a.m., the lights dimmed and the doors locked. The same conditions prevailed at the next station, the Hackney House. Lest the route get too convoluted, the Captain nixed the notion of continuing to Main and Transit. For now, the creature comforts of Williamsville would have to suffice.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part IX: Strength in numbers.

Jan. 21, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part IX: Strength in numbers.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE IX: The Science Officer already was deep into his sample-taking at the designated staging area, the dark, library-like cocktail lounge of the Lord Amherst Motor Hotel and Restaurant at 5000 Main Street, as the Captain and the California Co-Polit found their way in, eager to continue the suburban section of the Lost Expedition’s quest to have a drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line.

First order of business was to be a sumptuous Lord Amherst happy hour. Unhappily, it had been overstated. Happy hour runs from 4 to 6 p.m. here and it within seconds of being a thing of the past. So was the small table of hot chicken wings, fish fry morsels and breaded cocktail franks. The serious action was not in the bar, but next door in the Early American dining room, where a reservation was needed to land the popular $4.75 fish fry, complete with a glass of wine or beer.

This leg of the Lost Expedition promised to be just as crowded as the restaurant was. The Captain commandeered a large, round table in a bookcase-lined corner of the lounge, but it was not enough. By the time orders went up for a second round of libations, the safari had swollen to such proportions that chairs were being snatched from the neighbors.

Mastering such an army from this base to the next required extraordinary coordination of consumption, but ultimately all the glasses were empty at once. Through a freshly risen snowstorm, the expeditioners slid on foot to a place directly across the six-lane blacktop, Howard Johnson’s.

Ambiance here leaned toward wood-grained Formica, halfway along the restaurant chain’s evolution from bright plastic to intimate earth tones. The liquor was concealed behind the salad bar. Folders on the tables touted apple pie, the breakfast specials and Lowenbrau. Nonetheless, the hostess was a bit quizzical when a dozen trekkers trouped in just for drinks. Well, maybe a few $2.75 orders of fried clams, too. Tables were pushed together and through sheer numbers and mounting good humor, the Lost Expedition soon was drawing quizzical looks from the entire dining room.

But a crew can’t pub-crawl on clams alone. The Captain dashed to a communicator, dropped a dime and established contact with the next outpost, Santora’s Pizza Drive-In Restaurant at 5271 Main. Two medium pizzas in half an hour, he signaled, one with just cheese and mushrooms, the other with the works.

“Why, hello,” a couple at Hojo’s lunch counter said as the Captain strode back to the encampment. “We just had to see who on earth would be ordering a pizza from the phone in the Howard Johnson’s.” It was Harold and Janis Andersen, parents of folksinger Eric Andersen. Eric’s fine, they related, but wasn’t it terrible about his friend David Blue dying?

Transporting to Santora’s was a perilous business in the snow, but by now the expeditioners were undaunted. They tromped in to find their pizzas piping hot. Paying at the order counter just inside the door, they summoned a $4.25 carafe of Chablis and a $3.50 pitcher of Labatts, then repaired to the dining area, where their lineup of tables formed a virtual barricade across the path to the rest rooms.

Santora’s was the very model of a modern pizzeria – stucco walls hung with oversized kitchen implements, imitation stained glass ceiling lamps, a couple obligatory 14-year-olds at the cocktail-table-model Pac Man game. Good pizza, too. Some claim it’s the best in Williamsville. Its manager may be the most obliging, as well. He handed out complimentary windshield scrapers as the troupe exited into freezing drizzle.

Breaking the ice at the next stop, the Williamsville Inn at 5447 Main, required more than a scraper. Richly wood-paneled and dimly lit, the Red Mug lounge was populated at first by businessmen lingering late, among them former News advertising staffer Doug Harvey, now a salesman for WBEN-FM. The safari shuffled aimlessly for a few minutes, then settled in and around one of the semi-circular booths opposite the bar.

Soon the lights came up behind a mirrored piano bar to herald the arrival of the duo You and Me. As they rendered hits like “Looking for Love (In All the Wrong Places)” on guitar and Farfisa organ, the room began to fill with a different sort of denizen – the mature single. A Liz Taylor lookalike in a fur jacket sidled up to the bar. Somebody’s uncle stood tentatively in his new toupee by the door.

The Captain reckoned there was only one way to seize the initiative in such a universe. It would take the sheer exuberance of youth. First came the rock song singalong with the band, in which he was assisted by one of the new recruits, the Roaring Irish Rigger. Then came the manic jitterbug, abetted by the Rigger’s bonnie assistant. Having astounded the singles and bamboozled the band, there was nothing left to do but transport instantly to the final stop, Kane’s Red Carpet Restaurant at 5507 Main.

The mature singles atmosphere was more mature here. Pianist Freddie Marr and drummer Bobby Deeb set up easy renditions of old standards, inviting their listeners to come up a take a vocal turn on the microphone. Some of them were true talents, like Freddie DiVincenzo, who did “Satin Doll” as blithely as jazzman Mark Murphy.

Though fundamentally unaltered since the Captain’s last visit there light years ago, the Carpet seemed spruced up in many small ways under the regime of former Judge James Kane. Also unchanged was its hospitality.

Kane sat at a table in the rear, shaking hands with visitors and introducing them to his wife, Ellen; his son, Jimmy Jr., and his lovely blonde daughter, Colleen. Another mainstay of the place still in action was waitress Annie Ettepio, beloved throughout the galaxy for affectionate toughness and her remarkable efficiency. A signal to her across the room was enough to guarantee another round.

Many times was she signaled as the expeditioners gobbled through $4.25 double orders of chicken wings and traded boisterous verses of “Waltz Me Around Again, Willie.” At last, they discovered the secret to fun in the suburbs. It helps to bring some of your own.

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part VIII: Hello, Suburbia.

Dec. 17, 1982

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part VIII: Hello, Suburbia.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE VIII: Having traversed the City of Buffalo, the explorers of the Lost Expedition thought they’d seen it all. They’d happy-houred with the three-piece suit crowd downtown. They’d dared the desolation of the yet-to-be-reborn Theater District. They’d stood steadfastly amid the sleaze of Midtown and perennially packed pubs of Partytown. They’d raised their glasses in celebration at the City Line.

            But in their quest to have a drink in every bar on Main Street from the shores of Lake Erie to the boundary of Genesee County, nothing they’d seen had prepared them for their introduction to suburbia. Advance scouting reports had revealed but two tantalizing tidbits of intelligence – proper costume would be essential and the food would be good.

            Thus informed, the Captain issued sartorial instructions to the crew. No blue jeans. No sneakers. Coats for the gentlemen and, preferably, ties. Attired in this fashion, the Captain felt ridiculously overdressed as he and a newly-recruited co-pilot from the California constellation strode into the staging area for this particular safari – Brunner’s, a Daemen College party bar at 3989 Main St. in Eggertsville.

            Even at the height of its Friday fish fry, Brunner’s was a shirt-sleeve kind of place. Scads of Christmas decorations festooned its pine-paneled bar and dining room as waitresses dashed from the kitchen to the tables with the evening’s specialty. A sign promised a Christmas party starting at 3 p.m. this Sunday with a free buffet and two shots of amaretto or anisette for a dollar.

Similar bargains prevailed at this hour. The Captain summoned a draft beer (Labatts only, 70 cents), while the California Co-Pilot copped a $1.25 mixed drink. The fish fry was a modest $2.95 and a modest gourmet experience as well – a medium-sized piece of respectable haddock with a dinner roll, a dollop of too-creamy coleslaw and a mountain of French fries.

The Science Officer arrived with word that his assistant was ailing, though she might have mustered up had she been promised something from the menu at the next stop, a small, sophisticated Snyder supper club at 4517 Main just north of Harlem Road. It was here that the expeditioners first encountered one of the sublime joys of suburbia – off-street parking. Adam’s Rib has a commodious rear lot and, in deference to this, is back entrance is just as sumptuous as its front.

“You can tell it’s a classy joint,” the First Mate declared as the crew struggled with the coat rack in the cramped rear hallway. “They frame the choking poster.”

Judging from the icy reception by the hostess, there may have been some question as to whether we were classy enough to join the dressy clientele that filled this tiny place for late dinner. Ribs are the specialty of the house. Prime ribs, which come in cuts designated Adam and Eve, with prices not much over $10. The Science Officer assured us that it was impossible to finish Adam in one sitting.

But sitting was not to be our lot. Since we were unsure about the ultimate number of our party (our billiards technician was unaccounted for), the hostess was uncertain whether there would be a table for us, at least right then. “We’ll be at the bar,” the Captain assured her.

And a fine little bar it was, despite being as cramped and narrow as the rest of the club. Jack the Bartender was a marvel of attentiveness, charm and snappy efficiency. The moment the California Co-Pilot unpacked a cigarette, he was at her hand with a light.

One round and the trekkers were off to an even more uncompromisingly formal supper spot, McMahon’s, a few doors north at 4529 Main, which has a long-standing reputation for fine food and fancy service. The rules of the house were posted at the entrance. Proper dress required. No reservations. No credit.

The safari’s attire passed the inspection of the maitre d’ in white tie and tails who accosted them just inside the door. Yes, he did have a table for four. Would we like to check our coats?

McMahon’s turned out to be just as intimate and perhaps even narrower than Adam’s Rib, but while Adam’s was softly-lit and seductive, McMahon’s was starched and proper. A review of the menu revealed that it also was more expensive, except when it came to Molson’s Golden, which was a most reasonable $1.25.

The black-tied waiter was nonplussed as the troupe made its selections primarily from the appetizer list, but not nearly as much as the trekkers were when the orders arrived. The lobster bisque was floury, the shrimp cocktail contained only three pieces and the clams casino were pygmy cherrystones. It was discovered later that McMahon’s old chef had departed recently for the Little White House in Williamsville.

The lack of pretense at the next stop, the Tai Wan Restaurant at 4543 Main, was refreshing. The First Mate homed in immediately on the Pac-Man machine just inside the entrance. The rest of the expeditioners set their coordinates on the bar, over which hung a huge paper dragon.

A merry mixture of Christmas cheer and Chinese kitsch set the tone. Signs above the lightly-populated counter touted a racquetball night and a package bus tour to the Sabres-Bruins hockey game in February. The bartender took time out from filling the cooler with Labatts Extra Stock to pour us a round and refresh owner Phil Leong’s bourbon and water.

“You want food?” Leong asked. “I’ll fix anything you want here in five minutes.” Come back New Year’s Eve, he added, and there’ll be a buffet, free champagne at midnight. Then he started telling about fighting the Japanese as a boy in China more than 40 years ago.

Final destination was 4575 Main, which used to be Mother’s-Amherst, then Mum’s and now is rechristened Truffles. Aside from the name, all that’s changed inside is the back of the bar, which is walled off, and the rear dining room, which is separated from the bar by a towering façade of small window panes.

Provisions here are strictly for high-rollers. A Kronenberg beer, a brandy, a rye-and-ginger, a coffee and a piece of Black Forest cake came to more than $11. Perhaps that’s why there weren’t more than a dozen people in the place at midnight on a Friday. Overwhelmingly blasé and sedate, expeditioners agreed this was the absolute bottom. Once this place was so popular it was the bane of its neighbors for blocks around. Now Truffles was deader than downtown Buffalo.