Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part IV: Getting the tourist treatment

NIGHTLIFE

Aug. 20, 1982

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part IV:

Getting the tourist treatment

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE IV: For the Lost Expedition, the most dangerous passage had been cleared in their mission to drink their way from the foot of Main Street in Buffalo to the Genesee County line. Having traversed the sleazy corner of Virginia Street, there was less difficulty in attracting recruits for the next safari than there was in attracting the administrations of the aging union barman at our staging area, the lounge of the Town House Motor Lodge at Main and High streets.

            “You’ll have to speak up,” he advised as he eventually became aware of our thirsty looks and glasses emptied of 70-cent draft beer. A couple commercials and a news report of Polish protests had come and gone on the big barside TV screen since he’d ignored them while automatically refreshing the cocktail of the businessman in coat and tie sitting next to the Captain and the first crew member to arrive.

            True, we did not have the panache of the half-dozen other denizens of this darkened, Old English style dining and drinking area. No white belts. Nor white shoes. But soon our numbers swelled. Attention turned to the church-like stained glass windows catching the late afternoon sun, the dark wood-paneled walls, the broken joystick on the Ms. Pac Man machine and the impressive collection of bottled potions behind the bar. All that and no peanuts. Clearly, this was not a beer-drinkers’ bar. Cocktails ran in the $1.50 to $2 range. “Sure looks a lot different from when we were courting here 20 years ago,” a pair of new recruits agreed.

            Our next destination was determined by physical need rather than anthropologic curiosity. An expedition marches on its stomach, after all. Backtracking to the Villa Capri at Main and Allen, reputed to be a leather bar, was deferred until a course had been charted to a landmark famous in galaxies far beyond ours, that pioneering chicken wings emporium, the Anchor Bar at 1047 Main and North.

            The Anchor Bar, though a familiar and favored oasis among all the expeditioners, was not without its perils. The last time the Captain had stopped to sample its wares, his companion’s coat had been snatched by a couple fleet-footed fellows who had been loitering at the video games at the far end of the bar. This time the video machines were vacant.

            A round of $1.35 bottles of Old Vienna was ordered while searchers sought a table for eight in the dining rooms on either side of the narrow barroom. Though half the tables were full, service seemed extraordinarily stressed. Rather than wait for the waitress to provide the next round of libations, the Captain returned to the bar, where curly-headed Dominic Bellissimo, son of founders Frank and Teressa, had stepped in to assist the young barman.

            “That’s $1.50 each,” he said, returning with the Old Viennas.

            “Wait a minute,” the Captain protested. “Aren’t those $1.35?”

            “Not when I’m here, they aren’t,” Bellissimo countered.

            The Captain, returning to the table, discovered the expedition ruffled and indignant at the demand that two cap-wearing crewmen uncover their heads, in deference to the Anchor Bar’s long-standing house rule. The grumbling continued through the arrival of the wings, which, though tasty, were also soggy and smallish, confirming recent critiques of the place.

            The last chicken bones were being cleared as the club’s weekend jazz band, Mark Mazur’s Corona, began arriving. A suggestion to linger and hear them was vetoed, not because the band isn’t good – it is – but to avoid tacking an entertainment charge into the tab.

            Turning back to the Villa Capri, the trekkers discovered an all-male crowd lining the long, comfortably understated bar, but no leather. Tuesday is leather night, we were told. Friday is drinks at half price. The entire expedition was outfitted with new refreshments for less than half the cost of four Old Viennas at the Anchor Bar.

            Though the music was fine and this was the opening hour of evening prime time, the spacious dance floor in the room beyond the bar was still empty. Beyond that was a men’s room without doors and, believe it or not, without graffiti. The ladies’ room was locked, key available at the bar. The women of the crew were admitted, but not folks like the guy with the purse and the eye makeup next to the bowling machine.

            Having been treated like tourists at two stops where they expected to feel at home, some of the expeditioners behaved a bit too much like tourists in this unusual, but accommodating place. The First Mate drew the Captain aside and suggested departure before the scene ran thin. Outside, a fellow climbing into a Trans Am remarked that he liked to bring friends there because the people were more frank and less put-on than at the city’s other major Main Street gay bar, City Lights.

            The next stop, Shane’s on Main near Summer, was all but blockaded by recurrent subway construction, visible deep beneath the street through cracks in the wooden overlay. Huge concrete highway dividers stood a few feet from the door. Shane’s once was a favored stop of the young partying crowd and later the scene of unauthorized target practice by city patrolmen, but neither of these elements were in attendance.

            Our party proceeded to challenge an engaging young black named Don at the pool table. Don was a slick shooter, a good match for the billiards veterans among us. The half-dozen other patrons bid early good nights, the tinny jukebox resonated oldies off the wood-paneled walls and a burglar alarm jangled endlessly at the nearby paint store on Summer Street while the young, blond bartender, Tim, assured us somebody else would notice it and call 911, which would notify the security company, who would send somebody to shut it off.

            Tim’s security system was less complicated. He had a big, mean dog upstairs, he said. Owner of Shane’s for some 15 years, he added, is Al Coppola, lately a candidate in elections in the Delaware District. Tim also collects old photographs, of which 50-odd hang around the bar, far outnumbering the paltry selection of liquor bottles.

            The departure of our party emptied the place. Tim decided to lock up. He and Don weren’t enamored of the next destination, the Checkerboard at 1405 Main north of Utica Street across from the old WKBW-TV studios, but they came along for one drink.

            Centerpiece of the Checkerboard is actually a chessboard with oversized pieces. Various patrons challenged one another on it. The crowd was mixed black and white, with a black deejay spinning rap records. Our billiards experts slipped back to the pool table, where the son of owner Dan March played. The rest of the crew stood at the bar, sipping Rolling Rock splits at two for $1 and noting the sparkles in the black ceiling.

            Dave, the bartender, said they were about to close the Checkerboard because of the subway mess, but decided instead to see what kind of business they could generate. A portable electric sign out front helps by advertising 75-cent Genesee till 6 p.m. Also helping will be the move the Checkerboard will make in about a month. It won’t be far, just down Main to the south side of Utica Street. There, at least, they won’t have concrete construction barriers on their doorstep.