Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part V: Making tracks through midtown landmarks

NIGHTLIFE

Sept. 24, 1982

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part V:

Making tracks through midtown landmarks

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE V: The Captain strolled into the designated staging area for the Lost Expedition’s latest safari somewhat after 9 o’clock on a Friday night, only to find none of the prospective sojourners around. Had they misunderstood the directions?

            It was to be Allen’s Grill, 1678 Main Street, just past Michigan. Where’s that, they asked. Main at Freddie’s Doughnuts, the Captain elaborated, ever mindful of landmarks on this mission to drink our way through every bar on Main Street from downtown Buffalo to the Genesee County line.

            “A Touch of Old New York” was what the legend on Allen’s plate glass had promised and indeed it was a neat, old-fashioned kind of place – long and narrow, checkered tablecloths and a tin ceiling, sandwich menus on wooden plaques and a high open grill at the far end of the back wall.

            The Captain stepped up and procured a 65-cent Labatts Ale from the burly tapkeeper. At one hand were a group of men in tractor caps watching a film about foxes and hounds on the Movie Channel. Occasionally they would shake their heads in bemusement at their acquaintances on the other side – half a dozen men and women who appeared to be hold-over happy hour celebrants, their spirits guttering in more ways than one as they pumped quarters into the jukebox.

            Discourse between these two factions was impeded by the ultimate arrival of the expeditioners, whose ranks ballooned to the record number of nine. The happy-hour gang finally took to shouting. “Hey, Harry the Herpes, how are your sores?” one of the women bellowed. “Marilyn,” he said with some exasperation, “let’s talk about this later.”

            One of our party who had mistakenly ventured into a place called Murph’s across the street reported it was guarded by a huge barking dog. When our troupe trekked in, the canine patrol was safely shut behind a kitchen door, still barking. Next to the door was a sign: “Don’t worry about the dog. Beware the owner.”

            A young blonde barmaid stood at the ready. Pitchers of draft beer were $3.50, just as they were at Allen’s, and the walls were filled with the same sort of antique pictures, along with bright posters illustrating the tenets of Murphy’s Law. Of course. This was Murph’s.

            The jukebox carried a remarkable offering of everything from country and swing era chestnuts to the latest rock hits, but little of interest for the clientele at this hour, which was predominantly black. They concentrated instead on the video games in the far corner and the centrally-positioned pool table, putting quarters on the rim and ignoring the chalkboard sign-in rule. As a result, confusion soon developed over who was next. Murphy’s Law of Pool Tables: When two quarters are set down, the owner of the second coin will always claim he was first.

            As the expedition left, a couple dozen boisterous black youths were on the sidewalk, freshly exited from the community development center a few doors away. Shades of the dangerous corner of Main and Virginia! We sped to the next stop many blocks north, past Record Theater, past Canisius College, past Sisters Hospital. Some remembered the Copper Kettle at 2295 Main as the quality luncheon spot, but that had changed. “We will rock you,” proposed a portable lighted sign outside the door.

            Yes, the Copper Kettle was now a black disco, and a rather rudimentary one at that. A single strobe light flashed harshly into the back room, which had been emptied to create a dance floor. Rap records boomed from bookcase speakers which would have been more appropriate in someone’s living room, while the deejay operated from an open bench stacked with home stereo components.

            Nonetheless, it was a friendly place. The graciousness of the waitresses was such that it was difficult to seriously contest the fact that they had forgotten half our order and brought four Molson’s Goldens instead of two. Less gracious were the glasses bearing old lipstick prints and reeking of disinfectant. Worse still was the men’s room, from which trekkers returned with tales of broken fixtures and sopping floors.

            More amenable arrangements were found at the next stop nearly a mile north. The Central Park Grill at 2519 Main has long been a hangout for Trico workers by day and college students by night.

            The Captain noted how much this was like the bars he’d frequented in his days back at the academy – the riot of funny artifacts behind the bar, the hurried bartenders, the knots of young men and women eyeing one another, the loud sound system pounding out rock, the quiet tables of dating couples in the back. Sandwiches were still being served at 1 a.m. Proprietor Bob Brown was there too, exchanging greetings.

            The CPG is where students go when they want to be relaxed and unassuming. The next station, the Stuffed Mushroom at 2580 Main, is where they go when they want to put on airs. Decked with stained glass, polished wood, brass fittings, plants, sidewalk tables and all the other accoutrements of saloon sophistication, the Mushroom by day is a restaurant, and a rather good one. By night, it’s packed for spiffed-up socializing.

            The particular Friday night was not quite as busy as usual, we were told. In other words, one could actually walk 10 paces without colliding with someone and spilling a drink all over their finery.

            Next, the sound system was announcing the Captain’s name. At the turntables was none other than an old acquaintance, Airborne Eddy, magician and deejay par excellence, who spins records here five nights a week. Not for much longer, however. He’s taken a job in Los Angeles with a company that distributes children’s records and British flexipop discs.

            More familiar faces appeared as the early morning hours sped past and expeditioners bid their good-nights until just the Captain and the chief science officer remained. One of the Mushroom’s doormen turned out to be Trey, former proprietor of the Globe Hotel in East Aurora. Introduced at barside was Charles Barone, head of Galaxy Rental Service, the apartment referral agency, who lamented the legal fees it’s taken to extricate him from state rules meant for New York City. Rounds of drinks were exchanged. Then the lights rose on a couple dozen nightowls. “I hate to be mean about this,” Trey said firmly, “but you all gotta drink up and go.”