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.