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.