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.”