Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XV: Down in the valley.

Aug. 12, 1983

Adventures of the Lost Expedition, Part XV: Down in the valley.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XV: Sipping a beer at a picnic table outside the designated staging area, Teso’s Pizza Café, 10325 Main St., Clarence, was the newest recruit, the Rochester Renegade. Through sheer logistics, he was the first to arrive. The Lost Expedition had traveled so many light years on its mission to drink in every licensed establishment on Main Street from the shores of Lake Erie to the Genesee County line that he had a shorter trip from his summer base in Oakfield than the rest of the crew did from headquarters in Buffalo.

          Teso’s, he informed the Captain and the California Co-Pilot, was something of a gathering place for families and teenagers alike in these parts. A clean, airy barn of a building, it offered a perfect place to beat the heat – a front patio – and the means to beat it. The Captain procured a $3.75 pitcher of Michelob, ordered a pizza and settled back to await the rest of party.

          By the time the waitress brought the order, the expedition was at full strength. Another table was commandeered and seconds were summoned. The patio was indeed a pleasant place to linger, at least until sundown brought a new breed of hungry visitor – the mosquito.

          A quick transport brought the safari to the Coachman’s Inn, 10350 Main, a sedately sumptuous supper club with a series of dining rooms that extended back almost endlessly. “Nice place to have your 50th anniversary, the Neon Knight remarked as the trekkers trouped the considerable length of the place to the lounge in the rear.

          Scenes of 19th century turnpikes and canals decorated the walls. Cocktail pianist Joanne Privatera blithely enumerated the hits of Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond. Craving stronger stimulation, the crew drank and departed, pausing long enough to seek out a salacious passage in a modern book among the old volumes that lined the vestibule.

          The next outpost, the Meeting House at 10465 Main, is also noted for its elegance, antiquity and cuisine, but offered a far more rustic aspect. An open loft overlooked the large main dining room, lined at one side by a bar. The walls, which date to 1844, were exposed stone. Above the bar was a sign, emblazoned with a spaceship, welcoming the expeditioners.

          The party arrived moments before the 11 p.m. kitchen closing, so engaged instead in a round of drinks and conversation with young bartender Ray Emmer, a culinary manager who said he’d soon take charge of the kitchens at another star in the Turgeon galaxy, The Steer near UB.

          The First Mate, disappointed at missing dinner, asked about lobster. Emmer offered to cook one, but she demurred: “Why don’t you just bring one out to play?” He did. Fresh from the tank, it took a brief stroll on the bar and got a thorough examination by the Chief Science Officer. Within a day or two, it would be bathing in drawn butter.

          Passing the darkened Asa Ransom House at 10529 Main – closed Fridays and Saturdays, the proprietors are Seventh Day Adventists – the expedition set its coordinates on the Clarence Bowling Academy at 10718 Main. It too was dark. The party warped right past it, on up the hill. Doubling back, they discovered it wasn’t closed after all.

          Yes, there were life forms inside, but so few that owner Jim Gsell, a Buffalo fireman who bought the place last year, decided to unplug the beer signs. Now he relit them, much to the delight of the Neon Knight.

          The party explored the bowling part of the business, a neat little installation of eight alleys in the rear. In the summer, they’re mostly shut down, Gsell said. It’s been too hot to bowl. Their big promotion would be a ‘50s party complete with vintage cars.

          The First Mate set out to match wits with the Rochester Renegade, himself a graphic design student, on the line-drawing Qix video game. The telephone rang and Gsell’s sidekick, Dick Blemel, son of the former owner, returned asking for the Captain by name. Unsuspectingly, he picked up the communicator and heard a click. No longer was the safari anonymous. Gsell outdid himself with hospitality, buying a round and offering free games on the video machines, an offer some of the crew felt was beyond the call of duty. The Captain, for his part, vowed to ignore the communicator in the future.

          The game lovers, having whetted their appetites at the Clarence Bowling Academy, found paradise awaiting them across the street at Rosel’s Valley Inn, 10651 Main. Though the youthful clientele held sway at the pool table, there were plenty of other pastimes to go around. Quarters plunked into slots left and right, culminating in a less-than-epic found of foosball. When it was over, who should be at the bar but Gsell and Blemel.

          Sampling the highly touted delights of the Asa Ransom House meant a special auxiliary expedition Sunday. Here the gentlemen wore jackets and the waitresses wore little hats, long dresses and aprons. As promised, the provisions were superb. The party set about determining which was the best daiquiri – raspberry was the favorite – before they plunged into the champagne. Such celebratory occasions don’t come cheap. The bill ran $25 apiece.

          Though the Asa Ransom House was serving Sunday night, the other spots in the valley were not. The Billiards Technician proposed a retreat to the table at Kick’s Place, 9000 Main, but that was dark, too. Just as all were ready to transport to home base, they spied a spot that hadn’t shown up on their scanners.

          A motel and restaurant complex not far from Transit Road, Quinten’s had just started up again last month under the aegis of two women who used to work at the Charlesgate. The big U-shaped bar was surrounded by a comfortably upscale crowd that would have been more comfortable with air conditioning. Even with the big windows open, the place sweltered.

          Holding down one end of Quinten’s bar was the owner of Kick’s Place, Denny Ryan. Sundays are dead on the Clarence Strip, he confirmed. He’d closed at 6 p.m. And by the way, that was him on the communicator the other night. The guys at the Clarence Bowling Academy called and asked what the expedition looked like. He couldn’t really describe it, he said, so that was the only way they could be sure.