Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part V: Winter wonderland.

The Sawyer Creek Hotel 

Dec. 14, 1984

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part V: 

Winter wonderland.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXVII: A festival of snow squalls buffeted the shuttlecraft as the first segment of the Third Lost Expedition returned for the last time to Niagara Falls. Well into their mission to lift a libation in every licensed establishment on federal Route 62 from here to El Paso, Texas, or as close to El Paso as they could get, they were ready to pass their first milestone – the Niagara Falls city line.

        The coordinates were set for two places that had closed by the time the party reached them on the last outing: The Castle Court Restaurant at 9802 Niagara Falls Blvd. and Goose’s Roost at 10158 Falls Blvd. The Castle Court was strung with Christmas lights. Even the statue of the horse out front was decked. But that was all for the motel. The attached restaurant was pitch black. Closed since Labor Day, the desk clerk declared.

        So they steered instead to Goose’s Roost, a big, L-shaped, family-style restaurant with a take-out deli attached and a discount liquor store next door, which stands at the very threshold of the city at the fork of Niagara Falls Boulevard and Porter Road. Owned by the Antonacci family of Como Restaurant fame, it was liberally festooned with tinsel and other garlands. Styrofoam snowflakes and ornamental balls hung from the chandeliers.

        Since there was no bar, the preliminary party staked a claim in a rear corner. Next came the drinks – draft Michelob or Molson’s at 85 cents a glass, cocktails from $1.75 to $2.25. No one quite dared to go for the Special Goose Cocktail, a concoction of gin, banana liqueur, orange juice and lemon juice.

        As $3.25 orders of deceptively mild-looking chicken wings arrived, so did the other expeditioners – the Intergalactic Historian and the Neon Knight and their respective mates, along with the Cosmic Chaplain, out for his first adventure. Given the atmospheric conditions, the Captain found it reassuring to have him aboard.

        Having visited the next spot, a country-rock saloon called Yesterdays, the last time out, the safari threaded farther into the vast expanses of the Town of Wheatfield, beyond the Niagara Falls Airport and the Bell Aerosystems plant to Perna’s White House, 2319 Falls Blvd.

        Inside the side entrance, they discovered a bevy of waitresses clustered at the bar in Santa Claus hats. Paper holiday bells hung from the ceiling of the barroom and the now-empty dining room up front. Pewter plates depicting the presidents adorned the walls.

        Sitting at a Hammond organ just inside the door, with his name spelled out on the front of it, was Carm Perna, a Falls insurance man whose son, Pete, just reopened the place six weeks ago. It had been dark three years following the death of the old owner, Pete reported.

        The senior Perna struck up oldies like “Sentimental Journey” as the crew examined the Pac-Man machine in the corner and perused the list of $1.25 holiday specials – Carlsburg Beer, Sun Country Wine Coolers, Canadian Hunter sipping whiskey. A glance at the menu suggested dinner might have been better here. It listed 30 entrees, only four over $10.

        At 10 o’clock, the junior Perna took over the musical chores, slipping behind a synthesizer to run through “You Are the Sunshine of My Life,” then summoning up a trio called Chezere for an Elvis medley, which set the trekkers jitterbugging out into the parking lot.

        A big wind propelled them into the Pink Panther at 2540 Falls Blvd., where a roadside sign promised: “Best Fish Fry in Town. Dinners From $3.95. Free Relish Tray.” At this hour, however, only a couple hardy souls held out at the bar. An ample and obliging barmaid served up $1.10 Budweisers and $1.50 mixed drinks as the jukebox played “Jingle Bell Rock.”

        In keeping with its unadorned, ‘60s suburban lounge ambiance, the Pink Panther was lean on decorations. The tropical plants were strung with lights. A small tree stood atop a piano. Sufficient nonetheless for the festivities promised at next Tuesday’s Christmas party and free buffet.

        Lights were out at the next station, a tiny shack of a place called the Creekside, sandwiched between Falls Boulevard and Sawyer Creek, which parallels the north shoulder all the way to North Tonawanda. And there was no stopping at that brightly-lit, jam-packed country-western haven, Loe Schel’s (formerly Janik’s), since it was on the far side of Sawyer Creek with a Ward Road address.

        So the party pressed onward to the Misty Nite Inn at 3134 Falls Blvd., a hard-rock café if there ever was one. The sound system was deafening. The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke. A harried barmaid served a crowd that was almost exclusively male and leather-jacketed.

        “This is the busiest this place has been in seven years,” one fellow at the glass-bricked bar remarked as the safari filed in.

        “Seven years and four months,” his neighbor corrected him.

        Holiday symbols were limited to a Season’s Greetings sign over the bar and a couple skimpy strings of lights. The expeditioners clustered around the pinball machine and reprogrammed the jukebox.

        One drink and they rocketed on to Taggart’s Tavern, 3168 Falls Blvd., where the sweet smell of the wood stove greeted them as they disembarked. A notice at the door warned: “21 Or Begone.” Though a sign out front promised live entertainment, all that was playing was the jukebox, which was crammed with country hits and old Glenn Miller and Frank Sinatra favorites.

        It was almost bare of Christmas decorations, but Taggart’s proved to be as hospitable and charming a place as the safari had seen. Antique farm and home implements adorned the walls. In the dining room, a decorative bottle collection was displayed. A saddle sat on a rail beside the bandstand. The restrooms were designated “Pointers” and “Setters.”

        Behind the bar was an old-fashioned circular Bevador cooler and old-fashioned prices to match. The Neon Knight laid out a $20 bill to cover the assemblage and got more than $10 back. A table of cheese and crackers was set out as well.

        A few moments later, they were back on that highway, making a final stop at a place which completely embodied the seasonal rebirth of spirit. It was the freshly refurbished 19th century Sawyer Creek Hotel at Falls Boulevard and Nash Road, which had just opened for business the previous Tuesday. Every staffer seemed happy that it was up and running. The owner, Rick Cassata, a former Canadian Football League quarterback, stood jovially at the corner of the bar in a yellow sweater emblazoned with “Rico’s Sawyer Creek Hotel.”

        Wallpapered and curtained, decorated with ancient artifacts, it still smelled of paint and varnish. The source of that fresh finish was found in a rear room, soon to be the television room, where at 1:30 a.m. a youthful, self-proclaimed retiree named Jimbo was cheerfully applying polyurethane varnish to the woodwork. In less than a week, he grinned, they’d be opening up the kitchen.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part IV: Let's do the time warp.

Nov. 16, 1984

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part IV: 

Let’s do the time warp.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXVI: “How many will there be?” the rotund hostess wanted to know as she began pushing tables and chairs together in the front portico of The New Bit Restaurant and Lounge at 9400 Niagara Falls Blvd., Niagara Falls. The Captain furrowed his brow. He had to think for a minute.

        So many had promised to join the Third Lost Expedition in the latest installment of its quest to have a drink in every licensed establishment on federal Route 62 from the Falls to El Paso, Texas, or as close as they could get. But how many would actually be able to navigate through the dark and stormy Friday night cosmos to this designated staging area? Indeed, the Captain’s own shuttlecraft almost missed it.

        “Let’s figure on a dozen,” he ultimately reckoned. Sure enough, the dozen determinedly drifted in, then a baker’s dozen plus one, all wet and amazed to actually be there. They clustered first in the near-empty bar, testing the Donkey Kong machine and the bartender.

        “What do you have on tap?” the Chief Science Officer inquired.

        “Water,” was the reply.

        Equipped with $1 bottled beers and $1.50 mixed drinks, they milled about and marveled at the colored, randomly lit plastic panels that filled the ceiling. Scouting parties reported no hot water in the ladies’ room and no bacon bits in the salad bar. Nonetheless, the provisions at hand looked better than the uncertain alternatives out in the storm.

        The menu proved to be a mixed, but relatively inexpensive bag. The party of 14 escaped with a bill of $85, including another round or two of drinks to while away the long stretch between the orders and the arrival of the food. Best were the Italian specialties, particularly the ravioli. The $3.50 fish fry was adequate, as was the low-budget surf and turf. Future space travelers might do well to steer clear of the chicken wings, however. Even straight Tabasco sauce couldn’t correct them.

        Celebrants considerably senior to the safari had taken over the bar by the time the troupe slipped out into the unrelenting downpour with coordinates set for the Marigold Restaurant in the Master Hosts Inn at 9500 Falls Blvd. To the right was the check-in desk. To the left was a neat little dining room with fresh green wallpaper and a huge cocktail lounge full of empty tables set for dinner.

        Beyond that was a private party. Under a banner which read, “Salute to the Chief: Frank W. Shipman,” a crew of mostly young, well-dressed and well-lubricated associates were drinking and dancing. “This is even better than the last one, isn’t it?” one of them remarked with innocent familiarity to the Captain in the men’s room.

        Back in the lounge, four good old boys in checkered shirts and beer bellies eyed the crew suspiciously from their perches along the bar, then turned their attention to the Holmes-Smith heavyweight fight, which was just getting under way on an enormous projection-screen TV. The place gradually filled with fight fans and additional trekkers.

        The expedition had arrived at the Marigold well behind schedule. After 12 rounds of fisticuffs and fraternizing, the Captain began to realize that the odds were against his flight plan – namely, to finish off every outpost within the Niagara Falls city limits.

        His doubts soon were confirmed by the late arrival of the Billiards Technician and his mate, who reported that lights were out at the Castle Court Restaurant, 9802 Falls Blvd., and Goose’s Roost, 10158 Falls Blvd.

        By that point, the crew was well entrenched in the Thunder Bowl Lanes at 9524 Falls Blvd. Though the darkened lounge was accommodating enough, with the Sabres on TV, Springsteen on the jukebox and a tiny dance floor, those 32 bright, modern Brunswick lanes beckoned irresistibly through the window behind the bar.

        Armed with tall $1 glasses of Schmidt’s, Stroh’s and Michelob, the troupe first invaded the video game room. Then, when the league bowlers thinned out, they took over four alleys and finally got to indulge the urge that laid latent all through the first two expeditions. The Quartermaster added this pastime to his already proven prowess at video games, outrolling everyone else with scores exceeding 150. This midnight madness, meanwhile, came at discount prices – 77 cents a game instead of the usual $1.35.

        While most of the party was content to call it an evening, the more adventurous felt that a nightcap was in order. They touched down first at Barney’s Grandsons, 2248 Niagara Road, familiar to many of them, but then wondered whether it was really on Route 62. A quick check inside confirmed that, alas, it wasn’t.

        The next set of bright lights on the right route belonged to Yesterdays, virtually right next to Barney’s at 2260 Niagara Falls Blvd., Town of Wheatfield. There a country band called The Hole in the Wall Gang was on break prior to its final set. Avid dancers responded instead to oldies on the jukebox. “Oh, God, are we in love with Elvis?” one couple exuded. Off they went.

        Signs above the bar suggested that Yesterdays was a good place to drown the past. Happy hours held sway from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday and 2 to 7 p.m. Sunday, with 50-cent draft beers and $1 cocktails. There were chicken wings, too – $3.50 a double order.

        In the big back room, where the bandstand stood, the walls were papered with sheet music. The Hole in the Wall Gang lit into “Flip, Flop and Fly,” much to the dancers’ delight. The Chief Science Officer noted that the pedal steel guitarist was none other than Mudbone Johnny. For a country band, they played a lot of rock ‘n’ roll, things like “Honky Tonk Women” and “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.”

        They got out, but the expeditioners lingered. The Billiards Technician and one of the new recruits, the Native American Guide, set their sights on the big pool table opposite the bar. The Guide, having been the Number Two bowler, proved to be Number One behind a cue ball.

        No sooner had he established his reign, however, than the barmaid began turning off the neon beer signs in the windows. No triumphs tonight, the Captain conceded. Time had gotten just a little too warped.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part III: Going generic.

Oct. 19, 1984

The Third Lost Expedition, Part III: 

Going generic.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXV: Columbus Day, the perfect night for a voyage of discovery, the Captain surmised as the Third Lost Expedition rocketed toward the next set of coordinates along fabled federal Route 62, upon which they had determined to down a drink in every licensed establishment from Niagara Falls, N.Y., to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        This evening they would explore the center of the busy commercial strip on the east end of Niagara Falls, the Pine Plaza area along what was formerly Pine Avenue and now has been redesignated Niagara Falls Boulevard. Advance probes, however, had indicated that this stretch of the galaxy might turn out to be more generic than exotic. The itinerary included a Ground Round Restaurant, a Pizza Hut and another independent pizzeria.

        It was the prospect of pizza overload that prompted the crew to call for a table at the staging area, a banquet-sized neighborhood restaurant and lounge called Leslie’s at 7400 Niagara Falls Blvd. Leslie’s led a double life – straight-laced eating establishment by day, velvet rendezvous by night.

        At this twilight hour, all the action was still in the paneled pair of large, relatively unadorned dining rooms. With no tables available, the safari settled into the bar, where the bartender lit the California Co-Pilot’s cigarette for her and reported that the place was named after the owner’s pre-teen daughter. Drinks were in the $1.50 range. Heineken was the only import beer.

        Eventually, a blonde, bantering, British-born hostess named Margaret summoned the group of seven. She was a Cockney, she said, but 30 years in this country had played Pygmalion with her accent. The London inflection was hardly noticeable. Apparently the same thing happened to the Italian inflections on the menu. The chicken cacciatore was chewy. Another chicken dish came with cold meat and hot pasta.

        As the expeditioners ate, a deejay began assembling turntables and speakers around them. Before long, Leslie’s would be assuming a quite different identity. Now all the action had shifted to the bar, where the World Series played on TV. The crowd was dressed for Friday night and didn’t look like they cared whether the Tigers or the Padres were winning. They were waiting for the other game to begin.

        Fog was beginning to creep in as the trekkers trouped to Buzzy’s Pizza, 7617 Falls Blvd., which offered beer and wine in addition to its specialty. Meisterbrau was on special – 70 cents a bottle. Schmidt’s on tap was 60 cents.

        Part of the crew took over the Baby Pac-Man machine and a pinball game near the pizza counter. The rest found a table in the dingy dining area. The jukebox played Stevie Nicks’ “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around” and the Captain sampled a slice of pizza. Generic. Two teenage boys came in and stationed themselves in front of the black-and-white TV, which was turned to the Series. They knew the score: 5-1, Tigers.

        Pizza was the last thing the expeditioners wanted when the waitress approached them in the Pizza Hut at 7721 Falls Blvd. “We’re just here to drink,” the First Mate announced as she slid in behind a cocktail-table-model Baby Pac-Man. The group conferred and ordered up a $4.23 pitcher of beer.

        The scene was prototypical Friday night Pizza Hut – nothing but girls, girls, girls in their early teens, chatting, nibbling, smoking cigarettes, sipping soft drinks. “Let’s go in the men’s room,” two of them giggled at the door.

        When they grew up, no doubt they’d find their way across the street to the Crazy Horse Saloon at 7726 Falls Blvd. Noted for its attention to sports and its backyard playing fields, it hosted a softball game under lights and deepening fog.

        The Crazy Horse itself was built like a bowling alley, long and narrow. It was too late for the $2.50 fish fry or anything else but loud, scruffy, wall-to-wall socializing in the smoky heat. An exhaust fan clattered with futility. In the back room, a three-piece rock band finished its set with Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.” The drummer sang and the bassist beat his strings with his fist.

        Drink specials proliferated at the Crazy Horse. Two for every weeknight seemed to be the rule. Monday, in addition to 10-cent chicken wings, there’s 75-cent shots of ouzo, according to a sign above the bar. Another sign listed six fall sports leagues – men’s slow-pitch softball, women’s slow-pitch softball, men’s touch football, women’s touch football, men’s floor hockey and men’s over-35 basketball.

        Rather than linger, the trekkers transported to the brighter, quieter world of the Ground Round at 8529 Falls Blvd. They admired the artful jazz posters adorning the bar area and the totally genial barmaid, Nanette McDonell.

        “Wouldn’t it be better,” the Chief Science Officer inquired, “to have the three TV screens playing three different channels instead of having them all tuned to the same one?”

        “No,” said Nanette, darting to deliver another drink. “I’m crazy enough as it is.”

        In the restaurant room at the rear, folksinger Joe Tumino played the toughest gig in the world, all alone with half a dozen people dining invisibly in booths. In the restrooms, Michael Jackson sang “P.Y.T.” The crew pumped quarters into the video games until the Quartermaster and his mate materialized with tales of heavy fog. The Captain, emboldened by the arrival of reinforcements, urged the crew to press on to one more planet.

        It turned out to be the Evening Star Motel and Restaurant at 8810 Falls Blvd., a dank outpost whose glass bricks, fuzzy red wallpaper and upholstered booths bespoke higher ambitions at some earlier era. The safari seized the shuffleboard bowling machine, leaving the Billiards Technician to challenge the young regulars on the first pool table he’d seen all night.

        One defeat and it was decided to plunge into the fog, which now obscured everything more than three streetlights distant. Happy, the Silver-Haired Sachem suggested a substitute route through the Tonawandas. It worked. Within a couple miles, the expedition was out of the mists.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part II: Going tourist.

The Wagon Wheel: Long ago and lately

Sept. 14, 1984

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part II: 

Going tourist.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXIV: In the distance, the mist drifted skyward from one of the wonders of the universe as the Third Lost Expedition rocketed over the North Grand Island Bridge. What lay before them this Saturday night, however, promised to be even more fantastic and incredible.

        On the first leg of their mission to life a libation in every licensed establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls, N.Y., to El Paso, Texas (or as close to El Paso as they could get), they’d transported among the quiet neighborhood bars in the old residential part of the city. What lay before them now was a garish tourist-oriented commercial strip lined with enough flashing signs to rival Las Vegas.

        Best staging area, the Captain surmised, might be a landmark familiar to generations of galactic travelers, a classic, orange-roofed Howard Johnson’s at 6503 Niagara Falls Blvd. and the exit from I-190. Here the crew, which numbered an even dozen, could lay in some provisions to ease the rigors of the trail ahead.

        But familiarity with HoJo’s bred contempt among the expeditioners. One glance at the menu and they abandoned their table, adjourning to the Lamplighter Lounge. A dark, woodsy cocktail cove, it featured MTV on the tube, a digital pinball machine and a small clot of adult couples lined up in front of a barmaid who served $1.45 bottled beers and $1.65 mixed drinks.

        One round and the need for nourishment became more apparent. An even more traditional roadside artifact would provide their cuisine of choice. Backtracking a mile or so to the west, they threaded their way among the 18-wheelers parked outside Junior’s Truck Stop, 5627 Niagara Falls Blvd.

        Junior’s was just what a truck stop ought to be. Its restaurant was lined with paintings of tractor-trailers, some enhanced with digital clocks. Charge-a-call phones lined one wall. Behind the cash register counter was everything a long-distance hauler would need, from western Union to Rolaids to handsomely printed T-shirts. The Neon Knight lit onto the shirts and brightened even more at the price – a mere $4.

        The troupe pushed together a trio of blue, Formica-topped tables and puzzled over the do-it-yourself menu slips. While he considered the list of $2-and-under sandwiches and the three choices of potatoes (French fries, home fries, hash browns), the waitress, a class ring hanging on a chain around her neck, brought out $1 bottles of Molson’s Golden with glasses on top of them, four at a time, without a tray.

        “Are you supporting truck stops?” a sign by the door asked. “Did you register for a motel room here?” One freshly-showered trucker emerged from the hallway leading to the motel and cocktail lounge. The trekkers, however, found their after-dinner amusement in the room adjacent to the restaurant, which was filled with pinball machines and video games.

        From there, they set their co-ordinates again for the bright lights. The first they homed in on beyond HoJo’s was the Water Wheel Inn at 6615 Niagara Falls Blvd., a motel with a lounge and restaurant attached.

        “No, you won’t need a bartender tonight,” the waitress behind the bar remarked archly to her boss as the troupe filed in and ordered $1 drinks. There wasn’t room for all of them in the bar, so they fell back to the dining room tables, admiring the bright diorama of the American Falls shimmering on the back wall of the restaurant and gazing across the street to marvel at an outstanding display of ‘60s kitsch – a pair of turquoise seahorses adorning the sign for the Holiday Motel.

        Temporarily closed was the Bull Pen at 7001 Falls Blvd., so the expeditioners sailed straight on to the Alibi Lounge at 7121, where there seemed to be plenty of life forms, including a five-man rock band called “Niagara Falls, U.S.A” that played a lot of ‘60s hits.

        Happily, there was no cover charge to get into the Alibi’s two large, darkened rooms. Instead, the place paid for the band out of the bar receipts, which meant that Old Vienna fetched $1.60 a bottle and mixed drinks ran $1.75. The small crowd that greeted the band’s first set soon swelled to several dozen and dancers ventured onto the floor.

        The crew settled quickly upon their passions. At the pool table in the back of the barroom, the Billiards Technician and the Chief Science Officer shut down a regular who proposed to play them for $1 a ball.

        Next stop, the Wagon Wheel at 7201 Niagara Falls Blvd., proved even livelier. A country band in red shirts and tall hats held sway in the elevated rear lounge, pumping out good-natured renditions of such faves as “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” and Chuck Berry’s “Memphis” for a loud and lusty adult crowd, many of whom also were decked out in Western shirts, belts and hats.

        The expeditioners found places in the forced intimacy of the bar area, which was crowned by a shingled façade, ordered themselves a round (Old Vienna was $1.35 here), took over the video games and gawked at the cowboy artifacts dangling from the ceiling, including a pair of boots which danced crazily in the airstream of an electric fan.

        When the band went on break, the jukebox took over, playing not country songs, but rather Ray Parker Jr.’s hit, “Ghostbusters,” three times in a row. Several trekkers ventured up to the lounge and were rewarded by discovering there two enormous birthday cakes – one white, one chocolate – set out for the patrons.

        Feeling particularly festive at this point, the safari slipped across 73rd Street to the Showbiz ‘50s Lounge at 7301 Falls Blvd., which was relatively unpopulated. In the middle of serving $1 beers and $1.50 mixed drinks, Liz the barmaid introduced her mother, Pat, on the other side of the bar. The doorman from the Wagon Wheel stopped in to check receipts. Both places are under the same management.

        The Captain surveyed the jukebox and found it divided between current hits and oldies. After resolving the machine’s bad habit of swallowing quarters and dollar bills, he punched up a gang of ‘50s doo-wop records. Half the troupe joined in singing the goofy vocal lines, rather loudly at that, while a row of regulars at the far end of the bar stared incredulously.

        The other half of the group surrounded the pool table in the side room, but by this time the weight of their travels was unraveling their game. Ultimately, it was uncertain who was partners with whom, a development which riled their competitors. “You can have the table,” one of them grumped after the Chief Science Officer scratched the eight-ball. Amazing, the Captain reflected as the sober drivers were summoned for trip back to home base. Only one night on the Falls Boulevard commercial strip and already the crew was behaving just like the tourists.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part I: Big plans, small beginning.

Chief Science Officer Bob Riley, when he turned over his gallery of Gustos from the distant past, said that at least one of them was missing. That one turned out to be the issue inscribed with the initial outing of the Third Lost Expedition, the fateful night that launched the sipping safari on a journey from here to eternity.

Once more the Captain plunged into the unknown, which in this current Covid-infested dimension was the darkened precincts of The Buffalo News at midnight. In the remnants of the library, he unearthed the missing chapter on microfilm and painstakingly transcribed those grainy images into his recording device, keystroke by keystroke, acutely aware that the mists of time and ancient technology could be blurring some of the names and numbers.

Aug. 10, 1984

The Third Lost Expedition, Part I:

Big plans, small beginning.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXIII: After months languishing around home base, the Captain grew restless for new galaxies to explore. But not just any old set of coordinates would do. He yearned for something more epic than the First Lost Expedition’s march up Main Street, something with more variety and local color than the Second Lost Expedition’s sweep of Oliver Street in North Tonawanda.

        What finally piqued his interest was a newspaper notice about the Route 62 Association, a group of boosters centered primarily in Southern Erie County., which seeks to celebrate that little-recognized federal highway that snakes 1,900 miles from the Niagara River to the Rio Grande. The big Route 62 event this month, according to the association’s past president, Bruce Musacchio of Gowanda, is the Hometown Fair in Mercer, Pa. Among plans for 1985 is a caravan that will drive the entire route.

        What better adventure, the Captain surmised, than to go boldly into every licensed establishment on that route, to quaff a drink in every bar on Route 62 from Niagara Falls, N.Y., to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as the crew could get.

        Even at warp speed, it might take light years to pass down Pine Avenue in the Falls, Niagara Falls Boulevard in the Tonawandas, Bailey Avenue in Buffalo and then South Park Avenue, Blasdell, Hamburg and beyond.

        Perhaps it was the staggering immensity of the undertaking, or maybe it was the dog day doldrums, but it was the tiniest of crews, a safari of four, that embarked on the first stage of the Third Lost Expedition. At the controls was the California Co-Pilot. Acting as scout was the Chief Science Officer. The Captain and the First Mate kept an eye on the navigational aids as their tiny craft zipped along the Robert Moses Parkway to its initial rendezvous.

        At one time, Route 62 ran the entire length of Pine Avenue in Niagara Falls, but now the busy restaurant and commercial district on the western end of it has been redesignated Route 62-A. The main thoroughfare now runs on a pair of one-way streets that are predominantly residential. Northbound, it follows Walnut Avenue, which has no taverns whatsoever. Southbound, it’s Ferry Avenue, which only four drinkeries claim as an address.

        The trekkers stopped into the first of them, Bragg’s at 221 Ferry near Third Street, with high hopes of taking advantage of the Saturday night drink specials posted at the door. Cocktails for the women of the party would be 25 cents from 10 to 11 p.m., 50 cents from 11 to midnight, and 75 cents from midnight to 1 a.m. But alas, it was only 9:30 and the regular rates prevailed.

        Bragg’s was instantly recognizable as a party place, from the shingled canopy over the bar, the big-screen TV on one wall and the king-sized sound system. Air conditioning was not one of its attractions, however, so the troupe drifted to the rear of the place, where a sign pointed to a patio.

        Enclosed by a tall wooden fence, graced with half a dozen picnic tables, it was nearly as big as the indoor room. Staffers readied the auxiliary bar at one end. One of them lit a huge gas torch and plunged it into a charcoal grill. Soon burgers and dogs, corn and clams would be ready.

        “You wanta get your drinks into these plastic glasses?” a bouncer proposed politely as the safari sat transfixed by the grill-lighting spectacle. All of them did, then wandered back inside to the game room, where they encountered two young men who were masters of Mr. Do! Their skill was amazing to behold.

        “We’ve put so many quarters into it,” one said, “that we know the whole program. We always get 10,250 on the first board.”

        In the interim, the main room had filled with dozens of young women, all attracted by the drink specials, which were now in effect. As the crew left to the high-decibel strains of Meat Loaf singing “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” they pushed through still more coming in.

        Next door stood the Colony Restaurant at 223 Ferry, its overhanging portico on the corner of Third Street suggesting the shady and refined spot it once might have been. Inside was a small cocktail lounge and a dining room full of empty tables. The kitchen opens for a Friday fish fry, but was closed this night. The jukebox played Willie Nelson’s “Always on My Mind” and a middle-aged couple necked at one corner of the bar.

        “You young folks from Canada?” asked a frail-looking grandmotherly woman on one of the bar stools. She introduced herself as Edie King, indicated that she lived in an apartment building across the street and noted: “I’ve been working with the public all my life.”

        After sketching her career from farm worker to barmaid, Mrs. King proposed a round on the shuffleboard bowling machine that stood in the front window. Outside, young women continued to flock toward Bragg’s as this senior gamester proceeded to soundly whip the entire crew, even as she apologized for not being able to see what frame it was.

        Thus chastened, the crew warped 17 blocks before sighting the next traces of brewery neon. A pair of motorcycles stood on the sidewalk in front of Amato’s Tavern at 2007 Ferry, while the interior resembled a suburban rec room from the ‘50s, all handsome knotty pine. A Chexx hockey machine and a Ms. Pac-Man stood idle while half a dozen regulars concentrated on the main attraction here, the pool table in the center of the room. Some carried their own pool cues.

        Drink prices were friendly here – 35 cents for a mug of Schmidt’s draft, $1.50 for two bottles of Old Vienna. The Olympics played noiselessly on the television while a garish jukebox, which contained its own glittering ball, pumped out classic oldies like Dion’s “The Wanderer” and Bill Haley’s “See You Later, Alligator.”

        The Chief Science Officer and the California Co-Pilot, both spoiling for a game of pool, wisely refrained from challenging the gang at Amato’s, but their urges could no longer be contained at Lee’s Miniature Falls Restaurant at 2623 Ferry. They commandeered the table in the back room immediately, only to be ousted from it by the skills of a pair of regulars named Maggie and Mark.

        Sleek ‘60s lounge décor predominated at the bar, where the talkative adult crowd ignored Bills football on television and kept playing the same handful of songs over and over on the jukebox. “Where’s the miniature falls?” the Captain asked the barmaid, daughter of owner Leon Saint Onge. She just laughed.

        Though none of the places this night had been air conditioned, Lee’s was by far the muggiest of them all. The trekkers found momentary relief out back on a concrete patio, which had been painted to look like flagstones, but then were told that the yard was for the family, not the patrons.

        Hot and humbled on the gameboards, the troupe retreated and made an early return home. The first leg of Route 62 had been neighborly enough, but that wouldn’t last. Ahead lay the intersection of Pine Avenue and Packard Road and beyond that, mile upon mile of roadside tourist haunts. They glowed on the horizon like a thousand suns.

Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, Part VI: Can this really be the end?

April 27, 1984

Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, Part VI:

Can this really be the end?

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXII: Never had the prospects for the Second Lost Expedition looked so bleak. Although only half a dozen bars stood between them and their quest to have a drink in every licensed establishment on Oliver Street, the North Tonawanda thoroughfare once enshrined in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the greatest concentration of taverns, there was no guarantee they’d be open.

        Last time out, St. Patrick’s Day, all six were dark by 1:30 a.m. Heaven knew what kind of abbreviated hours they’d keep on Good Friday. So the Captain was determined to assemble the crew early.

        But first, some provisions. Rather than risk the unknown, the trekkers put in at a familiar port, Our Inn, at 601 Oliver, where the party ultimately swelled to 16 while police cruisers paraded prominently outside.

        Between pierogis, chicken wings and fried fish dinners, proprietors Gus and Jo Konfonikos and their daughter, Debbie, advised one and all to give up hope of ever gaining admittance to the Mirror Room, 728 Oliver. Last time, they’d been turned away by three elderly women sitting at a table in the front window.

        “You’ll never get in there,” Jo cautioned. Undaunted, the expeditioners worked out a scheme. The meekest and mildest among them would go first. The rest would follow.

        To everyone’s great surprise, there was no resistance whatsoever to the sudden tripling of the population of the Mirror Room. Eight middle-aged regulars offered suspicious glances and that was it. Bartender Michael Galas proved most obliging, pouring 50-cent drafts of Schmidt’s and Genny. “You from Canada?” he asked.

        The Captain identified himself. Galas smiled and said he also had his own place in North Tonawanda. “Tell everybody,” he remarked, “that Galas’ Café is still alive.”

        Up front, meanwhile, the crew got comfortable. The regulars removed their coats from the pool table – no video games here – and Galas switched on the jukebox, which featured oldies that went back to Al Jolson. “All yours,” he said.

        The Neon Knight admired the well-kept tin ceiling and asked if the neon cove lights worked. They didn’t. Vintage Iroquois Beer keg clocks rotated. An Easter egg tree stood gaily in the front window.

        Mindful of early closings, the Captain urged the crew to the next stops, the Village Inn and the East Avenue Tavern, at 869 and 881 Oliver respectively. The Village Inn was dark. Disappointed, the troupe crossed East Avenue to the other place. It turned out they were expected.

        “Are you on a trek up Oliver Street?” the barmaid inquired.

        “Well, I guess you could say we’re lost,” one expeditioner replied.

        Thus unmasked, the safari settled into drafts of Black Horse Ale, the MTV, the video games and general admiration for the well-preserved Art Deco back bar, along with a small collection of trophies, which included an unlikely one for last place. “I guess you’d call that the Equine Posterior Award,” one crewman quipped.

        The barmaid and bartender were husband and wife, Leonard and Janice Wudyka. Janice reported that the place still did a lively trade with the factory workers from Armstrong Pump and Buffalo Pump, opening at 8 a.m. Evenings, however, could be slow. She was full of other information as well, most importantly about the Village Inn. “That’s been closed,” she said, “for six years.”

        She had the line on Mazurik’s Gratwick Lanes at 1070 Oliver too. Closed early, often by 8 p.m., much too early for the expedition. The travelers rolled past its lifeless windows and proceeded to Joey’s Tavern at 1186 Oliver.

        Unpretentious and benignly neglected, Joey’s featured steel engravings of the presidents along the walls, a tatty shuffleboard bowling machine and the cheapest draft beers the crew had encountered in many a light year – 35 cents for a glass of Genny, Schmidt’s or Stroh’s, three for $1.

        A short stroll took them to Harold’s Club, 1242 Oliver at Ward Road, a commodious place that looked ready to handle a regiment. There were amusements galore – a foosball table in the back room, a pool table in the side room, video games, a bowling machine. The crew scattered to its various passions, giving the nearly empty place the flush of lively patronage. The middle-aged bartender took time out from pouring 50-cent Genny drafts to turn up the jukebox.

        “Is this really it?” the Chief Science Officer asked incredulously.

        The Captain assured him it was. A few steps away was the North Tonawanda city line. Yes, after six outings, the Second Lost Expedition had taken the measure of Oliver Street, or what’s left of it in this post-industrial age: 30 bars, 20-odd pool tables, thousands of sports trophies and hundreds of determined regulars who never saw so many tourists on their home turf at once. Would there be a third foray into the unknown? Pondering this cosmic question, the crew warped into the night, their coordinates set for breakfast.

Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, Part V: St. Patrick's Day

March 23, 1984

Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, 
Part V:

St. Patrick’s Day

        CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXI: St. Patrick’s Day is a major holiday in the bar business, but how big would it be on Oliver Street? The Captain pondered this question as the Second Lost Expedition assembled at its suburban launching pad. After all, even though this North Tonawanda thoroughfare once boasted its own entry in the Guinness Book of World Records for the greatest concentration of drinking places, the predominant ethnic persuasion there is Polish, not Irish.

        To begin the latest installment of this mission to have a drink in every licensed establishment on Oliver, the safari shuttled straight to the spiffiest spot on the street, the Stardust Lounge at 775 Oliver.

        Large and darkly paneled, it featured a dance floor amid all its tables. A sing on the organ on the bandstand announced “The Stardusters.” Obviously, the house band. This evening also found the Stardust festooned with a generous compliment of shamrocks and green balloons, but the corned beef and cabbage special advertised in the front window had already come and gone.

        “We did it last Sunday,” the barman reported as he distributed menus to the party of 11. “We didn’t want to compete with everyone else.”

        The kitchen seemed more prepared for snacking than serious dining. Chicken in the basket and a rib-eye steak with fries were about as substantial as the menu got, except for Friday, when seafood dominates the deep fryers. No prices were listed. Most of the troupe opted for chicken wings, which turned up scrawny for $1.85 a single order, $3.50 a double.

        What left the deepest impression on the expeditioners, however, was the pristine condition of the restrooms. Nowhere had they encountered such spotlessness, not even at home. A label assured the visitors that the cleaning agent “disinfects faster than boiling water.”

        A different set of priorities reigned across the street in the Shanty Shack at 756 Oliver, a hard-core rock ‘n’ roll bar with a reputation for roughness. At this early hour, the rough crowd kept itself in the back room around the pool table, awaiting the arrival of one of the St. Pat’s specials – free pizza.

        Also special this night was green beer at 50 cents a bottle. A tiny bottle of food coloring sat ready to convert any golden glass of Matt’s Premium to emerald. Judging by the sign behind the bar, specials are a way of life at the Shanty Shack. Every night has a different price break. Thursday, for instance, is dollar night. Another sign touted “the best wings in the Twin Cities, 99 cents.”

        The safari confined its recreation to the front room, commandeering the Centipede and Donkey Kong games. The Captain and the Chief Science Officer noted the ceiling panels made of particle board, the splendor of MTV playing soundlessly while the PA system pumped out hard rock, and the coin-operated Breathalyzer machine.

        Across the street was the most charming stop of the night. Though the sign above the door of Topolski’s Restaurant at 747 Oliver suggested a full kitchen, it had long been shut down, as had the back room full of tables. A large, pink stuffed rabbit greeted anyone drifting back there.

        Sitting disassembled on another back table were a couple of the model trains that circled the ceiling of the barroom on a bed of Plexiglas. The trains, a regular named Keith reported, were installed a few years ago, as were the murals that made a landscape for the railroad to run through.

        Sitting at the bar was the man who put it all together, septuagenarian Julian Topolski. In this location for 42 years, he was content this night to watch his barmaid serve the drinks. The sports photos on the back wall showed him surrounded by vigorous young women softball players. A contingent of them took over the foosball table and gave the expeditioners a taste of their athletic prowess.

        Humbled at foosball, the crew retreated to the pool table, where they unsuccessfully challenged another regular named Chuck, who at age 25 had lost his job and was about to depart for the Navy. When a young man popped in to deliver free Shanty Shack pizza to the women athletes, the trekkers decided it was time to explore other worlds.

        They proved few and far between. At the Mirror Room, 728 Oliver, three elderly women in the front window waved the troupe away. “We don’t feel so good tonight,” they explained.

        Next door in the eight-alley Deluxe Bowling Lanes, 712 Oliver, the leagues were wrapping up around midnight and so were the owners. “There’s never much call for open bowling,” the bartender noted, serving a round of $1 Labatts Blues. The crew made do with the video games and the pinball machines until the last of the bowlers left.

        Pressing onward, the expeditioners discovered the next two stops closed for the night. In fact, no life forms could be detected until they reached the Gratwick district on the north side of North Tonawanda. In the Ranch House, 1093 Oliver, there was life galore.

        Whooping it up at the bar was a contingent of reckless regulars, a hunting and fishing kind of crowd. After the jukebox played “Elvira” and “The Curly Shuffle,” they amused themselves with a 10-minute round of shouting: “Where’s the beef?”

        Presiding over it all was an ample, good-natured barmaid named Peggy, who volleyed insults back as hard as they were delivered and shrugged off the splashing bursts of gas from the soft drink wand by announcing with a laugh, “If I ever catch the guy who did this, I’ll kill him.”

        The safari spread out across the big back room, picking up on the pool table, the coin-operated games and the antique photos showing early incarnations of this place as the J. T. Schmidt Café. The Chief Science Officer stepped outside to see if there was any resemblance between the present structure and the one pictured from 1901. There wasn’t.

        Since it was only 1:30 a.m., the Captain urged the company to press on to a sixth destination, thereby easing the itinerary for the final jaunt in April. But there was none to be found. Only two more places remained before Oliver turned into Ward Road at the city line. Both were already dark. Rowdy regulars, prowling police, drunken drivers, all these hazards the Second Lost Expedition had survived.  But this they hadn’t counted on. It would be the toughest test of all – beating the early closings.

Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, Part IV: Tightly clustered.

Feb. 24, 1984

Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, Part IV: 

Tightly clustered.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XX: Experience had taught the Captain that the essential element to the success of the Second Lost Expedition was proper provisioning. After all, an army marches on its stomach. And when those stomachs are out to take a drink in every licensed public establishment on Oliver Street in North Tonawanda – that thoroughfare once fabled for fostering the most taverns in the shortest distance – well, it seemed prudent to first lay down a solid foundation of food.

        After arriving late last time out and watching the Friday night fish fry get away at Our Inn, 601 Oliver, the Captain was determined to catch it. The plan was simple: Get there by 8 p.m. or shortly thereafter. The proprietors, Gus and Jo Koufonikos, greeted the crew with broad smiles. Then they popped the bad news. Out of fish. “It was wild in here earlier,” Jo reported, much to everyone’s dismay.

        Undaunted, the Captain ordered a $3 pitcher of Genesee Cream Ale and inquired further. Was the kitchen closed? Far from it. Jo still had shrimp, chicken wings and sandwiches, not to mention pierogis. The dispirited trekkers perked up and began pushing tables together in the rear dining room.

        The pierogis proved to be real palate pleasers. Jo popped out from the kitchen between orders and kept the atmosphere jovial with a succession of raucous jokes. Meanwhile, the size of the expedition began to exceed the capacity of the back room. Previous outings had attracted as many as 15, but early reports indicated that this one would break all records. It did. Before the final pierogi was polished off, the head count exceeded 20.

        Added also was a pair of knowledgeable North Tonawandans – Gus and Jo’s daughter, Debbie, and her boyfriend, Kurt Bemisderfer. They led the lengthy procession across the street to the first of the evening’s explorations, The Cabaret at 672 Oliver, where a big, bright Solidarity sign hung above the front window.

        The Cabaret was full of curiosities. An endless collection of beer cans covered the walls of the barroom. The safari spilled into the back room, where it encountered another unlikely sight. Set up on a couple tables was an impromptu flea market, featuring everything from collapsible pool cues to sets of steak knives and packages of tube socks.

        Although there was no pool table, the gamesters found diversion at pinball and Ms. Pac-Man. The Captain surveyed the other specialty of The Cabaret – its specials. Wings were 10 cents every night from 8 to midnight. The daily happy hour extended from opening until 6 p.m. Even now, the drinks were cheap enough. The Neon Knight ordered a Black Russian and paid $1. Five brands of beer stood on tap.

        From there, the throng shuttled across the intersection to Jumbo’s, 671 Oliver, run by Debbie Koufonikos’ uncle. A short, balding man, he presided over a quiet, old-fashioned place with a white enameled beer cooler, a forest of bowling trophies above the back bar and a floor of tiny hexagon tiles that must date from the ‘30s.

        No video games at Jumbo’s, just TV and a quartet of regulars absorbed in cards in the back room. No draft beer either, but bottled brands were eminently reasonable. The Captain picked up a Scotch and water and five Labatts Blues and got 35 cents change from a $5 bill.

        The trekkers milled around, downed their drinks and spilled en masse back across the street to Mickey Finn’s, 680 Oliver. With its rocking sound system and its young and reckless clientele, it was the kind of bar the troupe was accustomed to.

        Woodwork and shingles framed the bar, where high-octane Labatts Extra Stock was on tap. The video game addicts seized the Donkey Kong machine on the raised platform in the front window, while the Billiards Technician and the Chief Science Officer tested the tough competition at the pool table.

        Entrepreneurs abounded here, too. One of them offered mechanical doves which, when taken outside for demonstrations, had an unfortunate penchant for finishing their flights with nosedives to the pavement.

        Again crossing the street, the safari poured into Klimek’s, 685 Oliver. The crew admired the classic mirrored back bar and the tin ceiling. The Captain’s attention was drawn to a row of sports trophies over the door to the back room. Under the biggest trophy of all – the cup – there was nailed a small bronze plaque that read: “In memory of Ray. From his family and the 1978 ‘B’ Softball Team.”

        “That’s him in the Hawaiian shirt,” one of the regulars told the Captain, indicating a photo in the middle of a line of pictures of uniformed sportsmen high on the adjacent wall. Ray Klimek, it turned out, was a great competitor and a friend to all until one Friday night when, a regular reported, “he died of a massive heart attack, right behind the bar.”

        His son, Paul, poured the drinks this night. Most reasonable prices they carried, too. Canadian brews went for 90 cents a bottle. Meanwhile, the First Mate found triumph at the pool table, the gamesters took turns at Pac-Man and the rest settled into booths and tables. On what was the most interesting, most hospitable and most tightly clustered stretch of Oliver Street so far, Klimek’s was the place they liked best.

        Such contentment made the Captain’s job doubly difficult when he realized there was still one more place left to explore. The regular crew members protested. The new recruits, unused to the rigors of pub-crawling, balked completely.

        As a result, the group that again paraded across the street was diminished by nearly a dozen. They discovered that J. P. Oliver’s, 700 Oliver St., was only slightly less wonderful than Klimek’s. It too had trophies, seating booths, a terrific tin ceiling and video games.

        It also had a late menu, with chicken wings at $2.25 and $3.75, but the barman said the kitchen closed at 1 a.m. The trekkers made do with the drink specials. Standard cocktails were $1. Three Old Vienna splits went for $1.35. Mirrored liquor signs adorned the walls and Southern rock roared on the sound system. A sign advertised a Finlandia Vodka night with dollar drinks and T-shirts, too.

        Exhausted as they exited, the expeditioners snapped back to attention as an aging sedan screeched through the intersection of Seventh Avenue. In hot pursuit was a police car, roof lights flashing. Thus reminded of the perils of the homeward flight, the designated sober drivers assured everyone they were still unimpaired and took special care as they warped toward Buffalo.

Adventures of the Second Lost Expedition, Part III: Friday the 13th

Jan. 27, 1984

The Second Lost Expedition, Part III: Friday the 13th.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XIX: Friday the 13th, would it be any different from any other Friday on Oliver Street?, the Captain speculated as the Second Lost Expedition gathered at the launch site of its suburban shuttle. This time they would push into the very heart of that hearty North Tonawanda thoroughfare, once celebrated in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the greatest concentration of licensed premises.

        On the first two legs of this quest to have a drink in each and every one of these establishments, Oliver Street had shown the trekkers 10 pool tables in 11 bars and a remarkable panorama of that fabled Lumber City clannishness. It seemed like everyone there was a regular.

        So was it bad luck or simple unfamiliarity that transported the troupe of seven into its preliminary fish fry spot 15 minutes after the kitchen’s 9 p.m. closing? “Sorry,” said Jo Koufonikos at Our Inn, 601 Oliver. “I just dumped out the batter.”

        Disappointed, the safari retreated through the falling snow to the southern end of its itinerary, inquiring at Andy’s Inn, 485 Oliver, and learning that the fish fry there ended at 8 p.m.

        Back they trudged to Mitch’s Del Taco, 474 Oliver, where they’d found sustenance in take-out form during the last expedition. Lest there be no place to take it out to, the Captain scouted Yoon Hee’s Rainbow Lounge, 468 Oliver. “Sure, it’s all right,” said the stocky bartender.

        At Mitch’s, the motherly chief clerk and taco maker mentioned that late nights had gotten quiet on Oliver Street lately. She reckoned it was all because of the police crackdown on drunken drivers. “The kids go home early now,” she said. “So does the older crowd.”

        Nevertheless, it was still early enough for the senior citizens at Yoon Hee’s. They lined the bar, absorbed in the Sabres game on TV. Gretzky had just picked up his assist, one elderly gentleman informed the Captain while the crew transferred his cane off the top of the corner table.

        Behind the bar now was a petite Oriental woman, who poured $1 mixed drinks and 65-cent Labatts drafts. A sign advertised three beers for $1 and 95 cents for a shot and a beer from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. Monday to Friday. A comfortable upholstered bench ran the length of the barroom. Smack in the middle of the back room, instead of a pool table, there burned a big black wood stove.

        Wary of disturbing the environmental balance here, the trekkers neatly stashed their chicken wing bones and burrito wrappers back into their boxes and transported across the street to Palka’s Town Bowling Lanes, 465 Oliver. “Don’t go in there with your boots on,” the senior barmaid sternly warned them as they contemplated the eight alleys within, all of them busy.

        No pool table here either. The First Mate got two of the darkened video games turned on, while the rest of the crew admired the plastic Boston ferns, the brick arches behind the bar and the generousness of the drinks. Among the wonders – a gargantuan shot of cognac and a beer glass full of white wine. The Captain scanned the jukebox until he found “I’m Going to Hire a Wino (To Decorate Our Home).”

        Returning to Andy’s Inn, the troupe was informed that this would be a quick stop. “We close at midnight,” the pert blonde barmaid reported. “It cuts down on fights.”

        It was hardly a fighting clientele on hand, however, just three aging regulars, loudly competing at the pool table. Behind the bar was a display of Blind Robins, those rare and pungent salted fish snacks. The bolder crew members sampled them while the others commandeered the shuffleboard bowling machine and noted the heavy green plastic tablecloths and the neat little rear dining room.

        One drink and the safari shifted diagonally across the Wheatfield Street intersection to the Sportsman’s Inn at 500 Oliver, where, at the stroke of midnight, a frail, grey-haired Salvation Army woman strode through the door, brandishing the latest issue of The War Cry, which she offered to one and all.

        On her departure, the scene returned to normal. ESPN flashed noiselessly on the TV, Z-98 roared with its final pre-WRXT heavies on the sound system and the burly bartender chatted casually with three equally beefy buddies. Standing dark was the other half of this wood-paneled double storefront. Beyond the empty tables, sports trophies gleamed on the far wall.

        While the Chief Science Officer discovered that the billiards table cost 35 cents, the Captain set out to put a new high score on the Kiss pinball machine. Many quarters later, the record remained unchanged. So did the little old man sitting on the radiator in the front window. Here was a fellow truly down on his luck. On the way out, one of the crew bought him a beer.

        The Chief Science Officer had eyes for the private Dom Polski club at 576 Oliver. “Come take a look at this,” he urged the Captain as he returned from a peek inside. It was indeed remarkable. At 1:30 a.m., this was the liveliest spot on the street, full of under-30 revelers.

        The journey ended where it began, back with Gus and Jo Koufonikos at Our Inn, three blocks north of Sportsman’s. Here the crowd had thinned out, too. A movie about Elvis played on TV. Jo was preparing to leave.

        The genial Gus served up $1 drinks and the crew threw themselves at the Centipede video game, the shuffleboard bowling machine and the pool table. At length, a rangy regular named Bob Grant appeared and conquered the safari’s billiards and Centipede champs. Bob conceded that he wasn’t all that good at Centipede. The top score, the one in the hundreds of thousands, belonged to his brother George.

        Not to push their luck, even on Saturday the 14th, the crew entrusted themselves to their designated sober shuttle pilots. On this slippery night, they encountered no police interceptors, just huge, slow-moving municipal snowplows, spreading salt.