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.