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.
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