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.