Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVII: The portals of South Buffalo

Jan. 17, 1986

The Third Lost Expedition, Part XVII:

The portals of South Buffalo

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXIX: The crossing that lay ahead of the Third Lost Expedition as they set forth onto fabled federal Route 62 this particular Friday night was one which had confounded generations of their predecessors. Even as mighty a planner as Frederick Law Olmsted threw up his drafting pencil in dismay when confronted with it 100 years ago.

        This would be their passage out of the East Side and into South Buffalo, through a morass of meandering highways, railway viaducts and heavy industry, over the lowlands surrounding the once-treacherous Buffalo Creek. Needless to say, they couldn’t lift a drink in every licensed establishment along the highway from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas (or as close to El Paso as they could get), without taking the plunge.

        There were no way-stations on this part of the route, so a bit of preliminary fortification was in order. For this, the crew warily pulled up to dock outside a place at the corner of Bailey Avenue and Clinton Street called Desi’s Market Restaurant. From the outside, Desi’s resembled an old-fashioned neighborhood tavern, presumably pouring shots and beers for the drivers and the food wholesalers from the nearby Clinton-Bailey Market.

        On the inside, however, it was basic truck stop – white, Formica-topped tables, a long lunch counter and grill and signs covering virtually every square inch of wall space, offering things like pizza at 95 cents a slice and daily specials, which meant a $3.50 fish fry.

        Even so, it still had many of the amenities of a neighborhood bar. A draft of Genesee Beer or Cream Ale, normally 50 cents, could be had in a frosted schuper for 75 cents. One could indulge in chilled shots of vodka or peach or apple schnapps, 10 for $5. One could also buy six-packs to go. Clientele ranged from a pair of leather-jacketed bikers to a frisky group of young revelers who pushed together a bunch of chairs and tables, downed one drink and left. A car in the lot outside proclaimed: “Norman Skulski, Polish Prince of Painting.”

        Diversions included a bowling machine, a video game and a juke box, though the sound system played rock oldies from the ‘60s. The Native American Guide learned that they were compiled by a fellow named Mark, who is a cousin to the Desiderios who have the dinner theater restaurant in West Seneca. He lives upstairs.

        Reassured that there was no danger of the kitchen closing – it was open till midnight – the safari, which numbered 10, leisurely ordered an array of sandwiches, fish fries and wings, discovering that the daily 5 to 9 p.m. 10-cent chicken wing special was still in effect. They came from the grill in a leisurely fashion also, in servings that revealed what made the low menu prices possible.

        Next they set off to stiffen their resolve and sharpen their reflexes at an emporium half a block north at 727 Bailey Ave. called the Bowl Inn. Entering via a door off the parking lot, they passed a dozen bowling lanes with record scores posted above them and found their way to the tables and booths of the lounge and snack bar, lit partially by the glow of neon behind glass bricks.

        Beer was cheap here too – 50 cents for a Schmidt’s draft, 55 cents for Labatts 50 Ale on tap, $1 for a bottle of Ballantine’s India Pale Ale. The tables held little placards bearing the beaming, all-too-familiar face of Olympic gymnast Mary Lou Retton and the message: “C’mon, America. Go for 10. Go Bowling.” Though a couple lanes opened up, the trekkers opted to exercise their coordination at the video games instead.

        Then it was time to buckle into the shuttlecraft and head into the void. “How do we find the next stop?” someone asked the Captain.

        “No matter what happens, just keep following the Route 62 signs,” he instructed. “Sooner or later, you’ll wind up on South Park Avenue.”

        Amazingly, the perilous passage to South Buffalo went without incident, at least until they walked through the front door of McPartlan’s Grill, 1586 South Park Ave. at Alamo. Sitting smack in front of them was the Billiards Technician, his mate and their grown-up daughter. They had just finished a fish fry. “We couldn’t find that other place,” they explained, “so we decided to see if you’d show up here.”

        In truth, they may have had the better deal of it. McPartlan’s had a cozier décor – wood paneling, cloth covers on the backs of the chairs. It had cheaper beer – a Genesee draft was just 45 cents a glass. And its menu was less expensive. The haddock was $3.25. A beef on weck went for just $2. What’s more, the amenities included malt vinegar for the French fries and a beer cooler that housed half-liter bottles of foamy Spaten Club Weissbier, served with a tall glass for a mere $1.75.

        From the quiet of McPartlan’s, they transported to quite a different atmosphere at the Red Brick Inn, 1626 South Park. The long bar was crowded with amiable standees of both sexes and the computerized, space-age jukebox thumped with Motley Crue’s “Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room.” The Billiards Technician’s mate took one look and declared, “This place is hoppin’.”

        Even so, this wasn’t your basic South Buffalo hangout. There was no pool table, no hardcore loiterers. It was more like a singles bar with a strong neighborhood feel. Here a Genny draft went for 55 cents. A Molson’s Golden was $1.25. The décor included signs for the bar’s social club and primary election posters for Mayor Griffin. The grill behind the bar was still open to serve snacks – the fish fry had run out at 8 p.m. – and the Captain decided to see whether the place still served the specially spiced chicken wings it used to be known for.

        The wings were as small as those at Desi’s, but meatier and extraordinarily peppery, though they weren’t swimming in sauce. But was that special spice there? The Chief Science Officer couldn’t detect it. The Captain thought he could. To settle matters, they asked the manager, Dave Oake. “It’s still the same recipe,” he reported. “Maybe it’s a new jar of sauce.”

        For the nightcap, they ventured on to a pair of classic South Buffalo saloons that stood side by side at the corner of Folger Street – J&B’s Cozy Grill at 1757 South Park and the Capitol Bar at 1761 South Park. Oddly, the Captain hadn’t noticed them when he took preliminary readings of the sector.

        The Cozy Grill had a pool table, where the ultimate victor was the young bar assistant. It also had a fish tank standing in the center of the bar. The droll, middle-aged bartender explained there was a free drink waiting for anyone who dropped a coin into one of the shot glasses that stood on the bottom.

        The Capitol had no sign over the door, just a number. Inside was a long, looping bar and décor that could best be described as unfinished drywall. Behind the bar was a middle-aged woman with threads of grey in her hair. The pool table was full of waiting quarters. The Billiards Technician, having gone off in search of his kin when they didn’t show up at the Cozy Grill, checked back in and said he was going to go down to Argy’s at 1797 South Park to see if they were there. Sure enough, there they were. Their sensors hadn’t even picked up these two other places.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVI: Back to the basics

The bar at Pristach's. A classic shot-and-a-beer bar, it closed in 2010. 

      When Chief Science Officer Bob Riley gave over his gallery of Gustos from the distant past, he said that at least one of them was missing. He underestimated. Three of them were not there, including the next installment. Fortunately, they are preserved on microfilm. Once again, the Captain dug into the remnants of the library at The Buffalo News and, bolstered with magnifying devices for better accuracy, keyed this pre-Christmas journey from 1985 into his recorder. 

Dec. 20, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XVI: 

Back to the basics.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXVIII: Blown by the wind, blinded by the snow, the Captain and the First Mate skidded gratefully into a trackless parking lot next door to the designated staging area, Marg’s at 875 Bailey Ave., corner of Dingens. Did any of the others make it, they wondered. There was only one way to find out. They buckled up their protective gear, gritted their teeth and plunged into the gale.

        Breathlessly, they burst through the airlock in the interior of this, the southernmost station on this evening’s itinerary – a tour of the lower reaches of Bailey on Buffalo’s East Side – as part of their continuing quest to quaff a drink in every licensed establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        As their eyes adjusted in the haze of cigarette smoke and the dim reflection of the red neon lights outlining the hexagonal front windows of the place, they saw they were not alone. As a matter of fact, half a dozen other crew members already had established a base and were quickly making themselves at home.

        The Captain had hoped to find nourishment for the troupe at Marg’s – after all, the sign out front had promised “Fine Food” – but none was to be had at this hour. The place no longer served dinners, only a short lunch menu. What preoccupied the handful of regulars, virtually all of them flannel-shirted males, were the pool table in the back room and a full-length shuffleboard behind a row of tables in the bar area.

        But this was something more than a just a neighborhood recreational center, the trekkers soon discovered. The ceiling was ornate tin. The walls were paneled not in cheap veneer, but in tongue-in-groove mahogany up front and cherry in the back. And tending the bar were its namesake, a small, determined, white-haired woman, and her gregarious husband, Joe.

        Taking a reading on the beer supply, the Captain and the Chief Science Officer learned that the four taps labeled Pabst were inactive, so they opted for Molson’s Golden ($1.40) and Genesee Cream Ale ($1.25). There were no European imports. The most esoteric domestic in the old glass-doored cooler was Schmidt’s Classic.

        It wasn’t long before Joe engaged them in conversation, expounding conservative politics and then telling how his parents left Russia because they saw the revolution coming. With the arrival of additional expeditioners, he suddenly sensed just who this pack of strangers might be. He gave the Captain a couple of quarters with instructions to play some Christmas songs on the jukebox.

        Santas smiled benevolently behind the bar and so did Joe. He offered to buy a round, hoisting a toast with his own favorite potion – club soda with vodka. Russian, indeed. He said he and Marg had run this place since 1948.

        The effects of that extra round reminded one and all that food would be essential to the success of this evening’s travels, so despite Joe’s invitation to stay and have another, they filed into the frigid night and set their coordinates for a place they knew would have provisions until midnight – the Old Bailey Inn, 1305 Bailey at East Lovejoy.

        What recommends the Old Bailey Inn most is that it makes beef on weck sandwiches in the manner of the late, lamented Bailo’s, which stood for many years on the opposite corner. No longer simply a neighborhood eating place, under new management it’s evolved into a clean, spiffed-up regional restaurant with nautical-flavored décor.

        Beef on weck has become such an attraction that the Old Bailey Inn menu offers it five ways – plain, with gravy, with coleslaw, vegetable and potato, open or closed and, finally, the famous triple-decker, with prices ranging from $3.50 to $6.50.

        The crew, which now numbered a dozen, clustered around tables pushed together opposite the bar and divided their orders between the beef and the $3.95 fish fry, which turned out to be just as generous and delicious as the beef. The jukebox here played Christmas songs too. Tinsel garlands hung from the ceiling and behind the bar. Holiday lights brightened the windows.

        Backtracking north, the safari set down in the first of what the Billiards Technologist’s Mate dubbed “basic bars.” This one at 1386 Bailey, corner of Stanley, was called simply K’s Tavern. Behind the bar was a blustery old gent who maintained an above-average selection of brews, ranging from Matt’s Premium on tap for 45 cents a glass to the big half-liter bottles of Spaten Weissbier, the wheat beer, which went for $2 and was served with a large embossed glass.

        “Do you know how to pour this?” he inquired gruffly as he brought one out. “That’s right,” he growled as the Captain tipped the glass steeply so that the effervescent brew didn’t erupt into a cascade of foam.

        A giant wreath hung behind the bar and the mirror there was sprayed with imitation snow. A Christmas tree stood in the back room, where the pool table was. A deposit was required to use the cue ball. Other crew members explored the bowling machine, the video games and a complimentary snack plate containing fresh rye bread, Limburger cheese and onions.

        Next they ventured north of Broadway to an outpost at 1598 Bailey where the sign above the door read JN’s, while hand-lettered messages in the window proclaimed it the Klub Kaz. Like K’s, it had been remodeled with a dropped ceiling and veneer paneling, but it featured a much livelier bunch of denizens.

        Dominating the scene was a hotly-contested game of indoor rubber horseshoes, which was set up just inside the front door and ran to the doorway to the back room. It obliged everyone else to either cling to the bar and dash to the tables on the other side of the room, where the bowling machine stood. It too was decked for the holidays with tinsel, paper bells and red balls hanging from the ceiling.

        The crew had to trudge only a few doors north to the final stop, Pristach’s at 1634 Bailey, which had all the basics in place. There was a tin ceiling, the walls were painted red and there was a lazy sense of permanence in the middle-aged barman and the three regulars who sat silently at 10-foot intervals along the bar. Not even the salubrious sight of the First Mate at the pool table stirred them.

        Prices were definitely basic. A Genesee Cream Ale ran only 85 cents a bottle, while Old Vienna was a mere dollar. Food offerings were basic, too – chili, barbecue burgers, Polish sausage, plus candy bars and nuts behind the bar.

        For a final touch, there were a few bits of saloon philosophy posted around and about. The best of them proposed: “Yesterday is but a dream and tomorrow is only a vision, but today is a real bitch.” 

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XV: Strange universes

Instead of a feature photo this time, there's a box announcing the publication of "A Beerdrinker's Guide to Buffalo Bars." It went on to become the second-best-selling local book that Christmas season, runner-up to a collection of the wit and wisdom of Mayor Jimmy Griffin.

Nov. 22, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XV:

Strange universes.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXVII: The Captain feared he’d blown it as his shuttlecraft docked alongside the designated staging area, Benny’s Grill and Lounge at Bailey Avenue and Genesee Street. Everyone he’d alerted had expressed confusion over the coordinates and, what’s more, no other familiar transporters lined the crumbling curb in this lonely corner of the universe.

        A barren row of boarded storefronts dimly reflected the glare of a towering McDonalds sign not far away. Indeed, aside from the blazing hamburger outlet, the big gray building housing Benny’s seemed to be about the only other thing in this quadrant capable of supporting nightlife. Its neon was a welcome sight.

        So were the members of a small advance party of the Third Lost Expedition. Having landed around the corner and down the street, they were clustered at the sleekly-hooded semi-circular bar – an island of ‘50s revisionism in what otherwise was an exquisitely old-fashioned place with a perfectly preserved ornate tin ceiling – marking this latest milestone in their quest to lift a libation in every licensed establishment along fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        A handful of regulars held down spaces at intervals around the bar, but the restaurant area beyond it was unpopulated. Pouring 50-cent drafts of Genesee beer for this assembly was a lean and grizzled gent named Charlie, who informed the safari that the tavern’s namesake had passed away, and that his widow, Arlene, would be doing the cooking. There was a fish fry, naturally, but a glance around the place at signs for pierogis and duck’s-blood soup indicated where the rest of her culinary sentiments resided.

        Nevertheless, there were no menus. Charlie simply asked for orders. “Duck soup,” the Captain began, then attempted to add another item. “No, wait a minute,” Charlie protested. “One thing at a time. Now who else wants duck soup?”

        Various trekkers also soon discovered that certain exotic potions they favor were unavailable and, in some cases, unheard of. The Computer Banker drew a blank when she requested her usual Kahlua and milk. “You want Amaretto?” Charlie inquired. She demurred and asked next for a rum and cola. “I got that,” he assured her.

        The jukebox struck up Nat King Cole’s “Ramblin’ Rose” and the food arrived in what seemed like a flash. Raisins and homemade noodles filled the hearty duck soup, which came in a generous bowl for just 90 cents. The pierogis – 65 cents each – were so big that three of them covered a dinner plate. The $4 fish fry sat like a golden crown atop a heap of homemade salads. The French fries were hand cut. A chorus of compliments greeted Arlene when she emerged from the kitchen to see how everyone liked it.

        It was one of the Third Lost Expedition’s smaller choruses, however, and it was soon to start shrinking further. The Interplanetary Parson, whose parish was nearby, bid farewell with the news that he soon would be transferring to Vermont or New Hampshire.

        Reduced to eight, the safari shot northward to explore the territory between Benny’s and their last previous stop not far from the Kensington Expressway.

        The Captain hadn’t reckoned on Leon’s, a disco catering to a predominantly black clientele that had been installed in the old Frank’s Casa Nova at Bailey and East Ferry, and had indicated far and wide that the second stop would be farther north at the Nite Owl Tavern at 2424 Bailey. Leon’s, he insisted, would be better later. Nonetheless, several trekkers peeked in and found it nearly empty at this still-early hour.

        The Nite Owl, meanwhile, was hopping. On hand were the bowling team and several young adult couples, some of whom had drawn faces in the small, steamed-up panes of glass in the front window. Sports played on TV, but it was the jukebox which dominated the place with a succession of loud hits, old and new.

        “Now serving shrimp dinners,” a hand-lettered sign proclaimed, but dinner hour was over. The crew, having secured 65-cent Genesee drafts and $1.10 mixed drinks, immediately began exploring the bowling machine, the video games, the old wooden phone booth and the other neat touches of vintage woodwork about the place, which reminded the Captain of places he’d frequented when he was back at the Academy.

        “Members Only,” said a door which led to the basement. Nothing much down there, one of the regulars reported. Posted over a photo montage above the jukebox was a sign announcing a $20 bus excursion to the Jets-Bills football game Dec. 8. Three older fellows playing cards at one of the tables in the bar area up front erupted into an argument. “Sit down and play,” two of them urged their disgruntled compatriot.

        Late arrivals at the Nite Owl remarked upon a fight in front of the next stop up the block at 2454 Bailey, but there was no evidence of it when the full party arrived. Above the door shone a broken neon sign which identified it as the …nky Tonk. The doorknob rattled loosely, but didn’t unlatch the door. A barmaid looked up and buzzed the troupe in.

        A glittering ball, a deejay booth and fuzzy red wallpaper at the rear attested that this was a disco in the not-too-distant past. But now empty cases were piled around the dance floor and beers are listed prominently. The owner is a guy (absent that night) who does handmade wooden signs. Under him, it’s become a hangout, and a rather quiet one at that, except for a young woman who dropped loud hints that she knew who these strangers were. Undismayed, the Billiards Technician and the Chief Science Officer commandeered the well-worn pool table a few feet from her stool.

        From there, they marched to the corner of Bailey and East Delavan to Unger’s Du-Stop Inn, for years a family tavern-restaurant but lately turned into a full-fledged party bar. Though the kitchen was still open for wings and such, gone was the careful arrangement of tables and chairs in the perfectly preserved ‘50s style back room. A foosball table had been installed. The only reminder of what it had been was the floor, wall-to-wall black-and-white old-fashioned hex tiles.

        A deejay in a booth at the front of the bar area blasted the young patrons with recent rock hits. Some danced. Some watched two women conquer a succession of male challengers on the foosball table. It was loud, crowded and smoky.

        Next was the northernmost destination, the Cotton Club at 2609 Bailey. The fancy showcase club in the rear was closed, but the black disco out front was fully in session. Getting in wasn’t easy. Not only was there a $2 cover charge, but there also was a dress code. No sneakers. The First Mate sneaked by in forbidden footwear, but was apprehended at the Ms. Pac-Man machine and told she could not stay.

        Incensed, she went to her shuttlecraft, vowing to wait only 10 minutes for the Captain to rejoin her. The Captain, remembering the basics of the mission, quickly ordered something he saw represented in inflated bottles above the centrally-positioned bar – Champale, that malt beverage that tastes like champagne. It was served with a tulip glass full of ice and a straw.

        Beating the deadline, the Captain and First Mate retraced the route to Leon’s and arrived well before the rest of the party. It was another $2 at the door, but no restrictions on shoes. Joined by the Native American Guide, they were virtually the only folks of the Caucasian persuasion in the place. The Captain summoned up another Champale for $1.75 from one of the crew of barmaids and this one was served without frills.

        They were exploring the video games when they spotted the Chief Science Officer at the door, exchanging words with the doorman. Not sighting the party members inside, he elected not to enter and waved away the rest of the trekkers.

        In truth, those inside felt more at home here than at some of the other discos on Bailey. They took a seat near the dance floor. They laughed when the deejay interjected his trademark saying, a sly “Oh ---!,” into the rap tunes. They even got up and danced.

        Editor’s Note: A guide to the highways and byways of malt consumption in Buffalo and environs – “A Beerdrinker’s Guide to Buffalo Bars” – has just been made available in bookstores and soon will be on newsstands.

        The authors are two men who should know – Buffalo News critic and nightlife expert Dale Anderson and his partner-in-barley, Bob Riley. Between them, they’ve quaffed their way around most of Western New York.

        It is the authors’ contention that “we’re lucky to reside in a city with a long and proud tavern tradition that the modern age has not succeeded in dimming. Life in Buffalo revolves around its bars, more so than in most other cities.” They remind us that Erie Canal sailors cherished Buffalo as a place to pub crawl and that “Grover Cleveland spent many of his off-hours in the German beer halls here and soon developed a figure to attest to it.”

        They also remind us of the two elemental facts of tavern life: Drinking too much beer can make you feel awful and Drunken driving can cost you more than you want to pay.

        For your investment, you get a selection of Buffalo taverns broken down by district and star ratings in “Beer,” “Ambiance” and “Bonuses” categories. You also get such separate lists as “Dart Bars,” retail stores and places where Guinness is available on tap.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XIV: Abject satiation

Oct. 25, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XIV:

Abject satiation.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXVI: There’s an old saying about how when things are going great, that’s the time that you’ve really got to watch out. The Captain had just been reminded of this adage the hard way. It happened right after the Third Lost Expedition’s last excursion into the bars of Bailey Avenue in the quest to quaff a drink in every licensed establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as the Expedition can get.

        It all began with the report back to mission control, which failed to make mention that the Werzburger-Hof, 3250 Bailey Ave., is a 50-50 partnership. Though we only encountered Greg Klaffka, his co-equal, Rick Shaw, was represented on the souvenir key ring. That should have been clue enough. Then, to compound matters, Shaw was not visible in the accompanying Gusto photo. Soon his friends were phoning him, asking if he’d dropped out of the business.

        With this fiasco freshly in mind, the Captain vowed to set off smoothly this time. To make sure, he wired ahead to the designated staging area, the Midway Grill and Restaurant, 3076 Bailey, to request enough Friday fish fry to handle a party of at least 12.

        When he reached the Midway Grill, the Captain was delighted to discover that he’d guesstimated the size of the safari correctly, but was alarmed to learn that his Chief Science Officer – the one person who’d been beside him in every bar they’d beamed into so far – had been called back to his home planet due to a death in his family.

        Whatever apprehension this development generated soon was relieved by the pleasures of the Midway and the hospitality of owner Bob Perlstein, his towering barman Paul Schneider (who wore a green jacket emblazoned: “Kensington-Bailey Derelict Society”) and his crew of waitresses. “I found the coleslaw I hid for you,” one of them informed the party as it took a table in the rearmost of the two dining rooms.

        Waiting for the $3.25 fish fry to materialize – it came in two styles, regular and English – the trekkers set their sights on a huge mural behind them. A colorful impression of a circus midway complete with funhouse, roller coaster, Ferris wheel and pagodas. It was signed “Tasha and Spunk, 1978.” Subsequently, it was noted that the Midway just turned 50 years old. “So did I,” the Chief Billiards Technician chimed in. “Back on the first.”

        Pitchers of Genesee Cream Ale, also $3.25, contributed to the rising conviviality. Similar bargains prevailed on the menu, a classic compilation of all-American bar offerings from the pre-chicken wing era. Nary a nacho, potato skin or pizza finger intruded. The arrival of the bill brought back another great, old-fashioned feeling. A dozen fish plus several pitchers of beer came to around $5 apiece.

        Rather than wear out the video games or watch the Sabres at the Midway, the trekkers transported to the area between Kensington Avenue and the Kensington Expressway. At one time this was a lively stretch, what with the presences of a rock ‘n’ roll party bar called McGillicuty’s, a licensed Chinese restaurant and the grandiose Jerry Butler’s Big Play. But this year has seen these places go dark. About all that’s left is a modest two-room bar and restaurant called Feathers, at 2960 Bailey.

        The kitchen had just closed, but Feathers had just the right post-dinner recreational facilities. Video games and a bowling machine beckoned in the barroom up front. The big attraction, however, was the back room, which had been cleared of tables in order to accommodate a pool table and an indoor horseshoe court with rubber horseshoes. A blonde named Nancy came back from the bar to challenge our champions.

        Ultimately the party drifted back to the front to check out the Sabres, the beer (five drafts, including Old Milwaukee at 40 cents a glass) and a jukebox, which ran the gamut from the Ink Spots to Wham. The bar itself was hung with rows of orange plastic mugs for Feathers’ mug club, which entitles members to drink specials. On one wall hung a poster for an election of officers for the Police Benevolent Association. The Kensington station is just a couple doors away.

        From Feathers, the Expedition beamed to the south side of the expressway overpass to Vallone’s at 2828 Bailey, which runs a take-out sub and snack shop as an adjunct to its tavern operation.

        Pinlights glowed around the bar. Securing a couple rounds of three Old Vienna splits for $1, the crew, now down to five, explored the bowling machine and the jukebox, which was playing an Elvis Presley tune to accompany the images on the big-screen cable TV.

        Next the party decided to double back north of the expressway to peek into a place they’d overshot on their way to Vallone’s – Odie’s Jubilation at 2897 Bailey. Odie’s, it turned out, was a black disco, where rap records boomed and chattered continuously for dancing in the room upstairs in the rear. It was the first time any of the trekkers had seen people slow-dancing to rap music.

        But the expeditioners weren’t the only people of the Caucasian persuasion in the bar. A rather distinguished-looking grey-haired chap sat near where they stood, sipping a cocktail. Huge inflated bottles of Champale hung over the bar. Professionally illustrated signs proclaimed drink specials, the 4 to 8 p.m. happy hour and the Thursday ladies’ night.

        Final destination was the Club KC at 2748 Bailey, where a lighted portable sign out front announced a move soon to 2072 Kensington Ave. near Harlem Road. The safari, now down to three, arrived too late for the 10-cent chicken wing special, which ended at 1 a.m., so contented themselves with the discovery of German-made Spaten on tap for $1 a glass, once they figured out which of the many people behind the bar actually were tending it.

        A female deejay in the sound booth in the back room played Prince tunes and ‘60s soul hits for a youthful crowd which included a sizeable number of young women. Some of them danced on the empty floor in front of the booth.

        Dominating the space between the low wall enclosing the bar area was a big projection TV set playing ESPN wrestling and demolition derbies. When the bowling machine lost its allure, this is where the surviving trio of trekkers plotzed in abject satiation. Even the arrival of a couple blondes from Vallone’s failed to move them

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XIII: Just like home

Oct. 4, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XIII: 

Just like home.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXV: Never in its three light years of venturing boldly up to unknown bar rails had the Third Lost Expedition contemplated an itinerary as favorable and familiar as the one which beckoned brightly on Bailey Avenue under the full moon over North Buffalo Saturday night.

        Since every one of the licensed establishments on this stretch of fabled federal Route 62 was filled with fond memories for many of the crew, the Captain couldn’t help thinking that only a freak mishap would keep this rendezvous from going into the books as their most pleasant interlude – a veritable rest stop in their mission to lift a libation in every licensed establishment on this highway from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        That mishap certainly wouldn’t come from driving from one place to another. Once the shuttlecraft were docked outside the designated staging area – the Wurzburger-Hof at 3250 Bailey – everything else could be explored on foot.

        Nor would that mishap come from not being able to get a table there on the weekend. Experience indicated that the Wurzburger-Hof would be harboring a hefty clientele during the dinner hours, so the Captain took the additional precaution of reaching for his communicator and calling ahead for reservations.

        Plans didn’t call for sticking around to take in the evening’s entertainment – the easy-listening sounds of the Mary Simon Trio – so the management assigned the safari accordingly. Rather than put the troupe with the family crowd in the wood-paneled back room, they were installed in the most prominent place in the barroom, just inside the door, right smack in front of the front window.

        This proved convenient in more ways than one. Not only was the group easy for latecoming trekkers to locate, but it also was within handy hailing distance of the bar whenever another $5.50 pitcher of German-brewed Spaten draft beer was required, which was often.

        Once the party achieved optimum strength of 14, a full-scale scanning of the menu was in order, uncovering such ethnic favorites as sauerbraten, weiner schnitzel and some truly excellent potato pancakes. These single-digit delicacies were as easy on the purse as they were on the palate. Average price, including several rounds of drinks, came to less than $9.

        Hospitality didn’t end there, however. One of the troupe recognized one of the waitresses as Susan Briand, a former staffer of the late, lamented Deli Place in the University Plaza, that haven for lovers of strange and exotic brews which, unhappily, was consumed by fire last spring. That, in turn, led to an invitation from owner Greg Klaffka to enjoy a round of drinks on him. The gregarious Klaffka, after a hearty round of hellos, presented one and all with souvenir key rings.

        It was quite a different world that the safari stepped into diagonally across the street at Jimmy J’s, 3259 Bailey. The crowd was a generation younger and the theme was party, party, party. A sign on the wall designated a different special for every night of the week. Fridays offer 50-cent vodka drinks from 8 p.m. to midnight. Saturdays are Las Vegas Nights, the implications of which became clear to the Captain when he stepped up to the bar to obtain a $1.50 bottle of Molson’s Golden.

        With his change came a little card with perforated windows that opened to reveal slot-machine fruit combinations. Hit three in a row and win “Jimmy J’s Bucks,” good for things from the bar. One card was given out with every purchase. Or by specific requests, as one member of the party discovered. None of the group was a winner, however. Not that it much mattered. All were engrossed in the bar’s wealth of coin-operated games, notably video trivia and electronic darts.

        Similar pastimes awaited the trekkers at the next stop, Shirley’s O’Aces at 3215 Bailey. Since the place was relatively unpopulated, there was no trouble commandeering the shuffleboard bowling machine in the side room, where players spent the time between pucks admiring the mural depicting a cocktail lounge for dogs – “If people want to know what we look like, we should show them this,” the Quartermaster quipped – and the pool table beyond the bar, where the Chief Billiards Technician quickly put together doubles teams.

        The Mets game played on the TV while Barbara the barmaid bustled about bringing forth 55-cent Schmidt’s drafts and $1.25 Molson’s Goldens. Photo montages across the bar memorialized the regulars here, who must have been elsewhere this night, and a large blackboard in the rear proclaimed a “Goodbye Ann Marie” party at Shirley’s sister saloon, Shirley’s Ace of Clubs on Hertel Avenue.

        Population was thicker a couple doors down at Ray’s Antique Tavern, 3205 Bailey, a place which the Chief Nurse noted was a favorite of her grown-up daughters. They weren’t present, but a healthy crowd of other gamesters was on hand to take advantage of the twin pool tables that dominated the side room, not to mention the free popcorn, the scent of which dominated the area. During warm weather, there’s horseshoe pitching in the back yard.

        The charms of Ray’s didn’t stop there. The walls and ceiling were a veritable riot of old artifacts, particularly hats, lots of hats. Behind the bar hung an equally wondrous collection of buttons. Also prominent was a sign which read: “This ain’t Burger King. You get it our way or you won’t get it at all.” The Captain discovered what that meant when he asked for a split of Rolling Rock beer. “Sixty cents apiece, three for $1.25,” the barman barked.

        While the crew was inclined to linger, the Captain was considering the time. Several would-be expeditioners had suggested they might show up at the evening’s final port of call, Anacone’s Inn, 3178 Bailey, after midnight. Since that hour already had come and gone, the Captain reckoned that he’d better check in and see if they’d arrived.

        Aside from the gang around the pool table in the back room at Anacone’s, the club was entirely taken over by couples, none of them belonging to the safari. The Captain squeezed between a pair of them at the bar and settled in to wait with one of the bar’s famous beef on weck sandwiches and a $1.40 bottle of Guinness Stout.

        “A home away from home,” the sign outside Anacone’s proclaimed and though none of the missing members showed up, it once again proved to be an outstanding place to simply hang around, what with the jazz and oldies on the jukebox, sports on TV, the earnest, educated clientele and the abundance of homemade signs covering virtually every square inch of wall space. When the party from Ray’s rolled in, it wasn’t long before contentment settled in on one and all. Yes, there was no place like home.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XII: Approaching the promised land.

Aug. 23, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XII:

Approaching the promised land.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXIV: It was with considerable anticipation that the Third Lost Expedition rounded the corner at Sheridan Drive and North Bailey Avenue and surveyed the brand-new universe that lay in front of them on this, the latest installment of their quest to lift a libation in every licensed establishment on fabled Federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        After light years on the Niagara Falls Boulevard suburban strip, with its seemingly endless succession of restaurant-lounges, family-style eateries and franchise outlets, the sipping safari was ready to sink its sensors into some real bars. They didn’t have to look far to find one. The party glanced around approvingly the moment they stepped into the designated staging area, Bogart’s Bailey Bar at 4414 Bailey Ave., Eggertsville.

        This was no duded-up homage to scenes from “Casablanca,” bur rather a rustic and unpretentious kind of place. There were flagstones on the floor, barnwood on the walls, along with a few artsy and alcohol-related posters. The bar itself jutted prominently into the path of entry and around it could be found a healthy compliment of regulars, knocking back beers and mixed drinks. Aside from the 90-cent mugs of Michelob draft, all appeared to carry a universal price of $1.25.

        Bogart’s clearly inspires loyalty among its denizens, as the Captain discovered in conversation while waiting for his first round of drinks. It wasn’t hard to see why. This was a consummate hangout, a long, narrow room complete with sound booth, video games and pinball machines, not to mention those baskets of complimentary popcorn. What’s more, it had a kitchen that was open until midnight, offering snacks, sandwiches and, since this was Friday, a $3.75 fish fry.

        The kitchen wasn’t quite prepared for a group the size of the expedition, however. When the troupe had their fill of games and retired to a table, it was discovered that Bogart’s doesn’t employ a full-time waitress, but lets a rather harried cook handle the orders, the cooking and the serving all by herself. Needless to say, the food took a while.

        There arose considerable dissension about how to approach the next landing at the Pizza Hut at 3980 Bailey and Grover Cleveland Highway. Since this was the fourth Pizza Hut the trekkers had encountered in 12 outings, many agreed with the Chief Science Officer, who maintained that the place should be given a quick study over a single pitcher of beer, followed by an even quicker exit. Others, however, were inclined to linger. The Billiards Technician’s Mate spread out a display of jewelry she’d become a distributor for. One pitcher of beer turned into four. A couple pizzas materialized, too.

        Returning finally to their transporters, the crew shifted into warp drive for a long voyage to the next outpost, crossing Main Street into the City of Buffalo, passing the old UB campus, noting the demise of Khaki’s at the corner of Winspear and finally coming to rest in a spot familiar to most of them, The Library at 3405 Bailey.

        Like all the nightspots run by the Turgeon clan, this one had a comfortably clubby and cluttered ambiance, with lots of books and other paraphernalia lining the walls and lots of tables in the barroom and adjacent dining room. It had an earnest young staff, as well. But flawless, it wasn’t. The free taco chips in baskets on the bar were stale. Service tended to be a bit frustrating. And the waitress was obliged to cut a path through the video game players next to the bar in order to reach the patrons beyond.

        Half of the party, which numbered 16 at this point, retired to a table to sample the dessert menu, which included things like a strawberry cheesecake soda with real strawberry cheesecake in it. The other half hung out at the video games and made short work of pitchers of draft Guinness Stout at $8 apiece.

        On a beerdrinking visit here several moons ago, the Captain and Chief Science Officer had marveled at the round-the-world list of 40 beers and delighted at the promotional “passports” which curious drinkers could fill out by sampling each brand. This time, having become sophisticated in these matters, they discovered that they’d quaffed all of these brews within the past year or so and that the list wasn’t really so exotic after all. The Chief Science Officer, having ordered a Czechoslovakian Pilsner Urquell for $2, decided he might as well get a passport book anyway, but was rebuffed when he asked to have his drink duly checked off.

        Better, in that case, to find the stairs and climb to the second level to the BBC, which was as kinetic as The Library was sedate. A big open room – all glass, brass, wood and mirrors – with a bar left-of-center affording a long panorama of the street outside, its focus was a sound booth and dance floor at the far end, over which signs were posted that warned: “No Dancing Allowed.” A pair of young women, appreciating the irony of this order, danced a peculiar crouched, hopping step. It was midnight and there were perhaps 10 people present altogether. Within half an hour, the total had more than tripled.

        A large retractable video screen formed a backdrop on which rock videos were projected, notably Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam’s “I Wonder If I Take You Home” and a superset of Madonna. The young men in the place, decked out in T-shirts emblazoned with logos of such summer spots as Captain Kidd’s in Angola, sang along to “Neverending Story.” To liven things up, the deejay announced a drink special – 50-cent shots of root beer schnapps as long as the next video was playing.

        Across the street at Muldoon’s, 3398 Bailey, a portable electric sign at the curb proclaimed a perpetual 50-cent special on not just root beer schnapps, but on peach schnapps, too. Downing a few samples from plastic shot cups, the remaining expeditioners reverted to their usual potions and settled into the pastimes at hand. They were plentiful. Video games, a bowling machine and, best of all, a pool table.

        Holding down the pool table was a talent the crew quickly dubbed Ross the Boss. He informed them that he’d been there since noon and had only spent 50 cents. The Billiards Technician rose to the challenge after a few unsuccessful doubles matches and took him on head to head, fighting a seesaw match until the final ball made him victorious.

        During slow moments, the others discovered the art deco remnants of the front for a long-departed Italian restaurant on the side of the building. The interior, with its wood paneling and its black ceiling flecked with glitter, was a souvenir of the ‘60s. Now it was a penultimate hangout with a Sunday oldies night featuring 50-cent draft beers (Miller, Michelob and Bud) and 75-cent vodka drinks. Clearly this was an omen, an unmistakable indicator. Yes, after all those months on the boulevard, the trekkers had finally reached the promised land.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XI: The road ahead

July 26, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part XI: 

The road ahead.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXIII: As the Third Lost Expedition prepared to pay a fond farewell to Niagara Falls Boulevard in the Mei Yuan Restaurant, 1060 Falls Blvd., with a hearty Chinese meal and many hearty Chinese Tsingtao beers, the Captain decided the time was ripe to put a little perspective on their mission to have a drink in every licensed establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        To illustrate his point, the Captain produced copies of the Route 62 Calendar and Map, published annually by the Route 62 Association in New York State, which lists such attractions as this week’s seventh annual Oil Heritage Week Festival in Oil City, Pa., and next weekend’s Eden Corn Festival. (For a copy, send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to Lost Expedition, c/o Gusto, Buffalo News, Box 100, Buffalo, NY 14240.)

        A glance at the map reminded the crew that they still had light years to go. After this night’s turn onto Sheridan Drive and the upcoming march down Bailey Avenue to South Park Avenue, there would be Lackawanna, Blasdell, Hamburg, Eden, North Collins, Gowanda, South Dayton, Ellington and Frewsburg.

        Only hinted at was what lay beyond the Pennsylvania border – Warren, Oil City and Sharon. Then would come Ohio, with Youngstown, Canton and Columbus along the route. In Kentucky, Route 62 parallels the Bluegrass and West Kentucky parkways all the way to Paducah, nipping across the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers at Cairo, Ill. In Missouri, it joins Routes 60 and 61, then slips into Arkansas, passing through Fayetteville. Oklahoma steers it into Muskogee, Oklahoma City and Chickasha before it crosses into West Texas. After Lubbock, it veers past the Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico and returns to the Lone Star State for its grand finale.

        Ever mindful of what it takes to make an epic pub-crawl, the expeditioners packed away their chopsticks and transported onto the brief section of Sheridan Drive that’s part of Route 62. There are but five watering spots on this stretch and the troupe was confident that they’d make short work of them. Indeed, once their shuttlecrafts were docked at Northtown Plaza, everything was within walking distance.

        “Relax at the bar with Ruth,” advised a sign at the entrance to Mindy’s Wine Cellar, 3131 Sheridan Drive, in Northtown Plaza, and the crew was quick to obey. Commandeering a corner table with a view of the suburban sunset sky, they loosened up and welcomed the late-comers. Soon the group had swollen to 15.

        A few drifted over to a video game at the far corner of the big U-shaped bar, where the blips and bleeps punctuated the blarney of two lingering business types, who’d been there long enough to get into issues of cosmic truth. “I may be right,” one of them slurred. “I may be wrong.”

        A medieval wood-beam and stucco décor prevailed and a baseball game played on the barside TV. Advertised prominently were the 3:30 to 6:30 p.m. Attitude Adjustment Hours, with $1.25 drinks and hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, but it was too late for that.

        The Captain eschewed the choice of Old Vienna, Michelob and Miller Lite draft beer in favor of one of the bar specials – a $2.85 tulip glass full of pina colada, which was pronounced too sweet by everyone who tasted it. The dining patrons present at first soon vanished and were replaced by young singles. When they began to outnumber the expeditioners, it was time to go.

        A stroll around to the front of the plaza brought them to the next way-station, Syracuse’s Pizza Plant, 3093 Sheridan Drive. A cheerful little spot which aspired to be more like a restaurant than most pizzerias, it bid visitors to wait by the neon sign to be seated. The troupe, naturally, created its own seating arrangements.

        An exuberant menu touted not only the vast variety of the Pizza Plant’s pizza pods and stuffed pizzas, but also such offbeat offerings as Strawberry Coolers on tap for $3.85 a pitcher and a selection of 40 beers from around the world, the bottles from which were displayed in clusters along the wall. Some of the safari settled for cookies and milk. The Neon Knight opted for cookies and Kirin Beer.

        Then it was across the speedy six-lane asphalt, with a pause at the divider, to Alice’s Kitchen, a 24-hour family restaurant at 3122 Sheridan Drive which lately has added beer and wine to its menu. The big C-shaped table area, despite its ceiling fans and stained glass lamps, struck the Quartermaster as being less like a bar and more like “a Denny’s or a Perkins with booze.”

        Nevertheless, the safari summoned pitchers of beer, an order of chicken wings and at least one stack of pancakes from the inexpensive menu ($6.95 tops for New York Strip Steak) as they took a row of tables along an upholstered bench seat. The Native American Guide, meanwhile, explored the checkout counter, where he discovered soap-bubble-blowing kits for a mere 50 cents. Soon the table was bedeviled with bubbles.

        The bubbles accompanied the company across the parking lots to the Ground Round Restaurant at 3180 Sheridan Drive, which gave proof to advance reports that this chain was abandoning its folksy ambiance in favor of something a little more upscale.

        Gone were the antiques on the walls, replaced by oversized toys. The stage, where acoustic singers used to hold forth, was laden with potted plants. But there were still video games, a quartet of them right inside the door. And there were still the complimentary baskets of popcorn and peanuts to go with pitchers of dark draft Stroh’s, but the waitress supplied an empty basket for the peanut shells. “We don’t throw them on the floor any more,” she said.

        Final destination was Tom’s Family Restaurant, 3221 Sheridan Drive at Route 62’s turning point onto North Bailey. Doubts about whether this Greek place served strong beverages were soon satisfied by the display of beer and wine artifacts on the walls.

        Settling into a series of tables in the side dining room, the somewhat tipsy trekkers were charmed by the general niceness of the operation as they sampled the souvlaki and chose among Old Vienna, Miller’s and Genesee, all at $1.25. The shortest leg of their adventure had been no sweat. Stretching out ahead, however, was something that looked suspiciously like infinity.

       

       

       

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part X: A milestone, maybe ...

June 7, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part X: 

A milestone, maybe ...

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXII: “Do you sit down with the Farmer’s Almanac and deliberately pick out the worst nights for weather?” the Native American Guide accused the Captain as last Friday night’s tornado warnings hung ominously overhead.

        The Captain adamantly denied conspiracy with the elements, but the Guide certainly had a point. So far the Third Lost Expedition had endured suffocating heat, bone-numbing cold, blinding fog, sleet, snow and a veritable monsoon of rain in its quest to have a drink in every licensed establishment on what WIVB-TV’s Doug Smith once called “the macadam spine of Middle America” – fabled federal Route 62.

        And now here they were, perched on the verge of reaching a milestone in their trek from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get. And there were the skies, standing ready to sweep them up without warning and deposit them in some bizarre time warp far, far from home. Would they ever get to see the last of Niagara Falls Boulevard?

        The answer was unclear as a small but intrepid band of expeditioners blew into the designated staging area, the former Santora’s La Stanza at 1030 Niagara Falls Blvd., now renamed Santora’s Pasta Café. The Captain had reserved a table for 18, but that seemed wildly optimistic.

        Another shortfall in planning was discovered as the crew explored the place. Had they shown up between 10 p.m. and midnight, they could have taken advantage of the Wednesday and Friday late-night happy hour, which features a free buffet and a mandatory minimum of three $1 drinks.

        Instead, they clung to the small, dark bar next to the pizza take-out counter, steadying their nerves with $1.25 Labatts drafts and $1.50 mixed drinks and marveling at the speed of the Ms. Pac-Man machine. When their numbers were great enough not to provoke embarrassment, they ventured past “The World’s Largest Antipasto Bar” to a bright green-and-white dining room in the rear, where the coordinating theme appeared to be plastic. The plants were plastic. The tablecloths were plastic. The rug was that outdoor carpeting that’s supposed to resemble grass.

        “Take what you want,” the menu advised. “Eat all you like. No doggie bags. No sharing. Don’t waste food.” That proved to be impossible. Santora’s is nothing if not generous with its servings. The Chief Science Officer struggled with what must have been the world’s most colossal calzone. Happily, a few hungry reinforcements arrived just in time to polish off the leftovers.

        The abundance of Santora’s left the safari unable to give much more than cursory coverage to the menus in the other stops on the route, which were mostly restaurants. Backtracking to the Sizzler Family Steak House, 1304 Falls Blvd., they noted the shrimp and salmon specials at $6.99 and simply ordered drinks from the cafeteria-style counter.

        Advance intelligence had suggested that the Sizzler chain was upgrading its branches and the proof could be seen here. It was a pleasant world of etched glass, Tiffany-style lampshades and wood-grain finishes. The beers included Carlsberg at $1.75 plus tax. There was a wine list as well. The house wine? Inglenook. As for the staff, the operative mode as perky, from the matronly manager down to the teenage busgirl.

        Despite their earlier indulgence, the expeditioners felt obliged to take samples of the cuisine at the next stop, the Mei Yuan at 1060 Falls Blvd., the first Chinese restaurant they’d encountered on Route 62. A large, square room, made larger by its white walls, its décor was tastefully minimal as Oriental eateries go. A few murals, a few screens, chairs with carved backs. A bit light-headed at this point, the troupe squeezed 14 of those chairs around a single circular table with the assent of a most tolerant waiter, then ordered a round of $1 egg rolls and $2 bottles of Chinese-brewed Tsingtao beer.

        Another taste test was in order when they retreated one door to the north to the Niagara Falls Boulevard version of Bailo’s, a name synonymous with Buffalo Beef on Weck on Bailey Avenue for years. In its original incarnation, Bailo’s heaped the meat high between halves of the traditional salted Kaiser roll. Now they offer roast beef in two versions, regular at $2.50 and traditional at $4.25.

        The crew asked for traditional and proceeded to split it into quarters. The mountain of beef was not nearly as majestic as the ones in memory, but the accompanying horseradish was a legend in its own right. “It’s Canadian,” the waitress explained as the guinea pigs gasped for breath after tasting it.

        Only beer could quench an attack like that. Bailo’s had Labatts and three flavors of Genny on tap, plus a bit of wine. The safari loitered loudly around the bar area, remarking on the rustic wall plaques and the brick-and-wood ambiance, while the night manager shot disapproving grandmotherly glances in their direction.

        Tolerance surely would be higher across the street at the Cavalier Restaurant at 1139 Falls Blvd., the Captain reckoned, but he was mistaken. There was scarcely clearance for them in the entertainment area, where a group called Marilyn Mann and the Fantastics was translating popular hits like Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” and Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock ‘N’ Roll” into the vernacular.

        The Cavalier was a rich and exuberant riot of glitz, from its floral wallpaper and its frescos to the huge chandelier that dominated the lounge. Life forms of all descriptions filled the tables to capacity, as well as the bar, at the end of which a fortyish couple sat, necking.

        Grumbling broke out as a blonde hostess named Pia consigned the trekkers to a long table in the empty dining room beyond the lounge, but in truth there was nowhere else to go. They kept grumbling as they examined the list of international coffees on the late-night dessert menu. The California Co-Pilot and the Computer Banker demurred and simply sat alone by the exit, where they witnessed the arrival of escapees from a nearby high school prom.

        As the group emerged, they were infused with fresh enthusiasm which came from realizing that after one more stop, they’d have completed the entire Niagara Falls Boulevard section of their mission. They strode forthrightly to Barnaby’s at 1009 Falls Blvd., formerly known as Ruby Red’s, and were immediately swallowed up in an atmosphere that was as engulfingly complete as the one they had just left at the Cavalier.

        This milieu, however, was at the other end of the social scale. Barnaby’s is an unpretentiously primal young singles hangout, tilt ed toward those with athletic inclinations, both male and female. A pair of TV sets played cable sports. Trophies jammed the back wall.

        The denizens of the place, however, were more intent on socializing and dancing to the sound-booth deejay. Securing a couple pitchers of beer, the expeditioners fell at once upon the pinball machines and the video games, for which their hunger had been growing all evening. Finally, they had reached a turning point. And here, at last, was a real bar.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part IX: Strikes, spares and misses

The Swiss Chalet on Niagara Falls Boulevard from an ad in 1965.

April 19, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part IX: 

Strikes, spares and misses.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXXI: It was a proposition the Captain figured would be hard to resist. The Lost Expedition would gather in one of the most popular suburban spaceports, TGIFriday’s in the Boulevard Mall in Amherst, explore the abundant heart of the Niagara Falls Boulevard commercial strip and loosen up afterwards with a bit of midnight bowling at Suburban Lanes.

        Better yet, the safari would enjoy the blessings of the group rate special on the alleys – six complimentary pitchers of beer and 120 complimentary chicken wings – if a crew of 25 or more could be recruited for this installment of the continuing quest to lift a drink in every licensed establishment on fabled federal Route 62 from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they could get.

        Materializing a force of 25 proved to be no problem on their previous outing, the Captain recalled as he alerted the lady at the lanes about the impending invasion. This time there’d be even more.

        It was hard to imagine how they’d squeeze that many more people into TGIFriday’s, though. Taking a hint from the name, perhaps, a dressy, upwardly-mobile mob routinely packs the place on Friday nights. This particular Friday was no exception. An hour’s wait for a table, the fellow at the door announced. The supplicants unable to get in sat on the windowsills in the foyer.

        But there was no wait at the bar. The advance party secured a corner of it and settled in to greet the rest as they beamed in. Acquiring $2-plus cocktails and $1.50 Michelob drafts, they noted that the décor was even busier than the place itself, a riot of brass, stained glass and flea market paraphernalia assembled in improbable tableaux, like the stuffed goat leaping from a toy drum above the drinkers at the bar rail.

        True to his word, the host had tables within an hour or so. By then, however, it was becoming apparent that the crew would not be mustering in sufficient numbers to cash in on the group rate for midnight bowling. A few were out of town. A few others were simply missing in action. The highest headcount, a mere 15, coincided with the arrival of TGIFriday’s new, non-destructible, plastic-coated menus. The Captain located a communicator and told Suburban Lanes the bad news.

        Certain aspects of TGIFriday’s to which the troupe was oblivious at the bar became increasing obtrusive once they were seated at the tables. The level of background chatter was so loud that conversation in anything less than a shout was impossible. Air temperatures rose to a low swelter. As for the food, much of which was in the $5 to $6 range, the trekkers generally concluded that the prices were more substantial than the servings.

        Backtracking to the Swiss Chalet Restaurant at 1551 Niagara Falls Blvd., the expeditioners encountered an entirely opposite set of conditions. In keeping with its family-style intentions, it was temperate, it was quiet and the sea of Formica-topped tables in the stuccoed, wide-open dining room was almost empty.

        Joining a few tables together in a corner, the trekkers discovered that prices here were modest as well. The most expensive thing on the menu, the barbecued ribs dinner, came to only $6.99. Drinks also proved reasonable. Miller draft beer was 99 cents, a bottle of Heineken’s, $1.50, and fancy cocktails at $1.75 in tall glasses belied the fact that they weren’t especially strong.

        The arrival of the orders, however, demonstrated resoundingly that the entire charm of the Swiss Chalet is in its sauce, that tangy dip which makes everything it touches delicious. When it came time to leave a tip, the party showed extra empathy for the waitress, whose burdens included being upbraided by the ever-grammatical California Co-Pilot for her use of “youse.”

        Having partaken of two chain outlets, the troupe was obliged to take in a third, the Pizza Hut at 1400 Falls Blvd. It was the third Pizza Hut they’d encountered on Route 62 and it reinforced the general opinion that if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. A few nuances differentiated this one, however. Like the wainscoting, the etched glass dividers and the mysterious absence of high schoolers, who usually hang out at Pizza Huts in droves.

        The Captain, having won a coupon entitling him to a free pizza, any size, any toppings, decided to cash it in on the biggest, most-condiment-laden version the kitchen could produce. Pitchers of beer helped wash it down.

        The mood was most convivial until it was proclaimed that the next stop would be another family restaurant, the Sizzler Steak House at 1304 Falls Blvd. The trekkers protested loudly, but since it was past midnight, they were spared. The Sizzler was closed.

        That warped them back to Suburban Lanes at 1201 Falls Blvd., next door to where they started. Like everything else in this area, it’s a huge place – 52 lanes, a significant video game arcade and a cavernous ‘60s-style cocktail lounge, where the service was remarkably efficient.

        Early departures reduced the bowling party to less than a dozen, all of whom anted up $4.50 for three games and another 60 cents for shoes. Taking three alleys near the far wall, they delighted in the modern brightness of the place and its machinery, but despaired in their search for acceptable bowling balls. Their scores suffered accordingly. Like the rest of the night, they’d come expecting strikes, but wound up settling for spares and misses.