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.