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.”