Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part VII: Groundhogging

Feb. 8, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part VII: Groundhogging

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXIX: Given as it is to celebratory occasions, the winter-weary Third Lost Expedition couldn’t resist raising its collective cosmic cocktail glasses to that furry forecaster of warmer climes to come, the groundhog.

        And what better orbit in which to do it than on fabled federal Route 62, where they’ve vowed to have a drink in every licensed public house from Niagara Falls to El Paso, Texas. Or as close to El Paso as they can get.

        What they hadn’t counted on was the result of the groundhog’s prognostication. No sooner had the critter seen his shadow than it started to snow and blow.

        “I’m not driving in this,” protested the California Co-Pilot.

        “Me neither,” said the First Mate.

        So, for the first time in light years, the Captain took the helm of the shuttlecraft himself, proposing to explore a proposition suggested on a previous outing by one of troupe’s perennial pilots, the Chief Science Officer’s Mate.

        It seems that in conjunction with the campaign against drunken motoring, tapkeepers are being encouraged to offer non-alcoholic refreshments to designated drivers at reduced prices. But apparently the signal hadn’t reached the northern fringe of the Niagara Falls Boulevard commercial strip in the Town of Tonawanda. None of the bartenders had heard of it. Indeed, some thought they were being hustled for free soda pop.

        Rather than hassle, the Captain decided to be judicious in the consumption of his usual blend of rocket fuel, resisting the usual urge to top off the tanks right away at the staging area, a seafood restaurant at 2443 Niagara Falls Blvd., formerly known as Foit’s, now going by the name of Chowder’s. Foit’s pulled up last fall and moved to 899 Falls Blvd.

        When the turnout of expeditioners proved to be somewhat less than half the number expected, the host offered to call Foit’s and set the stragglers straight. He was less gracious about cranking up the thermostat in the back dining room, where the crew settled to take on provisions. Those who weren’t dressed in layers kept their coats on. Scouting parties reported the restrooms were even colder.

        Nevertheless, Chowder’s had its charms. There were goldfish crackers to nibble at the bar. There was Molson’s Red (Export Ale) in the cooler. There were fish nets everywhere. There was a menu full of surf, turf and barnyard entrees. And there was a marvelous seafood bisque. But when the check came, the grumbling began again. Aside from its specials, Chowder’s ain’t cheap. Same goes for the bar. Old Vienna drafts, for instance, run $1.50.

        Stepping into the hostile atmosphere outside, the troupe took note of a motel sign across the road – “Tucket Inn, Waterbeds” – then slogged next door to Santa Lucia’s Restaurant at 2447 Falls Blvd. Sitting among the white tablecloths in the dining room was out of the question, so they jammed into the tiny bar, creating quite a bit of congestion, even though they numbered barely a dozen.

        Behind the bar was the blonde Carolyn, whose name was etched in a mirror near her post by a regular patron who’s a glass cutter. He also did the beveled mirror strips in the dining room. Plastic grapes hung in profusion above the bar, as did the messages, “Success, spell it W-O-R-K” and “All the world is a stage and the people merely players.”

        On the business side of an organ bar, planted between the bar area and the dining room, was the venerable Vic Danna, an instrumentalist with half a century of pop standards at his fingertips. Joining him in song was classic lounge vocalist Frank Maraschiello, gold chain gleaming at the open neck of his black shirt as he incanted operatic arias in Italian and such favorites as “Cabaret” and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

        “Don’t clap so hard,” advised one of the waiters, bewildered at the applauding expeditioners. “You’ll encourage them.”

        Then it was into the howling void in search of the Boulevard Pub, which seemed to have transmuted into the Roadhouse at 2700 Falls Blvd. since last summer’s preliminary scouting cruise. Steamy and smoky, with football posters on the walls, the Roadhouse had scarcely enough room for the safari to slip in around the patrons at the tiny bar and the players at the pool table. Affable scruffians in jeans, T-shirts and an occasional leather vest, they were a long way from championship form. The trekkers turned their attentions to the jukebox instead, where they found a wealth of old hits from the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.

        Pointing south again, they converged on Curdell’s Restaurant at 2487 Falls Blvd., an elegantly appointed supper club with wall-to-wall carpeting, slanted wood paneling and indirect lighting shielded by South Seas umbrellas. The back bar was a wine rack. Despite the luxury, the libations were most reasonable. A Michelob draft was $1. Bottles of Heineken and Beck’s went for $1.50.

        Of particular interest was the gallery of autographed photos lining the corridor to the restrooms. Harry Belafonte. Sergio Franchi. Liberace. Jerry Lewis. Angela Lansbury. Mac Davis. Wayne Newton. Tony Orlando. Clearly, this had been a way station for the stars of the old Melody Fair in North Tonawanda. Dining at a table in the cocktail lounge were two figures that showed up repeatedly in the pictures, proprietor Nick Curtis and his wife.

        From there, the troupe transported to the final port of call, the Canterbury Restaurant at 2250 Falls Blvd., which offers fine dining in Tudor-like décor early in the evening, then brings in a show band and a deejay to turn its large lounge into an ear-pounding, all-adult-ages rendezvous with no cover charge.

        On stage was a racially-mixed quintet called Night Magic, which rendered uptempo tunes in competently passionate succession for dancers on the stand in front of the band. When they finished, they segued seamlessly into the pre-recorded rhythms of the sound booth. More unseemly was the congestion at the bar and the tables, which frazzled the cocktail waitresses and evoked a loud curse from one of them when a $1.75 mug of beer splashed to the carpet as she tripped over someone in the dim light.

        As it had been at the other stops this night, one drink seemed sufficient to suss out the tale at the Canterbury. Soberly setting coordinates into the swirling snow, the Captain was glad he heeded the wisdom of the groundhog. Visibility was quite blurry enough already.