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.

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part VIII: Putting on the ritz

March 22, 1985

Adventures of the Third Lost Expedition, Part VIII: 

Putting on the ritz.

CAPTAIN’S LOG, BAR DATE XXX: Beware the Ides of March, the soothsayer once advised, and the Captain had that ancient admonition well in mind when the communicator signaled a few astral weeks ago. On the other end of the hailing frequency was a man with an offer.

        Dennis Haner was his name. He labored in the North Tonawanda galaxy for an outfit called Celebrity Limousine service and he was wondering if The Third Lost Expedition could find a use for one of his chauffeured cars for an evening. For free.

        The Captain pondered this generous offer for a millisecond – it meant that he wouldn’t have to pilot the shuttlecraft himself – then reflected on the nature of the next stretch of the universe that the trek would cover in its 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. Coming up on the Ides of March was the fancy section of the commercial strip on Niagara Falls Boulevard in Amherst and Tonawanda.

        “Don’t you think we’ll be calling too much attention to ourselves?” the Chief Science Officer advised.

        “Not a chance,” the Captain scoffed. “On this part of the boulevard, they won’t even notice.”

        So it came to pass that the entire contingent from the West Side of Buffalo found itself nestled into the plush upholstery of a gleaming, black, stretch-body 1985 Lincoln Continental. In the back, behind the smoked glass, was liquor in three cut-glass decanters, a champagne cooler and a color TV. In the front was a cellular telephone. Behind the wheel was one of the principals of Celebrity Limousine Service. He introduced himself as Steve George.

        The Captain had seen fit to pack a celebratory bottle of champagne and, as it was being poured, Steve reported how he and the others decided to start Celebrity Limo. It seems they couldn’t line up a limousine for a special function last year. So, perceiving a need, they ordered half a dozen custom-stretched cars from New York City at a cost of about $40,000 each.

        As befitted its name, the designated staging area, T. J. Dugan’s at 1980 Niagara Falls Blvd., was decked to the nines for St. Patrick’s Day with Irish flags, green garlands, shamrocks and green-clad bartenders and waitresses.

        But rolling up in a limo bigger than the Blarney Stone curried no special favors in the warehouse-like dining room. Since the place takes no reservations for its enormously popular Friday fish fry, the Captain duly put his name on the list and settled in for about an hour’s wait, an interval made more pleasant by the fact that one of the trekkers was a good friend of one of the barmen, who graciously bought a round.

        The music on the sound system had shifted from big-band favorites to rock oldies by the time the safari was seated and the demographics of the place had changed accordingly. The famous $4.25 fish fry fulfilled its reputation. As the food arrived, so did the rest of the party, some of which was doubling as a birthday celebration for the Quartermaster. By the time they left Dugan’s, the troupe numbered 25 – the biggest ever.

        But not all of them had the appetite to join the limousine crew at the next destination, John and Mary’s A-Bomb Submarines at 1960 Falls Blvd. Nevertheless, it had beer on tap, $3.25 a pitcher. While the expeditioners milled amid the Formica tables, a bevy of high schoolers wearing “Panthers” jackets flocked around the limo.

        The Native American guide, who’d dressed for the occasion in white coat, black shirt, skinny white tie and black leather pants, announced to the curious teens that he was a rock star and the rest were his entourage. They besieged him for autographs.

        From instant celebrity, the limo whisked them to instant pariah-hood at Hubie’s Restaurant, a former Mr. Steak at the eastbound entrance to the I-290. They joined the rest of the safari in shuffling glumly around a raised seating platform at the rear of the place. Since Hubie’s had no specified bar area, the manager had officiously corralled them there, where they waited thirstily until one of them waylaid a waiter and got some pitchers of beer.

        The trekkers quaffed their beers quickly and backtracked to the Sassafras Lounge at the Holiday Inn-Amherst, 1881 Falls Blvd. Steve, exerting the limousine’s right to privilege, parked smack in the middle of the loading zone and stayed there, uncontested.

        Inside was the standard state-of-the-art Holiday Inn drinking place, plush and full of well-polished woodwork and would-be Romeos, as two female crew members who arrived early discovered. One Romeo wore Walkman headphones. A red-jacketed show band, John Tomasula and Rare Blend, provided a slick invitation to dance.

        With the Sabres game locked in sudden-death overtime, there was a considerable reluctance to leave the car and sample the tributes to the kings of sport in Champions, the club that’s succeeded the venerable Three Coins at 1620 Falls Blvd. Aside from the removal of the Roman finery that once graced the place and the installation of sport souvenirs, it seemed at first as if it hadn’t changed much at all.

        But beyond the $1 charge at the door, some subtle and not-so-subtle differences became evident. The old dining room was walled off with whitewashed plywood. The band, a high-energy dance group called Junction West, held forth from what used to be the dance floor. And near the bar was a smaller dance area marked off with inlaid lights to resemble a football field. The demographics had narrowed considerably. The older, dressier crowd was gone.

        Although it was well past midnight, it seemed to early to beam the limo home, so the safari staggered onward to the Tin Lizzie at 1376 Falls Blvd., a small and straightforward sort of bar and restaurant with a marvelous old Model T Ford proudly sitting in the front window.

        Few of the trekkers could remember much about the Tin Lizzie aside from the license plates on the walls and the startingly fresh popcorn, which seemed to be in infinite supply. When the Captain exited, he found the Chief Science Officer and the Quartermaster sitting mute and oblivious atop a soggy snowbank next to the club.

        As Steve set the limo’s coordinates for Buffalo’s West Side, he noted that the crew had consumed not only their own champagne, but also the bottle that came with the car. He added that he’d never seen a bunch of people walk out of bars with more glassware than the expeditioners had that night. And he found it peculiar that the trekkers actually paid for their food and drink. When he’d driven people from the radio stations, he said, they always got everything for free.

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.