Break The Fourth Wall

Cheers to the Lost VFW Posts of America

Cheers to the Lost VFW Posts of America

Memorial Day is a solemn occasion, even in a saloon. I’ve been in many bars where there’s a full mug of beer in front of an empty bar stool, bought by a buddy of a guy who didn’t make it back with the rest of h...

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Washington D.C.’s Capitol Lounge

Bars

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Washington D.C.’s Capitol Lounge

  They say there are two things you don’t discuss in a bar – religion and politics. I can’t say I’ve ever preached a sermon while drinking a cold one (though I’ve asked for God’s help many a morning after), but I’ll admit that, after a couple of stiff whiskies, I’ve railed against the government from atop my barstool. And I’m certainly not alone. It’s a good rule, though, meant to keep people tame and civil—a tough order when they’re throwing back shots on a late Friday night. Bartenders know that fights begin with simple disagreements about the complicated happenings of our government and elected officials, so it's better just to keep your mouth shut about it. That was the rule at the Capitol Lounge, a small dive located only two blocks from the U.S. Capitol. Popular with Hill staffers, college students, and sports fans, this place was rabidly non-partisan. Their motto, proudly displayed throughout, was “No Politics. No Miller Lite.” Discussions about politics were strictly forbidden, and bartenders regulated it with a heavy hand, yelling at customers to “shut up” if they caught them in discussions about the city’s main industry. Avoiding the subject was not easy, but customers seemed to manage it. On any given night, interns from opposing senators might play a pool game or cheer on their respective soccer teams, and the Capitol Lounge brought them together. That’s what a bar should always do, but with its simple yet firmly followed mandate, this bar turned opponents into drunken allies who were somehow able to find common ground. Truly, it was an uncommon place. Opened in May 1996, the Capitol Lounge (or the Cap Lounge to regulars) had a rocky start. Not getting much traffic, they started serving drinks at rock-bottom prices, like $.25 draft specials and $2.00 house amber ales (remember when prices were that low?). A simple menu was added, and soon enough, cheap wings (also $.25) and half-priced pizzas followed. Cheap food and drinks do eventually draw a crowd – a broke crowd. Sure enough, the place quickly became a go-to for young revelers; it was the bar known for its inexpensive drinks. Not the kind of economic model to make an owner rich. But the Lounge hung on and defied the odds, and soon its authentic charm eventually wore down the hard-drinking curmudgeons of the Hill. Before you knew it, the blue suit-wearing crowd began dropping in, then off-duty cops, then the dam burst, and the Capitol Lounge had arrived. They never grew pretentious but remained honest, their motto never changing. By the way, speaking of their motto, as it clearly stated, they didn’t serve Miller Lite. The story goes that early on the beer company’s delivery driver kept dropping off the weekly shipment during the Lounge’s busy happy hour – a definite no-no when bartenders and managers alike are swamped with orders. On one hectic night, the manager had enough, canceled the order, pulled it off the taps completely, and stubbornly refused to ever put it back on. Anyway, for 26 fun-filled years, the Lounge fostered a sense of community in a town more known for tribalism, jealousy, and bitter opposition. On occasion a newcomer might violate the Cap Lounge’s cardinal rule, only to quickly be put in their place by the regulars. Their error was quickly forgiven and forgotten, as warm congeniality easily took the place of vitriol. The Cap Lounge was more than just a place to tie one on. It was a destination or a meeting place, maybe even a community center. At this same little bar, enemies became acquaintances, acquaintances became friends, and (sometimes) strangers became couples. But sadly, nothing is meant to last. COVID-19 restrictions seriously put the hurt on the hospitality industry of our nation’s capital. The Cap Lounge, like all other bars and restaurants during those heady days of the shutdown, tried its best to hold on. It sold mixed drinks to go by the gallon and offered even cheaper prices on its pub grub but to no avail. Its revenue dropped from $45,000 a week to about $5,000. It still sounds like a lot of money, but that wouldn’t make payroll, the tab for weekly beer and booze deliveries, or the costs for food ingredients. On September 20, 2020, a final crowd of regulars got their drink on at the Cap Lounge. The booze flowed, and memories were wiped clean for the last time. Politics, as usual, weren’t allowed – except for some venom directed towards certain safety protocols and guidelines. For a city, hell, a country, mired in “us-vs-them,” the Cap Lounge was a welcome respite. It was an oasis in a desert of civility. It is sorely missed. If there’s a place like this in your area, treasure it. They don’t come around that often, and they’re getting more and more difficult to find. So, thank you Capitol Lounge for your years of service and all you did in making life in a tough city just a little bit easier. 

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Long Live New York City’s Lucy’s

Bars

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Long Live New York City’s Lucy’s

I love dive bars. There’s nothing better than sitting alone in a dark, cavernous, smelly old saloon on an afternoon, eating stale popcorn and drinking cheap beer. It may sound like hell to some, but to me, it’s Valhalla. The only problem nowadays is actually finding a dive bar to spend that afternoon in. Real dive bars are becoming a rare commodity. There’s a lot we can blame for this, but mostly it has to do with gentrification. You see, dive bars didn’t start as dive bars, they started out merely as bars. But often they’re found in areas where the rent is cheap and the neighborhood a bit rough. Over the years, because the bar served cut-rate booze and no-frills snacks, it attracted a more grinder-type clientele, the kind that doesn’t a have hedge-fund or wallet stuffed with cash. But eventually, the city catches up to the low-rent districts. And as the cost of real estate goes up, the grinder-joints can’t afford either the rent or the property taxes, and they eventually close down. That’s what just happened in NYC’s East Village where, on February 29, the famous dive bar, Lucy’s, put the closed sign in the window and locked up for the last time. Before it was called Lucy’s, the small bar was known as Blanche’s tavern, a small, dimly lit bar catering to neighborhood locals (so in other words, exactly like the bar that replaced it). In 1981 Blanche’s staff was joined by a sweet, quiet, Polish immigrant named Ludwika “Lucy” Mickevicius, who began as a bartender but then eventually took it over completely in 1987. Though it has always legally been “Blanche’s Bar”, it’s been known as Lucy’s for almost four decades now. Pass through the black-painted façade and you’d find a small, dark tavern with two pool tables and red leatherette bar stools. They served the basics – beer and whiskey – and the drinks were cheap and strong. Lucy, perched at the end of the bar next to an old cash register, was always a delight, and much more like your aunt than your bartender. During the day you’d find the locals, people who’d spent their lives in the neighborhood and grew up going to Lucy’s. At the end of the day, and especially on the weekends, the crowd changed, and it became filled with young partiers out on the town, making Lucy’s their last stop of the night. This was the kind of place you met your friends before going out, and you took your date before heading home (like Four Walls’ own CEO, who took his now wife there after their first date). But to both crowds Lucy’s was special; here they were all locals in one way or another. I’ve been asked in the past to describe just what makes someplace a dive bar. If you look through old photos of Lucy’s, you’ll find it – all of it. For starters there’s no cocktail program here – she could make an old fashioned or a margarita, but good luck getting a negroni or Sazerac. She didn’t make her own bitters, didn’t freeze crystal clear ice, and didn’t really serve top shelf. But what she had was always good enough. There’s also bric-a-brac, and lots of it. It’s pinned to the walls, hanging from the ceiling, crowding the back bar. And the substance of this clutter ranges – old holiday décor that never seems to come down (Halloween balloons next to Christmas lights), handwritten signs commemorating something long forgotten, and old photos of nobody you’d ever know. And when something got put up, it stayed up. Lastly, there are the two ultimate signs of a good dive – these must be included over everything else – they must only take cash and they must not have a website. Both of these applied to Lucy’s as well. Sadly though, nothing good lasts forever, and Lucy’s succumbed to the one thing that always seems to kill the neighborhood dive bar – rent. The building that houses Lucy’s was bought in December and the monthly cost of the space tripled, from $8,000 to $25,000 per month. Lucy simply couldn’t afford this, so she was evicted. It’s sad, and for some it’s tragic, but it’s become depressingly common today. Who’s to say what will occupy the place in the near future, but I have a pretty good idea. It’ll probably be a bank or a boutique, or perhaps a chain café or coffee place. Eventually the whole block will be like that. I was asked one time at a conference what was one piece of advice I’d give bar owners, and it was this: own your building. I stand by that. What happened to Lucy’s has been happening all over New York City, as one neighborhood after another “transitions” (the euphemism for “gentrifies”). Old places that once housed neighborhood locals have disappeared, making room for new, flashy joints. I guess some call this progress. For my part, after seeing this happen over and over, I’ll just grit my teeth and start looking for another small, dark bar to spend an afternoon at. If you know of any, let me know. But until then, here’s to Lucy’s! - Clinton R. Lanier 

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Here's to Clarke’s of Miami, FL

Bars

Sorry We're Closed

Here's to Clarke’s of Miami, FL

It goes without saying that a bar is an important part of a neighborhood (hence the moniker, neighborhood bar). The people that frequent the place, those labeled as “regulars,” come from the surrounding areas, living blocks, or maybe just buildings away. But on many occasions, newcomers will also slip through the door – maybe people visiting the city or area for the first time, or maybe just bar flies like me. But in any case, these places give their neighborhoods their personality, not to mention a gathering place for friends and family. That’s what Clarke’s, a small Irish pub in Miami Beach, did for eight glorious years. It was such a part of its community that even after closing a decade ago, the owner is still stopped on the street by past regulars who all sing the same chorus—“We miss our bar.” And it’s not hard to understand why. Clarke’s was described as “South Beach meets New York meets Dublin,” a place dripping in darkly stained mahogany, from the back bar to the beams across the ceiling. As one publication put it, it had the “big-city neighborhood pub look down pat,” complete with a huge bottle selection and Irish beers on tap. The crowd was raucous but friendly, and the bar itself was homey and far from extravagant – which belied its deeper sophistication. Sure, they had shepherd’s pie or fish ‘n chips on the menu, but a closer look would find some truly interesting offerings, like sea scallops wrapped in bacon or roasted duck with an orange demi-glace. The products behind the bar were no less refined. Sure, Clarke’s had all the Irish whiskey classics you could want, but they also featured rarer, harder-to-find selections (plus a wine list that included over 100 bottles). You wouldn’t think an Irish pub – sophisticated or otherwise – would really fit into a place like South Beach, but for some reason, it did. Clarke’s founder, Laura Cullen, is to be credited with this success. Laura had previously worked for a wine distributor and so had a pretty good idea of what worked and what didn’t in bars. But Laura’s history in the bar business goes back a bit further than that, back to her childhood, in fact. Laura grew up in New York at a time when neighborhood bars were common across all five Burroughs. Not only that, but her own father was a longtime New York bartender (a class of angels all to themselves) and then later became a bar owner, running a Village staple called the Sazerac House for over four decades. “I had no choice,” Laura told me when talking about how she came to own her popular Miami Beach spot, “my parents even met at a bar.” As it happened, before he founded his own place, her old man worked the bar at Chumley’s, the historic pub and speakeasy that graced Greenwich Village for almost a hundred years. It was while he was slinging drinks there that he met Laura’s mom, and the rest is, as they say history. So, for Laura, opening her own place was almost like destiny, like something she just had to do. Initially, the idea started as a school project while she was getting her MBA, but then grew increasingly real. Eventually, she couldn’t fight it anymore and opened Clarke’s. She combined the lessons she’d learned from supplying wine to restaurants for so long with her classes in business school and then added what she’d gleaned from her own time spent at her pop’s joint to open a place people still talk about to this day. She said she put her customers at the center of the place, which is why they were so loyal to her little pub. If she didn’t know someone at the bar, she’d take the time to get to know them, and so there were never really strangers there – at least not by the time they left. When Clarke’s was opened, the neighborhood was struggling to attract businesses. It was low rent, and so it provided a great space for a new, untested pub to hang out its shingle. But, within just a few years, and owed at least partly to the success of Clarke’s itself, more and more businesses started moving in. Before long, the area was starting to change, becoming more upscale and…well you can see where this is going, right? It’s happened time and time before – Clarke’s was a victim of its own success. The rent went up and the little Irish pub was edged out. Laura admits without any bitterness that she let her lease get bought out because she saw the writing on the wall. Surprisingly, she’s not mad about it, nor does she hold a grudge against the landlord – a friend of hers – but instead just shrugs philosophically, “It’s just one of those things.” But while she doesn’t feel bad for herself, she does feel bad for the locals and regulars, those are the people who depend on neighborhood places like Clarke’s. She’s always thrilled when they stop her and talk to her about her bar, but it’s bittersweet, as she misses it and them all the time. And that’s what made her, and by extension Clarke’s, such a success. She cared. So, for Laura Cullen and all the publicans who care so much about us, their thirsty crowd of regulars and visitors, thank you and cheers!

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Remembering Derry Hegarty’s Irish Pub

Bars

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Remembering Derry Hegarty’s Irish Pub

Between 1820 and 1975, about 4.7 million people immigrated to America from Ireland. Today, over 31 million Americans report having Irish ancestry. No wonder the Irish pub is so popular in the US – over 4,000 of them grace our cities according to a Forbes report (and most all of them will somehow house those 31 million on Saint Patrick’s Day). While some of those places are what Anthony Bourdain called “fake-ass” (you know the ones he was talking about), many are legit – opened by Irish immigrants who just wanted to give their cities or neighborhoods a taste of life in the Emerald Isle. That’s what Milwaukee’s Derry Hegarty did in 1972, when he opened his eponymously named pub on Blue Mound Road. Born in County Cork, Ireland, Hegarty immigrated to Milwaukee in 1965 to be close to family members who’d already moved there. Opening a pub wasn’t only an opportunity to be his own boss, it was also the chance to teach people a bit about his country’s culture. On this second mission he succeeded in spades. Sure, Derry’s place had all the usual trappings of a traditional pub from his home – it had the right beer, the right whiskeys, and the right décor – but it also served as a classroom, quite literally. Derry firmly believed “a country without a language is not a country,” and so he hosted Gaelic lessons for a small group of interested patrons, serving as their tutor as well as bartender. In 1975 he was also the first pub to bring in traditional Irish music, something still not easily found in Wisconsin’s largest, and most blue-collared city. Naturally, Derry was also a huge supporter of Milwaukee’s Irish community, like its municipal group, the Wisconsin Shamrock Club, and the city’s annual Irish Fest. And, of course, his bar was THE place to go for Saint Patrick’s Day festivities (though he had corned beef on the menu throughout the year). His goodwill went beyond just attending to the Irish American population of the city, he was also a huge sponsor of local sports, knew all the area politicians by their first names, and went to church regularly (famously tying up his pet goat – a gift from another local pub owner – outside during mass). Derry loved baseball, and was only a stone’s throw from the Milwaukee County Stadium, which housed the Brewers until 2000. On game day – especially for home games – the pub was a madhouse, and it hosted fans going to or returning from the game. Derry even offered his patrons rides to the stadium in one of his two mini-bus shuttles, one dubbed the “Paddy Wagon,” and a smaller one called “Half Pint.” Derry’s pub was cozy but spacious, with a banquet room that featured a full bar and seating for up to 300 people. That made this the destination for countless wedding receptions, political victory parties, and community events. In some shape or form, if you lived in Milwaukee from 1972 through 2011, there’s a good chance you passed through Derry’s front door. Entering under the neon green shamrock above the entrance (of course), and after letting your eyes adjust to the dimness, you’d see a collection of bric-a-brac that could only accumulate after forty years at the same spot – an Irish flag next to a Brewers’ pennant, dollar bills signed by local celebrities, and pictures of the city’s sports heroes. And if the shamrocks didn’t tip you off that this was an Irish pub, then surely the signs advertising stouts (not lagers), and signs written in Gaelic would. And all this topped off with a beautiful bar dripping in dark, luxurious mahogany. As in all places like this, the crowd was mixed but friendly. Lawyers sat next to bikers sitting next to college kids. The people were warm and quick to smile or laugh, with Derry keeping them entertained with his quick wit and wry sense of humor. Drinking dark beers with an order of fish and chips, or having a whiskey on the rocks, it was easy to pass away an afternoon at Derry’s pub. Sadly, Derry Hegarty passed away from cancer in 2011 and the bar was sold. First it became another Irish Bar, but then that too was sold and it is now home to a craft beer taproom. Directly across the street, though, is a cemetery, and from the front door of the old pub, you can see a headstone with “Hegarty” written on it. Even in death, Derry made sure that he would never be far from his old place and he’d always be able to keep an eye on it. For this reason alone, I’m sure there will be another Irish pub there sometime in the future – that’s what Derry would want. And, when it opens, let’s hope it’s as authentic, warm, and friendly as Derry’s place was. So, here’s to Derry and all the Irish immigrants like him who came to this land of opportunity and who, like him, took that opportunity to open a neighborhood pub – a bit of Ireland in hometown USA. Sláinte!

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Here's to the Sly Mongoose of Lahaina
Here's to the Sly Mongoose of Lahaina

What’s your definition of paradise? To some people, it’s a blazing hot sun reflecting off a rippling ocean with a breeze shaking the leaves of a palm tree. But to others, like me for instance, paradise is dark and musty, with a cool wisp of air from a battered old air conditioner, and a cheap shot of Jager resting on a well-seasoned bar. That’s what you’d find in the Sly Mongoose, once the greatest dive bar on Maui, but now…well, we’ll get to that. Understand that things are expensive on this little island in the middle of the Pacific, just like they are on all the Hawaiian Islands. The restaurants and shops, lounges and attractions, they are all built for tourists – for fat mainlanders like me who flock to Maui this time of year, desperate to get away from the snow and slush of deep winter.  But the Sly Mongoose was none of this. It was cheap and spartan. Putting function over form, it sat in a relatively modest, almost industrial setting, its door facing away from the ocean or any view of the blue horizon, almost as if in defiance. Inside it was dark, lacking windows or other portals to the tropical setting outside. Sitting at the bar, it was easy to forget where you were. Cincinnati? Pittsburgh? Albuquerque? Maybe. But ultimately, it didn’t matter, this place had all you needed for a good time. There was a jukebox, a few small tables, and a bar as wide as the narrow interior. Beer – American macro brew (of course) – was served in bottles and cans. You could count the bourbon options on one hand, and then use the remaining fingers to add the Scotch. Tequila, rum, vodka – they had all of them, but only one or two of each and always the most basic brands. If you wanted something top shelf, you were in the wrong place. To some, it may sound terrible, but understand, in a setting like Lahaina, all of this was refreshing. If it was a well-stocked whiskey selection you were searching for, there was a place just down the street that had bottles from all over the world. Go there, and for $25 you could easily get a pour of something rare, some whiskey that was aged many years and finished in molasses barrels or something. And if you wanted to drink somewhere with palm trees and a view of the rolling ocean, a quick drive to any of the island resorts would easily do the trick. But the Goose (as its loyal fans affectionately called it) was an escape from all that (and trust me, after a few days in the circus of cruise ships and overpriced junk, an escape was what you wanted). There wasn’t a pretense to it, it didn’t try to be some tropical escape with drinks served in coconuts with bamboo backscratchers as swizzle sticks. And for a 5-spot you could get a decent pour of the same whiskey your dad drank, and his dad before him. Welcoming and friendly, there was a comfort to this place not found elsewhere on the island. Surrounded by locals and a few savvy visitors, it was easy to waste the day away, blissfully unaware of what was going on outside. But then, sadly, everything changed in August of 2023 when a wind-whipped wildfire razed the old port city to the ground. Little was spared, and that includes the Goose. Like most other places in Lahaina, it was destroyed. The metal structure that housed it was left twisted and charred, collapsed and in ruins. Now, obviously, the fate of a small dive bar matters little when compared to the tragic loss of life and the destruction of the other historic buildings that stood for a hundred years or more. But places like the Sly Mongoose are also special and important to communities, and every time one is lost, the community loses a little bit of its identity, a little bit of who it is.  We need more places like the Goose, not less. More places where we can sit, talk, and just commune with each other as fellow humans. This isn’t a new concept. In 1775 the British sacked Charlestown, MA, burning it to the ground and leveling what once was a bustling, thriving waterfront town. After the tide of the war turned and colonists moved back into the area, the first building they built was not a church or a school, but a tavern. That’s how important these places are.  Hopefully, the Sly Mongoose will rebuild, and when it does, I hope to be there with a shot of Four Walls, toasting its new form.

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The Bay’s Old Pro and KC’s Red Balloon - Two Bars Where We Wish We Could Watch The Game

Bars

Sorry We're Closed

The Bay’s Old Pro and KC’s Red Balloon - Two Bars Where We Wish We Could Watch The Game

There’s a lot of variety when it comes to bars. Saloons, dives, cantinas, clubs, lounges - each different, with its own feel, its own music, even its own drinks. The funny thing is, people who go to one don’t often go to the others. They stay in their lane, drinking where it’s familiar, with their own crowd, their own bar stools, their own bartenders. Then, there are those places that don’t really have a crowd, maybe not even a classification. In these places, people come and go, wandering in and out like the currents in a stream, taking the flotsam and jetsam here and there as the seasons change. When it’s football season, fans of the pigskin congregate at the sports bars to watch their teams in the Super Bowl. And then, later in the week, those same people meet up after work to belt out a tune at the karaoke bar. Neither of these places are the regular hangout – they’re used for a short time, for a specific event, and then forgotten. While they don’t get a lot of praise, I think they should. So, I’m going to use the Super Bowl as an excuse to recognize two places that closed much too soon, places where I would gladly spend a day watching a football game or embarrassing myself on stage. We’ll start in the Bay Area and say a few words about the Old Pro, opened in Palo Alto when Steve Jobs was still wearing short pants. This was one of those classic sports bars that just sort of accumulated memorabilia. Starting with bare walls, little by little its collection expanded until one day every spot was taken up by a team pennant, a framed magazine article, an autographed picture, or a university flag. Crowds at the Old Pro were rowdy and boisterous and kept lubed up by beer towers and cheap drink specials. And when the game was over (and after a good helping of booze), there was even a mechanical bull to help customers pass the time. On any given night patrons were settled in to watch sports – that was the staple of this place after all. Stanford students flocked here to watch college or pro games and helped add to the collection of bric-a-brac dangling even from the ceiling. When one of the many Bay Area teams was competing – especially for a big game – the place was filled to capacity. All this changed with COVID and the many mandates that followed, which kept the doors closed and the crowds away. The owner finally threw in the towel in 2022. But enough about the sports bar, on to our second step-child – let’s swing by Kansas City and hit the karaoke bar, the Red Balloon to be more precise. To be honest, a place like this, which locked its doors just last December, is only a karaoke bar for part of the time – usually at night when people get off work and need to blow off some steam. The rest of the time it’s actually a dive bar – perhaps the best of all bars out there. The Red Balloon was opened in 1989 and, frankly, really didn’t offer that much – not for those used to the more upscale places anyway (places where bartenders are called mixologists and they have the word “lounge” in their name). It didn’t, for example, have a cocktail program, special ice, or even a laser light show. Instead, it had pinball machines, darts, pool tables, a couple of TVs, and a corner stage, from which drunk revelers would do their best, always terrible impressions of Taylor Swift or Drake (or even Johnny Cash, my personal favorite). There was so much about the Red Balloon to love. For starters, it was cash only. That’s the kind of place you know you’ll have fun at because it means that the beer you ordered might cost five bucks as it says on the sign, or it might be two dollars because the bartender likes you. You never know. Sure, it’s a pain to remember to bring currency with you, but luckily there’s always an ATM by the door you can use (never mind the criminally high service fees). Also, the interior was dark and barely lit, and it was easy to hide in a corner and be left alone with your drink. Or, if you wanted the spotlight, you got that too, on the stage to the cheers of a friendly crowd of equally as tone-deaf regulars. After 35 years in business, the owner decided it was time to retire, so the Red Balloon had one final fandango and locked the doors, RIP. If you read the reviews about either one of these places, you’ll see they’re pretty mixed. I think that’s how it should be. Some people didn’t like them, but others did. Honestly, I’m suspicious about five-star bars. I can’t believe any joint would appeal to everyone. Mixed reviews mean that enough people from different walks of life passed through their doors at one time or another to rate the place honestly. More importantly, it means the joint wasn’t trying to be everything to everybody (which always means death to a bar). One a sports bar, the other a karaoke bar, but both authentic and comfortable. I wish they were still around, but I guess they served their purposes for long enough. Both are now gone, the screens dark and the stage empty, but here’s to hoping a couple of new ones take their place.  Now, a round of shots and beers please, and on to the game! 

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The Pershing Inn - A Once Classic Bar
The Pershing Inn - A Once Classic Bar

And so goes another one… I have to admit, this one hit really close to home. I mean that figuratively and literally. I live in a small community about 45 miles from El Paso, Texas. The images of squalor and desperation you see on the nightly news – there’s a lot more to this place. For starters it’s probably the wildest old west city in our nation. I know that westerns would have you believe it might be Tombstone or Dodge City or some other backwater, but trust me, El Paso is the real deal. Along the border with Juarez, Mexico, it was filled with brothels and gunfights. This is where John Wesley Hardin – one of the most notorious of old west outlaws – was gunned down while throwing dice in a saloon. Imagine how much fun this place was. It still is. There are dozens of great bars in El Paso, but one of my favorites, which sadly just closed, was called the Pershing Inn. Residing on 2909 Pershing Drive this place oozed cool from its founding in 1949. By the way, if it wasn’t obvious, its name comes from the road that fronted its doors, just like all the businesses around it (next door was a Pershing Theater, for example), which was named for General “Blackjack” Pershing’s punitive expedition to pursue Pancho Villa after his raids along the border in 1916. In any case the Pershing Inn was one of those tiny, homey-type saloons, seating perhaps 50 people at the most, with a few beers on tap and the basics behind the bar. But it was friendly and welcoming, and over the decades grew popular with locals and the military crowd stationed at nearby Fort Bliss. The owner, Ray Haddad, sponsored every type of local sports known to man, especially recreational softball teams, basketball, and even bowling. Early newspapers are filled with articles about the Pershing Inn winning this tournament or that. The area the bar resided in, called the Five Points, was an older, central part of the city, meaning that at some point it started to show its age. As buildings decayed and businesses fled, the Pershing Inn held on. The regulars and young soldiers kept the bar in business, and over the decades it continued pouring honest drinks at fair prices. Maybe that’s why I liked this place so much. Up until about fifteen years ago there was no pretense to it. As bars go today, it really didn’t offer that much. There was a small space, a small bar, and a quiet place to sit and have a drink. What more do you need? A DJ? A dance floor? Axe-throwing for God’s sake? For about 50 years this small, humble watering hole filled the most basic role of small bars, and that was enough. Eventually, though, new owners bought it and expanded it, building a backyard patio, bar and stage, and bringing in live music. A kitchen was added and they started serving food. Eventually, they even got a website. None of this bodes well for old curmudgeons like me, but I guess that’s progress.   As the Five Points neighborhood went through gentrification, the bar was sold again, and a new, craft cocktail bar was added, and before you knew it, the place was frequented by a different crowd. It was still a good bar, just different. No longer a dive, no longer a hole in the wall, now a destination, a place to get a few drinks before or after a concert, where you could order a $20 mixed drink and listen to some live, local music. Inevitably the place finally closed, just a few months ago, in fact. I say “inevitably” because that’s what happens to bars that chase trends – eventually the trend goes away and they can either chase the next one or they can simply be a bar again. The owners chose the third option – sell out and let someone else take up the chase. Recently news came out that the Pershing Inn was bought and was going to be “reimagined” as a new dive bar. To be honest I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds awful. Dive bars, after all, aren’t things that are made, they are honest evolutions of bars that refused to succumb to trends. The Pershing Inn was like that at one time, and now it’s not. I miss the Pershing Inn, the real one that ceased to exist over a decade ago. I’ve had a lot of time to mourn it, so although the final closing does hurt, it doesn’t hurt as much as might be had the bar never changed in the first place. So, today I lift my glass to those bars that resisted the temptation to chase a trend, those bars that simply stayed a neighborhood watering hole. To them and to the original Pershing Inn, Cheers!

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Bars Serve a Special Purpose on Christmas: an Ode to Madison’s Avenue Bar

Bars

Sorry We're Closed

Bars Serve a Special Purpose on Christmas: an Ode to Madison’s Avenue Bar

Have you ever been to a bar on Christmas Day? I’ve spent a Christmas by myself before, and can tell you it’s a very depressing, very lonely experience. Had there been a welcoming saloon close by, I would have planted myself on a stool, watched a football game, and sipped a few drinks in the fellowship of others who, like myself, had nowhere else to go. But, alas, every single one in the small town I lived in was closed and dark. But some are more fortunate than me, and I mean specifically the residents of Madison, Wisconsin (or those who lived there until about twelve years ago). For over three decades, an East Washington landmark called the Avenue Club served the lonely, thirsty, and hungry for Christmas, giving solace to the weary with no other option. It wasn’t the drunkard or sot who came to this bar and restaurant on December 25th, it was the long-haul trucker who just drove across the country, the nurse who just finished her shift, or (as in my case) the college student whose home was very far away. In short, it was the crowd that didn’t have a place to go. The Avenue Bar, owned by the soft-spoken Skip Zach, was like mom’s house for Christmas, for many people, and for many years. But it didn’t start that way. Purchasing the already fourteen-year-old bar with a business partner in 1970, Skip saw potential in what was at the time a small neighborhood watering hole. Though just a room with a couple of pool tables at first, Skip expanded it to contain a dining room that would become famous for its “fish boil,” a culinary tradition unique to Wisconsin. After a few years of co-ownership, Skip bought out his partner, and the Zach’s (Skip and his wife, Clare) began a 30-plus-year run of ownership and service to their community. The Zach’s were a generous couple who oozed philanthropy, much of this through their volunteering. Tuesdays would find Skip and up to 45 of his employees serving food at the local Lutheran church, while on Wednesdays, they’d work at the nearby Ronald McDonald House. They were also involved in neighborhood organizations, university booster clubs, and proudly sponsored numbers of amateur sports teams. Every year they even held a fundraiser for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, raising thousands of dollars for them over the decades. As you can imagine, Skip and Clare made sure their bar was a welcoming place to visit. They featured live music on the weekends (from country to Dixieland jazz), sports on TV when the game was on, and cold beer every day of the year. Conversation could be boisterous, but people were always friendly. Skip called his bar “non-partisan,” so politics was secondary to other matters, usually sports, which meant lively debates about the Brewers, the Badgers, or the Packers. Despite denying any political leanings though, the Avenue Bar was still frequented by state politicos, not to mention professional athletes and business owners. While holding court, these big wigs shared space with college students, plumbers, and construction workers. People from all walks of life enjoyed this place. Surrounded by a collection of bric-a-brac, mostly regional antiques collected over the years by Clare, patrons could always find an honest pour and good food. Maybe I should say great food. The menu included not only the daily fish boil (think fish and chips), but also prime rib, burgers, and corn beef and cabbage. Pub grub it was not. And then there was Christmas Day. On the 25th of December, Skip opened his doors to the weary and lonesome and provided not only a place to share some company and a drink, but also a fantastic meal. Some years it was crab legs, other years, it was lobster, but always it was something special. And that’s really what this place was – special. If you viewed a late December Madison, Wisconsin newspaper anytime in the 1980s, you’d find an ad for “Skip Zach’s Avenue Bar.” In big, bold letters was written, “Open Christmas.” Surrounding it were countless other ads for other area restaurants and bars. In big bold letters on them you’d read, “Closed Christmas Day.” It takes something special to open your doors to strangers on one of the most important holidays of the year. Skip understood what it meant to the people who made their way to his bar on that day. To them, perhaps missing their homes or loved ones somewhere a thousand miles away, finding the warmth, welcome, and fellowship of the Avenue Bar made the day a little less lonely, and a little more cheerful. Skip passed in 2005, and his beloved Avenue Bar was sold in 2011. It hung on for a while with the same menu and under a similar name but finally closed for good in 2021. One less place to spend Christmas Day. I’m not saying you should ditch your family and head to the local saloon this Christmas, but if you happen to see a bit of neon in the distance on a snowy December 25th, know that it’s serving a good cause, and selflessly doing its part to make the holidays merry and bright.  

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This Repeal Day, Toast the Fellowship of a Good Bar

Bars

Sorry We're Closed

This Repeal Day, Toast the Fellowship of a Good Bar

This summer, I got to drink in a brewhouse from the 16th century. It was in Munich, and the place was an institution, a city landmark, proudly displayed on every map and in every guidebook handed out to tourists wandering the cobblestoned streets. A few hours north of there, in Cologne, I drank at a place much younger, hailing only from 1904, but still just as beloved by the city’s residents and crowded every night by locals and visitors alike. These places have been serving nonstop since their founding, and I get the sense that they’ll be serving for another hundred years or more. In America, we have nothing like that. Sure, there are places here that, at one time, may have served drinks early in our nation’s history, but inevitably, at some point, the place also housed some other, not nearly-so-fun business. That transition – from bar to boarding house, dry cleaners, or something else – always came between 1919 and 1933, during prohibition, that ridiculous, 14-year period of moral tyranny that caused more crime than it solved and destroyed countless lives.  Though prohibition didn’t ban bars outright, it did take away their product, the only reason they existed to begin with. And even though they could remain in business, most did not. When the Volstead Act went into effect, bar owners sold their furnishings and locked their doors, never to open them again. Sure, some remained as speakeasies, but the vast majority – experts estimate up to 15,000 of them – were shuttered for good. For 13 long years, if you wanted to drink outside of your house, you’d have to commit a crime. You’d descend darkened stairs and knock on a featureless door; you’d murmur a password and gain entrance to a small, smoke-filled room. Then you’d drink whatever was available – bathtub gin, yeasty home brew, watered-down rotgut – and ask no questions. You’d talk in hushed tones, literally “speaking easy” to avoid alerting the fuzz patrolling the sidewalks above. It was sketchy, making felons of millions of Americans, putting coins in the coffers of organized crime, and turning the nation into a land of willing scofflaws. But then, on December 5, 1933, everything changed. On that date, the 18th Amendment was repealed, and America was wet once more. And I mean ALL of America. In Indianapolis, Indiana, for example, the Penn Way Inn began selling booze. Now, to be clear, the saloon occupying the Flat Iron-shaped building at 605 North Pennsylvania Avenue had opened when the prohibition on beer had been lifted in April, but in December, they got to serve the hard stuff, and residents were certainly ready for it. Indianapolis had been hard hit by prohibition. Indiana, not content with the restrictions of the 18th amendment, passed a “Bone Dry Law” in 1925, strengthening Federal laws and increasing punishment. After prohibition began, the city’s police force at first reported a drop in those crimes common to late-night revelers, like fights and public drunkenness. But within a short time, they found themselves overwhelmed by the moonshiners and bootleggers, and organized crime increased. In a city also hit hard by the Great Depression, the Penn Way Inn, which eventually became a beloved dive bar called the Elbow Room, was a welcome respite, an oasis in the desert that was the 1930s. For 84 years, this two-story saloon modestly served a local crowd. It housed friends and relatives, locals talking about the weather over a pint, and strangers meeting for the first time after a long day at work. These were things absent during the years of America’s “great experiment,” and while some would argue such customs were small, they were sorely missed. Humans are social, not meant to be cooped up alone without an outlet for interaction. And this is the service the Penn Way, later the Elbow Room, provided society. Sadly, in 2017, after eight decades in Indiana’s capital city, the Elbow Room closed, the building was sold, and now all that remains are the memories of a single day of joy in December when we could once again share each other’s company. The story is the same all over the country. In San Jose, California, as another example, Patty’s Inn also opened on Repeal Day. Formerly a grocery store, this small, indiscrete pub at 102 Montgomery Street was founded by local rancher Pat Krickeberg in 1933. It became a popular destination for what was once a very rural, sparsely populated agricultural community in Northern California. While the crowd there wouldn’t have been wearing suits or hats like those in the photos of Repeal Day in New York City, they were still just as overjoyed to have a place where they could legally wet their whistles and meet up for conversation. Popular with farmers and farmhands, it was quiet and kept to itself (save for an occasional disturbance, like when it was raided in 1938 for having an unlicensed pinball machine). Over the years, Patty’s Inn became popular with the tech crowds too, and wore its age gracefully, proudly displaying bric-a-brac from decades of service. Like the Penn Way Inn, Patty’s served modest food and kept humble prices. It was a place to meet after work during the week or to watch a game on the weekends. For some, it was a second home, and for others, a brief moment of escape from all the pressures of life. And in the end, it went the same way as the Elbow Room. Although it survived an earthquake in 1989 and a fire in 1993, the one thing it couldn’t survive was Google, which bought the property and closed it down in 2021 (ultimately demolishing the 130-year-old building it was housed in). If the past few years have taught us anything, it’s that we aren’t meant to be alone. We yearn to share space with our fellow humans, the other passengers on this trip we call life. Imagine a COVID quarantine of thirteen years. I know to some, it reeks of hyperbole; after all, during prohibition, we could still do things like go to the movies, attend dances and parties, and generally be around other people. But there’s nothing that replaces the feeling of a comfy bar stool, a cold drink in your hand, a hearty laugh, and a meaningful conversation. And so, when the government came to its senses and allowed people to drink once more, on December 5, 1933, Americans turned out in droves for the fellowship only found in a bar. They stormed places like the Penn Way Inn in Indianapolis, San Jose’s Patty’s Inn, and thousands of other places across the country and reveled in their newfound freedom. This year, just to remember the past, we should all do the same. Happy Repeal Day!

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