Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Bar None
Or
Bottoms Up
My
step father had a bar when I was growing up; it was called The Beach Bar and
Grill although there wasn’t a beach within ten miles; in fact, it was on the
border of Greenwich Village in New York City, across from a trucking company in
a blue collar neighborhood awash with the salt of the earth.
This
is how it was. The bar was open from 8:00 AM until 4:00 AM seven days (Sunday
bar openings were 1:00 PM by law allowing for church). It was closed on whims
and election days. The space was about 25’x 75’ with a galley kitchen in the
back and the bar itself running from about six feet in, on the left side, for
approximately 35’ there were minimal barstools (reserved for dames); most men imbibed
while standing. There was a juke box that took coins and you could watch
records spin; Bing Crosby’s Happy Birthday was on ALL juke boxes in those days,
just in case. There were a few tables (deuces) that sat two people, bathrooms
center right and booths along the right wall and in the small dining area in
the back.
There
was a local drunk that came in overnight to clean and mop. At eight in the
morning the day barmaid came in to dispense the morning special ‘medicine’ to a
waiting public: six ounces of straight gin for a dollar. No lunch was served;
the ‘Grill’ part of Bar and Grill was added to allow patrons to bring their
kids in, making it family friendly.
Workers
came over from the docks, meat packing district and day truckers for work
breaks and possibly a bracer before heading home; they usually had whiskey with
a short beer chaser called ‘a beer and a ball’. My step father, Larry (the
Greek) came in about four and worked the bar and kitchen until closing;
sometimes he would have a six o’clock barmaid on that shift (that’s how my Mom
met him) and the evening cronies were local salts and their dames (wives or
other). The oncoming six o’clock bartender would, by tradition, serve everyone
a drink on the house and the night would take off from there; it was also
tradition to buy each person their third drink, women more often than that, and
it was also tradition for patrons to buy the bartender drinks. Everyone smoked
cigarettes and bought drinks for each other. It was serious drinking and boozy
good times, most often.
There
was always room for a little dancing, people sang along with the juke and
sometimes there were fights; conversation rules were cemented in stone: talk
was to exclude any references to sex, politics and/or religion. Period. Sometimes
I’d get up in the morning and find Larry’s shirts in the bathtub with cold
water to loosen bloodstains and knew that I would be sent to the apothecary for
a leech for another black eye.
There was one small television that was only
turned on for boxing, horse racing and baseball World Series; there was always
too much going on in the bar to keep the ‘boob tube’ on. If you were stuck for
entertainment there was shuffleboard (with puck) in the back by the empty beer
bottled cases that were picked up by the delivery guys. The ice man delivered
ice. Guys drank whiskey and women drank mixed drinks called highballs. There
were no cream, multi ingredient or blender drinks. Food was whatever Larry was
cooking that night.
Sometimes Larry’s
patrons would get him drunk, take his clothes off, lock him out of his own bar
and drink his whiskey just for fun. The Beach Bar and Grill’s regulars were
like a club and went on picnics and day trips together. There were usually six guys
and their gals that ran together, most guys had seen action in ‘the war’ and
were tough with each other and gentle with their wives, girlfriends and
anyone’s kids; for us that was lucky because there were five kids in our
family.
Larry
was always buying stuff that ‘fell off the back of a truck’; he would bring
home stuff for us to sell to neighbors; belts, women’s stockings, work pants
etc and usually he would score a ‘procured’ Sunday roast from one of the
butchers. This was the world that I grew up in; my mother, a hash slinger; my
missing father an itinerant cook; and this Greek guy, cook and bar owner. One
Sunday morning I was awoken early because the cleaning guy was found passed out
on the floor from drinking his way through Larry’s inventory and I was needed
to clean and mop the joint that smelled of stale smoke, sweat, cheap perfume
and booze; I was twelve and I mark that day as the first in my career in the
service industry.
In
those days men walked in and laid a twenty on the bar and drank (and bought for
others) until it was gone; drinking was a pastime like theater or shows and
there was just as much dramatics to see or be seen. Bartenders knew customers by
name, drink preferences, and usually had their drink ready by the time they
bellied up; the bottle was left in front of the customer and drinks were poured
from it: Cutty Sark, Four Roses, Fleishman’s, Seagram’s, Beefeater, Old Grand
Dad, Dewar’s.
There
were bars like this on every other street when I was growing up; there’s few
today and when you spot one it’s usually called ‘an old fart bar’. That’s where
guys like me go with our dames to sit and talk about everything except politics,
sex or religion. Cheers!
