The Deluxe Billiards

What was initially planned as a reply to Thesaurus’ ode to the tavern has blossomed into my own youthful ruminations and brief commentary on the current state of the American bar.  I have had a long, romantic relationship with the tavern long before I understood its historical significance here in the U.S. (as an extension of the public square, much of the discussion and planning for revolution took place in the taverns of the colonies, historically a space for fellowship, occasional armchair philosophy, and always good cheer). 

I grew up in a college town, a college town that has to this day the ridiculous yet lucrative policy of allowing patrons entrance into a watering hole at nineteen years of age but of course does not allow these kids to drink (wink wink).  A fiendish sub-industry rose up alongside the nineteen and over policy – regular police visits and the issuance of thousands of dollars of underage drinking tickets annually (excuse the momentary digression).

But, I did not have to wait till I was nineteen.  Thanks to an older brother that looked a lot like me in the photo at least, I was bequeathed his fake id at fifteen.  I only tried this id at a few places around my home town, a liquor store on the poor side of town and the campus town bars Coslow’s, Nature’s Table, and Eddie’s, notorious for its lax policy on drinking.  Eddie’s was actually four bars in an enormous old house: Eddie’s in the basement, Chin’s on the first floor, the Tiki Garden on the second and third floors (restaurant and bar) and up in the attic, Chin’s Wok n Roll (all owned by the notorious yet lovable local character George Chin).  I saw two of the top ten live shows of my lifetime in his attic bar (Cowboy X and Titanic Love Affair).  But back to Eddie’s.  At fifteen, my friend Pearse and I sauntered into Eddie’s looking exactly fifteen years old and got drunk on draft beer (never once having to show id this first time).  Nonetheless, underage drinking in bars became fairly routine for me. 

[It was not until recently that I realized I was allergic to some forms of alcohol, darks beers, most wines, and champagne, breaking out in hives, reacting to the sedative qualities, and having extreme hangovers.  This explains my turn toward alternative substances as my preferred method of teenage escape.  Nevertheless, many friends and I were weekend regulars throughout our high school years.] 

This came to a screeching halt when I moved away for college, a Midwestern city with a keen eye for fakes and no tolerance for those that attempted entrance.  So campus parties and cheep keg beer became the order of the day.  However, the twenty year wait would soon come to pass and the first hometown campus bar I ever had a legal drink in upon a visit home was called the Deluxe.  The quintessential dive bar, really an old pool hall with a long wooden bar, an even longer wooden bench against one wall, a bunch of pool tables, and some of the dingiest bathrooms I have ever stepped foot in.  This place was famous for its fish sandwich, which was quite good, but anything fried with competency tastes pretty damn good.  While they did change the fryer oil, I am convinced the secret ingredient was the layers of gristle and oil that caked the deep-fryer that was never cleaned.  A tin ceiling, a beautiful old wood bar, PBR bottles (long before this became chic), wooden bar stools, a black and white checkered floor, and space, lots of space.  It was comfortable.  And a bar does not have to be a dive to be cool and cozy – just  have its own soul, an identity that makes sense.  The Deluxe was one of several places my friends and I frequented over the years.  And for the eight years I spent as a baker / line cook / station cook, most nights were capped off with the comedown only a beer or cordial and a smoke could provide at such establishments.  Cooks and restaurant folk have no tolerance for bullshit chains and non-descript watering holes, needless-to-say I became a bit of a snob myself when it came to getting a drink.

Regrettably, like many areas of our country, the Deluxe lost out to the suburbanization of most of the campus town night life in my home town in the late 90s and 00s (hence faux urbanization).  Eddie’s, Chins, Nature’s Table, Coslow’s and countless other locally-owned, singular entities were swallowed whole by upscale, big-city rip-offs [A cool, somewhat electric bar scene has emerged in areas outside the campus though].  I swore I would never go into the new place that took over the Deluxe (the new place shuttering the old for nearly a year of renovation).  But one day I was convinced to pop in for an afternoon beer.  I was chilled by the experience.  No doubt nostalgia and disgust colored my impressions, but this new place looked like a thousand other places found in hundreds of different towns.  It was cold, bland, uninteresting, the wood appeared to be a veneer, and schlock covered the walls with no clear plan or aesthetic.  Quite uncharacteristically, I asked the folks if we could go somewhere else, and we did.

Unlike Thesaurus, I am fortunate, there are three bars within walking distance that I quite enjoy and while my bar hops are now infrequent, I have a few places nearby that are their own (and two take the menu seriously, offering fare that is not expected and/or good bar food).  And Thesaurus is right, what the fuck is up with the televisions in every possible open space.  I visited a brand new Asian restaurant located in a brand new commercial development recently, and while a bit cliché, the décor demonstrated some thought and care (it had really strong design lines that flowed throughout the restaurant and the color palette worked for me), but all of this was interrupted by this enormous flat screen hanging over the bar that distracted all those patrons not with backs turned.  We can be unplugged for a meal, no?  R.I.P. Deluxe.