WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME
By Ken Shimamoto
You and me, we'll start something up. A bar, maybe. Two Irish kids from Brooklyn, how could we not have a bar? Green beer for St. Paddy's Day, free hot dogs for Monday Night Football. Think about it. Old fashioned jukebox sitting in the corner…
“I found my Cheers!” my coworker said. She’d just reached legal age, and discovered the Pub near TCU, where on certain weekends it’s actually possible to see current students hanging out with their alumni parents. “I’m a regular,” she exulted. “I have ‘the usual!’”
A couple of months after the closing of a beloved watering hole, I ran into a friend at another spot. “So,” he inquired solicitously, “where are you drinking these days?”
It’s an important question. The places we choose to congregate and recreate reflect and often influence our sense of identity. And a good bar can provide a refuge and sanctuary from the hard knocks of life.
When I was recently unemployed back in 2002, I used to trek downtown to the old Black Dog Tavern once a week with enough quarters to feed the meter outside for two hours (from opening to the start of happy hour) and enough folding money for a couple of beers. The old basement was a cool, quiet place where I could sit and sip while mulling over the week’s job prospects (e.g., the week’s opportunities for rejection) while making small talk with the bartender and whatever other habitués happened in. After awhile, I started getting about half of my drinks for free. I’d still still depart before the boisterous happy hour crowd of employed people started filtering in.
For all of its funk, I loved the old Black Dog, especially when Gentleman Jem Rodriguez was tending. He once made me walk a line to get out of his place when I wasn’t even drunk, bless him. I understand he’s doing happy hours at Embargo now. I’ll have to go see him there sometime.
Since I was young, when the drinking age was still 18, I’ve always liked bars better than clubs. There’s less pretense there, less “see-and-be-seen” bullshit. As a teenager, I’d go sit in wood-paneled rooms with my foot on a rail and watch the older guys to see how they carried themselves, listen to the things they talked about. In a way, I learned how to be a man there. The bartender would remind us, whenever a lady walked in, to “show her that this is a gentleman’s bar.” (That meant, “Don’t say ‘fuck,’ you assholes.”) I know half a dozen guys back on Long Island who claim to be “John at the bar” who was the “friend of mine” Billy Joel sang about in “Piano Man.” (I’ve had to deal with the ex-Mr. Christie Brinkley a lot longer than you have, so I’m entitled to hate him.)
I actually met my wife at the Black Dog, but we got to know each other at J&J’s Hideaway, that congenial little joint on West 7th, now in the shadow of the cranes. It’s a place that’s always reminded me of a ski lodge in Aspen when I was there at the ass-end of the ‘70s – even when they don’t have the fireplace lit, even when Brian Sharp behind the bar is wearing one of his Hawaiian shirts. Back when I scribed for the FW Weekly, my editor and I used to make a ritual of hitting the Wreck Room after putting the paper to bed. The week of the bad snowstorm in January 2003, we showed up at the Wreck only to find it closed. No problem: we just headed across the street to the Hideaway, where we found all the West Side’s other hardcore barflies.
These days, a lot of former Wreck Room regulars seem to be showing up at the Chat Room at 1263 Magnolia, in the hip Fairmount neighborhood that’s also home to Benito’s, Panther City Bicycles, and Spiral Diner. We haven’t been there much, but when we were, it had the same friendly-neighborhood-bar vibe the Wreck usedta have during the daytime or on nights when there wasn’t a show (and the Chat Room seems to be emerging as a music venue, too). In fact, it’s kinda like a Wreck Room for younger folks in the same way that Pop’s Safari (Perry Tong’s venerable cigar bar and eatery at 2929 Morton) is a Wreck Room for older folks. Watch out for the gentrifiers and yuppifiers, kids.
In spite of our epigraph, you don’t have to be Irish to own a bar – but it certainly doesn’t hurt if you are. Take Ed Noyes from Malone’s, f’rinstance. (Full disclosure: The webmaster for this site is a Malone’s bartender. And a fine human being, as well.) Ed’s been in the bar biz downtown for a long time -- in fact, I once had a couple of dates with an upstate New York expat based solely on the availability of Genesee Cream Ale on tap at one of Ed’s old spots. Malone’s is famous for its “open to close” specials: $2.50 pints on Monday night, $1.75 longnecks on Thursdays, $2 wells on Sunday. Sometimes I’ll stumble down to 1303 Calhoun (next to the Tarrant County Bar Association, ironically enough) when Carey Wolff is tending and play Woodeye songs on the jukebox. If I want to “see Woodeye,” I can head from Malone’s over to Finn MacCool’s, a cozy spot located at 1700 8th Ave. in the hospital district, where Carey’s old bandmate Graham Richardson is tending these days and probably plotting revenge for the ignominious drubbing Finn’s took from Malone’s in their first annual bowling tournament last year.
Speaking of Irish bars, there’s none more authentic in the Fort than the Shamrock Pub, whose owner Matt McEntire (pronounced mac-EN-tree, doncha know) is a genuine son of the Old Sod who generously provided assistance to my future wife when she was planning on relocating to Eire a few years back (um, before she met me). Matt’s another longtime veteran of the bar wars, having operated as the Shamrock or the Blarney Stone in three different downtown locations before moving to his current one at 2710 West 7th, in the shadow of the Montgomery Towers – a beautiful dark wood room with a long bar.
Another venerable Fort Worth institution – celebrating its ninth anniversary this March 17th -- with an English slant, is Ye Olde Bull and Bush at 2300 Montgomery Street. Owner Nick Gregory’s a bona fide Brit with some kind of crazy background as a bush pilot, and his spot is a congenial location to lounge at the outdoor tables during the spring and summer months. Lots of neighborhood peeps consider it “their local,” and I know of folks who routinely make the trek from as far away as Weatherford to hang at the Bull and Bush – perhaps because it’s pet-friendly. They’ve also added spirits to their offerings, with martini specials on Mondays and $2 wells on Tuesdays, but they’ve always poured mixtures like a Half & Half (Harp and Guinness) or a Scotsman’s Reverse (Newcastle and Boddington’s).
Finally, I feel compelled (although I’ve never set foot in there) to mention Tiff & Andi’s at 3516 Blue Bonnet Circle, since a number of folks of my acquaintance swear by it, and far be it from me to doubt ’em. This has been, of necessity (me gots no expense account for “research,” and only one liver) a limited and highly subjective overview. If you know of a friendly spot “where everybody knows your name” that I’ve inadvertently slighted, feel free to hit us up with a review why doncha.
Web resources:
J&J’s Hideaway: www.jjbluesbar.com/hideaway.htm
The Chat Room Pub: www.myspace.com/thechatroompub
Pop’s Safari: www.popssafari.com
Malone’s: www.malonespub.com
Finn MacCool’s: myspace.com/finnmaccool
The Shamrock Pub: www.shamrockpub.ws
Ye Olde Bull and Bush: www.yeoldbullandbush.com/entry.htm