There are several advantages to being a friend of the local music critic, last night was one of them.
Her email landed perfectly in the middle of a miserable Monday. This jazz sax player, she said, was originally from Buffalo. The bar was nearby on the West Side. And there was no cover.
Good. Nearby. Free. We were in.
I came dragging home from my meeting after nine, if not for Mary's recommendation the plan would have dissolved there. We found street parking up the block and followed the sax siren call to the open door of a slightly modified hole-in-the-wall with 100-year-old ornate molded tiles on the ceiling and another hundred years of something else on the floor. The walls were covered with photos in dime store frames of near-great musicians and a few you were pretty sure you remembered.
The patrons were a combination of neighbors, musicians and serious music fans -- respectful, at times reverential of the extended percussion jams and Hammond organ that backed up the sax man. We squeezed in to the few remaining square feet to find a place against the wall near Mary.
I watched Charlie go to the bar to order a round, then saw him question the bartender and reach back in his wallet to pay for three drinks.
"There's no cover" I told myself. The music was more than worth a little markup.
My gin and tonic was in a solid square glass, the kind that might bounce before breaking and probably bounced off a skull or two in its storied existance. The recipe conserved the precious tonic for a possible malaria outbreak. After the shock of the first sip, it tasted pretty good.
Charlie opted for a Labatt's longneck. Mary's first glass of wine came in a stemmed glass, but it was getting late. This one came in a tumbler filled to the brim. The sides of my glass were slightly sticky from being overfilled. This was a Buffalo pour.
At the next break in the music, I asked Charlie what the problem was with the drinks.
"They were $6.75"
"Each?" I said, thinking that was still cheaper than the hotel piano bar next to our apartment.
"For the whole round" he said incredulously.
God bless my hometown. A buy-a-round town where a working man can still do the honors.
Mary's brother bought the next round. On the third go a stranger sitting at the bar helped Charlie carry them back to our table.
They used to call this place "The City of Good Neigbors" when I was a kid.
It still is.



Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs