Last call for a beloved watering hole (Buffalo News - August 6, 2022)
13th Mar, 2023
Ipulled hard on the door, already knowing the result.
The first clue was an empty parking lot on a Friday night, then the big Dumpster just behind the office. It scrambled me for a bit – is this happening? The news I was piecing together should have been preceded by “Are you sitting down?”
We throw a few dollars on the bar for a beer and some food, thinking the exchange to be fair. In the grander sweep of time, it becomes clear we got the better end of the deal. While not realizing it at the time, these neighborhood places provide the backdrop for so many of the events of our lives.
Where I listened to a bartender talk about his dream of opening a brewery, and watched from a distance as it came to life. Where we talked politics civilly, without fear of being unfriended on Facebook.
Where my sister and her husband met the girl who would later become my wife. Where the board meetings for our baseball league addressed important matters, like, who would throw out the first pitch on opening day? Or, in its purest form, where I had a beer with a friend.
For the uninitiated, running a bar looks like an easy gig. Those that know better realize it’s a job where you never really “punch out.” Each phone call or text triggers trepidation, “What fire will I need to put out now?”
It’s a bit ragged, but I still wear the shirt from the annual 5k run. Throwing it out now would seem sinful. I can see Mary and Jacob crossing the finish line together. It was too hot, and he was too young, but they made it up Burroughs hill. As he got older, I’d take him there to catch up over a fish fry or wings. He stood next to me when I pulled on the door in vain.
If you’ve reached a particular vintage, you may still think of the home of the Bills as Rich Stadium. In a similar vein, Snyder Bar and Grill, to me, is still Loughran’s. I can recall the night I learned he’d be moving to Main Street. It was a big risk, but one that time proved he could handle.
When I walk in that first place, I still look to the front window, just below the neon, catching an ephemeral glimpse of Pete behind the drums. Glancing behind the bar I wonder if Glen’s working, but realize that’s a thought from long ago. Walking by each booth, I can see Joe or Jay, or Bob and Mary, and the faces of other high school friends, like flipping through an old yearbook. They’ll be glad to hear they haven’t aged a bit.
It was a place where I saw many friends for the last time. Off to school, or a new job. The excitement was tempered with a realization that, for those remaining behind, the roster was reduced by one. That was just the truth of living here, as every decade the census confirmed what I already knew. Some friends you knew would leave, but the bar leaving was one I didn’t see coming.
When an old friend comes home, like an echo from the past, the text would read, “Let’s meet at Loughran’s.” In the ‘80s or ‘90s it would have been a phone call, but the intent was the same. Time changed us and our means of communicating, but not the bar, or the guy that owned it.
On behalf of many of us who grew up with something that started as a bar, but evolved into something more, watching it age like an old friend, the message is pretty simple. If you see Tommy out, set him up, and say “Thanks.” Checking the ledger, it’s pretty clear, we’re way behind.
