Category Archives: Bars, Pubs, Taverns, and Saloons

Getting the Blues Part Four: Evolution

On Tuesday morning, it was time to leave Clarksdale and head up to Memphis, Tennessee. Built on a bluff just across the state line from Mississippi, Memphis is where the Mississippi Delta begins and has been called the capital of the Delta by some. The Blues Highway, US 61, leads through the Mississippi Delta country to Memphis and many delta blues musicians traveled north to and through this gateway city. Both rock and roll and soul music were born there. And coincidentally, my family and I first traveled to Memphis over 20 years ago at the invitation of my friend Matt to meet up with him and and his family to tour the city and spend some quality time together.

We left the Shack Up Inn and headed up Highway 61, stopping for breakfast at a Waffle House near Tunica, which is popular for its casinos. Matt and I don’t gamble, but as you may have noticed, we do eat. You already saw my standard Waffle House breakfast, so no food pic this time. Interestingly enough, though, this particular restaurant has a sizable water retention pond running beside the highway. Because of the pond’s elongated shape, at first glance, I thought it might be a creek. But upon closer examination, we determined that it was a pond and that it was inhabited by a fair number of turtles. Spoiled turtles. They were so used to being fed by well-meaning restaurant patrons, any time somebody would walk up to the pond’s edge, the turtles would all swim over expecting food. This was an amusing sight to see.

It probably took longer in the 19th century, but today one can drive from Clarksdale to Memphis in well under two hours. As we approached the metro area, we opted to skip the Interstate and stayed on US 61. This took a little longer and brought us through some vastly different areas of the city, which may be considered good or bad depending upon the eye of the beholder. Matt and I both appreciate the non-touristy side of this world and besides, we were in absolutely no hurry.

Despite having taken our time, we got into Memphis far too early to check into our hotel, so we opted to visit the Stax Museum of American Soul Music, a favorite for both of us. Even though Stax was forced into involuntary bankruptcy at the end of 1975, their legacy lives on. Booker T. & The MGs, the Staple Singers, Isaac Hayes, Sam and Dave, and Otis Redding, just to name a few, were all Stax recording artists. Thanks to the local community leaders who formed The Soulsville Foundation, the Stax Museum now stands on the former site of the Stax Records. And right next door, the Stax Music Academy and the Soulsville Charter School were also made possible by this same foundation. It’s a hell of a story.

Matt had proposed eating supper at Gus’s World Famous Hot and Spicy Fried Chicken in downtown Memphis, which was the chain’s first Memphis location and in fact only the second Gus’s location before it became a chain. Gus’s serves up southern spicy (not the same as Nashvillel hot) fried chicken, which is very flavorful but not painfully spicy. We opened with an appetizer of fried green tomatoes — my first time — which were quite tasty. Then Matt had a plate of fried chicken while I opted for their “limited time only” hot and spicy chicken sandwich, which is made with a boneless thigh, not a breast. Everything was quite good.

From there we walked to The Green Beetle, the oldest tavern in Memphis, located on the opposite side of the same block as Gus’s. This place had originally opened in 1939 as The Green Beetle Cafe and enjoyed some rather famous visitors before morphing into a dive bar and changing hands several times until rising to its current iteration, owned by the grandson of the Beetle’s original founder. It was okay, and reminded me of the college bars I used to frequent back in the day, though I think we had been expecting a bit more charm. Also, just a word to the wise, which way you walk around the block from Gus’s really matters. It’s almost upscale on one side of that block and sort of war-torn on the other.

The following day, after sleeping in a bit, we enjoyed lunch at a favorite spot that Matt had introduced me to a couple of decades ago: The Four Way Soul Food Restaurant, the oldest of its kind in Memphis. Although The Four Way was frequented by the likes of Elvis Presley and Dr. Martin Luther King, it’s not exactly a tourist destination. What it is, though, is a phenomenal soul food restaurant with a longstanding reputation as a gathering place where black and white diners can eat together — not a common thing for the place and time this restaurant was established (1946) and the years that followed.

I have never had a bad meal at this place. Matt had the chicken fried steak, black eyed peas, and pickled green tomatoes. I had a fork-tender, smothered pork chop, black eyed peas, and turnip greens. Both of us finished off with a delicious peach cobbler. Everything was wonderful, as always.

As an aside, I was sad to learn that the gentleman who had greeted me at the door so many years ago, Willie Bates, had passed away in 2017. I’ll never forget the way he greeted us and made us feel welcome, telling us the story of how he had bought The Four Way out of a desire to give back to the neighborhood. On my way out the door that first time, I walked over to tell him how much I had enjoyed eating there. I’ll swear, I thought the man was going to cry. That kind of thing sticks with me.

Next, we went over to The Blues Foundation’s Blues Hall of Fame Museum. Although the Hall of Fame has existed since 1980, this museum opened in 2015 and so, did not exist the last time I had been to Memphis. What a place! This museum was designed to provide an interactive and sensory experience. Besides all of the artwork, artifacts, displays, and recordings, for an additional charge, visitors can experience the museum’s interactive hologram exhibit featuring Taj Mahal. The Blues Hall of Fame is only the second museum in the United States to have utilized this technology. For about twenty minutes, Matt and I asked questions and this life-sized, three dimensional recording of Taj answered them. I’ll swear, he looked like he was gonna’ step out of that box any moment. But that was just the icing on the cake. The entire museum is great and well worth visiting.

For supper, Matt found us another hidden gem: Sam’s Deli of Memphis. Sam’s features a variety of Indian specialties but the menu overall can best be described as global. After opening with vegetable samosas an naan, Matt had this huge Italian salad and I enjoyed an equally huge sandwich called Mango Bonfire, made with Indo-Chinese chili chicken. The food was delicious and the portions more than generous. It’s best to come hungry to Sam’s!

We spent the final evening of our road trip on historic Beale Street, as it seemed fitting to do so. Beale Street had been a music hotspot long before it ever became a tourist attraction. Since the mid-1800’s, around the time of the Civil War, Beale was home to Black-owned businesses, clubs, restaurants, and shops. This is where the Delta musicians used to come up to play for Black audiences. Today the historic Beale Street district is considered the top tourist attraction in the state of Tennessee.

I had made only one request and that was to visit some clubs other than my favorite, the Rum Boogie Cafe. While I do love the Rum Boogie, it was the only club on Beale Street that I had been to thus far. So instead, we wandered into 152 Beale Street, which I believe was called “Club 152” once upon a time. Currently, this establishment seems to maintain absolutely no online presence. It’s a big place with two bars and seating throughout, including a row facing streetside. There was a band playing, a pretty good one, too, but not too many people were hanging out in there. I was not able to figure out the band’s name, but they deserved a bigger audience than they had. The bartender was pleasant enough, but again, not very busy. Matt and I listened to the band as we enjoyed our drinks, and then moved on.

We briefly — and I do mean briefly — ducked into another establishment, whose name I cannot recall, and quickly discovered that (a) it was open mike night and (b) the doofus at the mike was really drunk, really getting into the song he was singing, and really, really devoid of any talent whatsoever. We walked out faster than we had walked in and headed over to B.B. King’s Blues Club, a super popular place. We paid our cover, got seated, and stayed for a while. The band, who seemed to specialize in R&B and rock and roll covers, was extraordinarily polished. Although I had been hoping to hear more blues that night, I must admit they were quite good. The place was pretty full for a weeknight and the servers seemed to be working hard to keep up. On the bright side, my drinks were good and strong. It was a good way to finish the night.

Before leaving Memphis Thursday morning, we found our way to Brother Juniper’s, a delightful and truly local breakfast restaurant that is also highly supportive of its community. I gorged myself on a couple of huge blueberry pancakes with a side of thick-sliced bacon and a mug of steaming black coffee as I contemplated how I was going to lose all the extra weight I had surely put on over the course of the past week. As much as this trip had been about the music, it also proved to be a decadent excursion into southern cuisine — and I ain’t talking health food.

After we had both eaten our fill, we gassed up the car and headed north out of Memphis on Interstate 55. Within minutes, the skies opened up and let loose with a heavy thunderstorm and torrential rain. The storm eventually subsided, but that rain would follow us all the way to Illinois.

Once in Illinois, per Matt’s request, we took a planned detour to Tower Grove Cemetery in Murphysboro to pay our respects at the gravesite of Larry “Big Twist” Nolan. When we were younger, both Matt and I had been fans of Big Twist and the Mellow Fellows, a blues band that had become a top draw on the nightclub circuit in the 1970s and ’80s. The band played at Marquette University, where we had gone to college, every year that I was there, I think. It was still raining when we got out of the car and walked over to his gravestone. I had been there once before, so I knew exactly where to find it. We talked a little bit, took some photos, and then departed for home.

Unbeknownst to either of us, two days after we had made that stop, the Murphysboro Historical Society was to unveil a historical marker dedicated to Big Twist, who had lived in Murphysboro and raised his family there. We have already agreed that the next time we are in that area, we must return to Murphysboro to view the marker.

The drive back to Plainfield was a long one, but save for a brief scare when we kept smelling raw gasoline (not ours), it was uneventful. I was deeply touched when at one point I asked Matt what part of our journey he had enjoyed most and he pointed to me, submitting that it had been a long, long time since we had talked “like we used to.” That much was true. Once upon a time, it would not have been unusual for us to stay up into the night, spinning yarns, painting dreams, or solving the problems of the world. As we get older and take on the burdens that typically accompany adulthood, life sometimes distracts us from that which is most important. I will strive to remember this going forward.

Our journey concluded that Thursday night. Matt continued on to his home and I basked in the glow of it all as I began to unpack. We had ventured out in search of the blues and in that regard, we were successful. I can’t wait to do something like this again!

Well, this has been a long one, four installments worth. If you have been following along the entire time, I am grateful to you and, as always, I thank you for hanging with me.

Getting the Blues Part Two: Down to 662

“There’s a sound oozing from the ground
And it cuts right through
You can only find it
Down here in the 662″
— from “662” by Christone “Kingfish” Ingram and Tom Hambridge

Matt and I woke up Saturday morning ready to continue our journey, but not before indulging in a Waffle House breakfast. When I travel, I prefer to eat at establishments that don’t exist where I live. That is, I don’t want to drive hundreds of miles only to end up eating at a Burger King. Yes, Waffle House is a chain, but they have no locations anywhere near my home. Quite frankly, I’d prefer that it stay that way because during my southern travels, that’s what makes eating there special to me.

I always order the same thing, every single time I stop at a Waffle House — pecan waffle, side of bacon, and plenty of black coffee — and for reasons I’m not even sure of, I always snap a photo of my meal before chowing down, usually to share, as I am doing now. I assure you that there is nothing fancy about either my recurring breakfast or the establishment that serves it, but I generally receive positive acknowledgements for fellow Waffle House aficionados. It’s almost a cult thing, like eating at White Castle, though I am seldom compelled to photograph a bag of sliders.

We spent the majority of our day, over five hours, on the road. The first 350 miles or so were on Interstate 55. Then as we got near Memphis, Tennessee we got onto US Highway 61, known as the Blues Highway, and continued south. We were now in the Mississippi Delta, part of the Deep South. The Delta is considered the cradle of the blues and we were headed for a city steeped in blues history as well as legend: Clarksdale, Mississippi.

We arrived in Clarksdale around mid-afternoon and after driving around to get the lay of the historic downtown area, we went south of town to The Shack Up Inn, an unusual and most incredible collection of modernized shotgun shacks, grain bins, and a converted cotton gin. Everything is corrugated tin and Mississippi cypress boards. On the inside, the furnishings are theme-appropriate, but quite clean and with running water, heat, and air conditioning.

We were supposed to get a two-bedroom shack called the Sweet Honey, but due to a ruptured hot water heater in one of the other shacks, they had to move someone else there the day before we arrived. So we got the Mule, which is a new addition to the property. Matt and I both had our concerns when we heard this, but once we saw our shack, our concerns evaporated. The Mule may be a renovated sharecropper shack, but the thing was more than large enough for the two of us. I’ve seen houses smaller than this!

I don’t know what the floors are made of but they’re as solid as all get-out. I could dance a jig in the hallway and not disturb Matt, unless I began singing. One of my favorite parts about the bedroom I took is the heavy writing desk that sits in one corner. It’s got ample room for my laptop, phone, power strip, charging cords, beer, etc. I am writing this update from that desk. Since my room is at the far end of our shack, and this desk is tucked into the far corner of that room, it’s just a cool place to sit and work.

When Matt first suggested staying at The Shack Up Inn, I wasn’t too sure about it. But after he pointed out that these renovated structures had been good enough for the likes of Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, and other celebrities, I became cautiously optimistic. After having spent the first of our three nights here, I kind of wish we could hang around longer. People from other countries who come to Clarksdale in search of blues history stay here. They get it. The people of The Shack Up Inn have developed a very cool concept here.

Once we got settled into our shack, we headed out in search of supper and the live music for which we had come all this way. After all, it was Saturday night. The premier music venue in Clarksdale seems to be the Ground Zero Blues Club, which is owned in part by the popular and talented actor, Morgan Freeman. The club occupies a long-dormant and un-remodeled building that had once belonged to a wholesaler called the Delta Grocery and Cotton Company. So anyone who comes to Clarksdale expecting to see some swanky nightclub is going to be sorely disappointed because opulence is not what the delta blues is about.

As soon as Matt and I got inside, the same young lady who had met us at the door brought us a couple of menus and took our drink orders. As they did not have any draft beers available that night, I asked her whether they had any local brews. She mentioned a few and I could not have gotten any more local than the one I chose: Red Panther Delta Kölsch. The Red Panther Brewing Company is based right in Clarksdale and the beer was delightful.

The band playing at Ground Zero was Chris Pitts & The Memphis Prime, a powerful blues band from Memphis, the northernmost point of the Mississippi Delta. They delivered big on their sound and the band played for hours. They had begun at 8:00 and were still going when Matt and I decided to call it well after 11:00.

We still had a lot left to explore in Clarksdale and I’ll tell you all about it in my next installment. Until then, as always, thanks for hanging with me.

Let’s Talk: A New Year’s Resolution

I dislike being made to feel alone in a crowded room. I’m guessing you know what I’m talking about. You find yourself in a place, surrounded by other people, none of whom acknowledge your presence or that of anybody else, except maybe the people with whom they arrived. The ones who come in alone tend to quickly occupy themselves with a mobile device, a book, or the backs of their hands, anything to prevent them from giving some indication that there is anyone else in the room. Not everybody is this way and not every place, either. The traditional barbershops, for example, at least the ones I frequent, still seem capable of supporting a casual chatter among the occupants and the barbers. I enjoy that.

I recently read an interesting article in Fast Company magazine called “How smartphones wrecked bar drinking,” written by Clare Coffey. The author pretty much describes the same scenario I just gave you, taking place in an environment that at least used to be not unlike traditional barbershops in terms of being places where humans tend to interact, whether they know each other or not. She describes, “a row of barstools filled with people downing their beers and hunched over their hands, scrolling their feeds, never taking an eye off their screens.” But it’s not just happening in bars. One can witness this behavior firsthand almost anywhere. Just take a moment and look up from your phone; you’ll see it.

Now mind you, over the past decade or so, I have evolved into one of these people I have been describing, i.e. eyes down and nose to phone whenever I was among people I didn’t know. Hell, I even did it at home, surrounded by people I do know. I acknowledge having developed this behavior expressly because I am not terribly proud of it. The more I learned about the negative effects of this behavior, the more I desired to turn it around.

So I recently began an experiment, even before having read the Fast Company article, while out and about in public places. I began to engage people, sometimes verbally and other times with a friendly smile, nod, or wave. I just wanted to see if there were other people out there who, like me, longed for human contact. For me, this engaging activity was nothing new. In fact, it’s something rather old. I watched my parents and grandparents do it all the time when I was a kid. It was common courtesy back then to greet people whom you passed while walking down the street, entering a place of business, etc. In fact, back in the 1960’s and ’70’s, a person would stand out by not doing so.

What did I learn? In short order, I discovered that a number of people, especially older adults and really young children, acted as though they had been waiting for someone to acknowledge their presence. My assumption is that the older folks missed the human engagement that was once commonplace and the little kids simply hadn’t yet learned to ignore people.

For example, there is a healthcare facility that my wife visits with some frequency. Like nearly every other healthcare facility I have visited, the waiting room tends to be populated but quiet. You guessed it, a roomful of people staring at their phones, doing paperwork, whatever, but not acknowledging one another. One time, just for grins, I verbally greeted the front desk staff as I walked through the doorway. They naturally lit up and acknowledged me back. I can’t be 100% certain, but I think a few people might have glanced away from their screens just long enough to notice the anomaly.

There is an older gentleman, even older than me, who brings his wife in and proceeds to work some sort of puzzles, perhaps crosswords, while he waits. He carries with him a raft of papers, a large clipboard, and one or more writing instruments. I found him interesting. The next time I saw the gentleman, I greeted him as he approached a corner chair, carrying his paraphernalia. He clearly wasn’t expecting that, but he looked up, smiled, and returned my greeting. When I left, bid him a good day and again, he returned the courtesy.

See how easy this is?

Right before the holidays, I was sitting in the same waiting room, only it was deserted. That’s right, even the front desk had been vacated for the day. My wife had already been taken in back and I was sitting in the waiting room, alone, reading a book. Another patron walked in and stood at the front desk, looking about for a staff member, but not looking at me or even in my direction. I waited for a moment, to see whether anyone would come out from the back area, and when nobody did so, I spoke aloud to the man, piercing the silence with my voice.

“Hi. There’s nobody working the front desk tonight, but I’m sure somebody will be out in a moment.”

Startled by the fact that someone in the waiting room was speaking to him, the gentleman turned toward me and nodded. At the same instant, perhaps having been summoned by my voice, a staff member came out from the back area and escorted the gentleman in. The story might have ended there, but it didn’t.

On our way out of the building, the same man walked up to my wife and me, smiling, and asked me a riddle. I no longer recall the question or the punchline, but it left my wife and I laughing out loud. The man smiled and asked another riddle. This time all three of us were chuckling and we wished one another a happy New Year as we parted ways. Thirty minutes earlier, that man didn’t even look at me. Now he was making a deliberate effort, in a different part of the building, to share a couple of jokes with me. I knew I was onto something.

As we begin another brand-new year, I have resolved to become more human again. I want to spend less time staring into the blue light abyss of my various screens and spend more time talking to people and listening to what they have to say. I know that some will withdraw in fear and suspicion, but others will respond favorably, maybe even gratefully. I want to do this because I already know that I will be better off for having done so. And maybe, just maybe, those I encounter will find themselves better off as well.

If nothing else, I may learn a new joke now and then. As always, thanks for hanging with me.

Something Worth Doing

 

As I indicated I would do last week (see For the Love of Poopy’s), I met up with a couple of friends last Saturday morning and rode out to Poopy’s in Savanna,  This post is going to be short on pictures and videos because (a) the only pillion photographer who matters was not on board to take the road shots, which I only wish I could share with you and (b) it never strikes me to take advantage of some photo ops when they arise. But in lieu of excellent visuals, I will share my story, if only because it seems to be worth telling.

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The two gents I rode with are experienced riders whom I got to know from two different facets of my life on two wheels. “Johnny B” is a retired music teacher who lives in the next town over from mine but whom I met as a regular attendee of the Midwest Motorcycle Rally, which is held hundreds of miles from our respective homes. Still, I’m glad we met. John has a knack for knowing which roads to take and where the good food is to be had. this is something that comes from experience. He may not be one to smile and pose for the camera but John is an asset to any riding group and has helped me out on more than one occasion.

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Mark and I go back, not only in terms of years but also in terms of our previous lives. He was a motorcycle mechanic — and a darned good one — at Fox Valley Cycles, the best Honda motorcycle dealership in west suburban Chicagoland and also the sponsor of the Illini Free Spirit Riders, of which I was once president. Mark and I have both moved on since then but have somehow managed to remain friends for the decade-plus that has since followed.

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We met up at a gas station, where I introduced my two friends to each other, and then headed out on US Highway 30, aka the Lincoln Highway, toward the Mississippi River and Savanna, home of Poopy’s Pub and Grub. Skies were sunny and the temperature was seventyish, with just the slightest cool breeze.

Folks, this was the first ride of any real distance I have taken this year. I could get into why but that would detract from the real story here. Just know that I went, that I needed to go, and that it was wonderful. There’s just something about being out on the road with friends. I can’t begin to tell you how quickly my day-to-day concerns faded away as I motored on, cool breeze in my face, iTunes blasting out on my sound system. As I am known to do, I greeted all the farm animals as I rode past..
“Hello, dairy cows!”
“Hi, horses!”
“Well hello there, beef cattle!”

There was this one point along US 30 where a group of turbines from an upcoming wind farm seemed to have been set up perfectly along our line of sight as we approached, the huge blades moving to some unheard symphony of flowing air mass. As much as I wish I could share photos or a video clip with you, I was equally glad nobody was there to hear me moments later when I’d caught my self singing along at the top of my lungs to whatever song had been blasting out on my stereo. I probably wasn’t singing in tune but what can I say, I’d been caught up in the moment.

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In what seemed like no time at all, we’d run the 115 miles or so to arrive at “Illinois’ Biggest Biker destination.” Interestingly enough, Poopy’s wasn’t all that crowded when we pulled in, right around the 11:00 hour, which made it easy for our merry trio to claim some prime seating along the main outdoor bar. Perched upon our padded toilet seat bar stools, we ate, drank, traded stories and people watched. It just felt so great to be alive!

 

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All the while, more and more bikes were pulling in, but the area never felt overcrowded, mainly because there is a lot of room outside (and even in) at Poopy’s. Nobody was wearing a mask but then again, nobody was in my face, either. I was okay with that.

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As we sat there chatting and admiring the young, beautiful bartenders who were working harder and harder to take care of everybody, I spotted Andy Pesek, who had organized the “Poopy’s COVID Relief” event, enjoying what looked like a fine cigar while seated at a card table that had been set up by one of the big garage doors, all of which had been opened on such a pleasant, sunny day. I walked over and introduced myself before dropping my donation envelope into the bucket on the table.

That’s pretty much it as far as the “event” goes. There was no big, formal parade, no raucus anti-tyranny rally, no political ranting of any kind that me and my half-deaf ears could pick up. What I did hear was plenty of laughter. I think most people understood why we were there — to enjoy the day and enjoy life while supporting a unique business that we had come to love and appreciate.

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One highpoint of my day occurred while I was walking across the premises and spotted a face that I had seen before, on the news as well as social media. He smiled as I look at him and so I felt compelled to ask, “Are you Poopy?”

His smile grew as he nodded at me, responding, “I’m Poopy.”

We chatted briefly and I thanked Mr. Promenschenkel for having shared my last blog post the week before. He seemed pleased to give me a moment of his time and came across as being quite genuine. Just as we were about to head our separate ways, I asked if we could get a quick photo. Poopy clapped an arm on my shoulder and exclaimed, “Sure, let’s do it!” The resulting selfie came out a little blurred but mere words can’t express how much I appreciated our chance meeting.

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All the while, more and more bikes rolled in. We departed well before mid-afternoon. Part of me wanted to stay and check out the live music, maybe see if the bikini pool bar next to the stage area would liven up, but a larger part of me wanted to ride home sober. And that’s what we did.

My only regret? I did not reapply sunblock before making the return trip. My face, neck, and especially my arms got a little burned but not so bad. I think John, Mark and I had a nice day together. Things being as they are, I’m just not sure what the rest of this riding season holds for me but if I can get even a few more rides in like this one, I will be so grateful.

Thanks for hanging with me.

For the Love of Poopy’s

Located on Illinois Route 84 near the southern edge of the city of Savanna, Poopy’s bills itself as “Illinois’ Biggest Biker Destination” and for good reason. The place is huge. The place is fun. And the place has earned its reputation as a worthy venue for motorcyclists to visit for food, beverages, and a wide variety of entertainment. Its owner, Kevin Promenschenkel, earned the nickname “Poopy” at a young age when a wayward bird let him have it, twice, during a Little League baseball game. The name stuck and the rest, as they say, is history.

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Well it seems history is being made again. Promenschenkel has been busy doing everything in his power to keep his business afloat during these trying times, including participating in a lawsuit against the state, asking his loyal customers to support him by ordering Poopy’s merchandise online, and most recently, opening the venue for Memorial Day weekend — a major weekend for his business, filled with events and entertainment. This was a violation of our governor’s current stay-at-home order, but with the support of county and local authorities, not to mention many loyal bikers who came from miles around, Poopy’s did indeed open. In addition to all this, a motorcycle fundraising run has been organized to provide direct relief to Poopy in this time of need.  I intend to participate in that fundraiser, assuming Mother Nature cooperates and I have people willing to ride out to Savanna with me. I am doing this not because I have excess cash to give away but because I have a great deal of respect for Kevin Promenschenkel, am sympathetic to his situation, and feel compelled to help him out in this small way.

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I’ve been stopping at Poopy’s since September of 2011. That’s the year my son went away to college in the Quad Cities area. A week or two after he left, I found myself missing the kid something awful and so decided to pay him a visit. My ride at the time was a silver metallic 2007 Honda ST1300, a sport touring rig that made short work of my 130-ish mile run out to the Mississippi River. After picking up my son, I asked if he had any interest in checking out this “Poopy’s” place that we’d heard others talk about. At the time, he wasn’t yet old enough to have anything stronger than a coke but the allure of visiting a real biker bar must have pressed his button that day. “Sure!” my son exclaimed and within minutes, he was onboard and we were headed north toward Savanna.

I should pause here and mention that Poopy’s is anything but a typical biker bar. Poopy’s is a destination, an experience unto itself. Sure, it has a bar — several, in fact — plus a restaurant featuring numerous namesake-themed items (e.g. “The Big Poop”), a gift shop, a parts counter, and more. They even had a tattoo parlor on the premises back when I first began going there. The outdoor portion of Poopy’s includes a sizable entertainment stage with overhead catwalk, a pool bar, even a campground. They host vehicle shows, combat sports events, and many, many concerts. As I said, Poopy’s is an experience unto itself and I have developed a deep sense of appreciation for this venue — and the man who built it — from the first time I set foot on the premises.

My son and I had ourselves a grand old time that day. Using my phone, our waitress took a great photo of us while we waited for our lunch. We walked the premises, admired the unique decor and ambiance, bought a few souvenirs, including my lucky Poopy’s bottle opener, and vowed to return.

And so we have returned a number of times. Not nearly often enough, because I don’t live nearby, but whenever the opportunity presents itself — and always with friends. I’ve made lunch stops, brunch stops, and “you just gotta’ come and check this place out” stops. And Poopy’s never disappoints.

My last trip there was a few years ago. My most favorite pillion companion in the world and I had ridden out to Iowa over Labor Day weekend to meet up with some friends from a few different states. During a wonderful all-day ride that we took, the group  had planned to visit Poopy’s for a mid-afternoon lunch. As we approached and entered the parking lot, my beloved friend rolled video, creating a very nice memento. We sat outside for quite some time, enjoying the live music, good food, and each other’s excellent company on that fine late-summer afternoon. Indeed, it’s been too long since I have enjoyed such a time at Poopy’s.

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And so on Saturday, June 6, 2020, I hope to join whatever companions I can assemble and ride west for the day. My motives have been questioned on several counts by different individuals. Without naming names, here are their questions and my answers.

  • Aren’t you afraid of getting sick… or worse?
    No. As the result of having worked in an essential service industry, I never stopped working during this pandemic. I have taken reasonable precautions, both at work and at home. And yes, I wear a bandanna face covering every time I go to the grocery store, pharmacy, etc. I will not likely go indoors on this trip and if I do, I’ll just don my bandanna. Also, as an avid motorcyclist, I am accustomed to tolerating a certain amount of risk. Believe me, it’s not that I don’t care whether I die. It’s that I dread not living during whatever time I have left on this earth.
  • But Poopy is a blatant Trump fan! Are you one, too???
    Does it matter? This is a fundraiser event for Poopy’s, not a political rally. Okay, here’s the plain truth: As an admitted member of the exhausted majority, I despise both the Democrat and Republican parties with a passion and in all candor, my opinion of “45” is less than glowing right now. But I am a real Poopy’s fan and therefore a fan of the man who has put so much of himself into that institution. Although I have never met Poopy in person, I like him and I suspect that if we drank together long enough, we would depart as friends. In short, I respect Kevin Promenschenkel and given that I, too, would not have been prepared to go more than a few weeks without an income stream, I am inclined to help him.
  • You’re just a badass biker with no respect for authority. I hope you get sick!
    Good day to you, too, ma’am! Yes, I am a biker. No, I am not. Okay, it depends on whom you ask and how that person defines the term. I am an avid motorcyclist and I have ridden across the country. My current ride is a 2012 Victory Vision Tour, a big-inch “full dresser” American V-twin, and I am no more loyal to any one motorcycle brand than I am to any political party. So there we are. If you fault me for riding a motorcycle, for respecting other riders regardless of what they ride, or for advocating for motorcyclist rights in general, then I am guilty as charged and your opinion does not move me.

In the end, I think it would be a dirty shame if Poopy’s were to disappear as the result of this horrific pandemic event and the shut-down of our economy — indeed of our society as we know it. I’m sure many businesses will not return as the result, through no fault of the independent owners themselves. So if I can help out one of them, this one in particular, by riding with friends for a few hundred miles on a Saturday and dropping some money in the till, I will gladly do so.

Whether you agree with me or not, I respect you for having read this far. And as always, thank you for hanging with me.

Woodstock Lunch Run

Rain

It had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. There had been rain in the forecast for July 3 for most of the week leading up to that day, so I made no plans for any outdoor activities other than to hang close to home, maybe mow my weeds and do a little bit of grilling out if the weather permitted. But as of July 2, the rain chances predicted for the 3rd had diminished. So I reached out to my friend Ann and we began tossing around ideas for a short lunch run. As Ann and I sometimes do, we figured on meeting near the Illinois/Wisconsin border and then taking my bike out for a run to Woodstock, Illinois.

You can imagine my surprise when with no rain expected for the day, I noticed my motorcycle and I getting wet beneath a band of dark gray clouds somewhere between O’Hare International Airport and Kenosha. I made a mental note to thank my favorite meteorologist and pressed on, figuring that any rain I encountered would be short-lived. Even though Mother Nature continued to spit on me after I met up with Ann, a quick check of the updated local forecast revealed that dry conditions would prevail in less than half an hour. So we lingered a bit and then headed west.

Me n Ann

I am pleased to report that the revised forecast remained true. The gloomy, drippy, gray clouds dissipated as they moved on and gave way to brilliant blue skies and friendly, white, fluffy clouds. With my favorite pillion rider behind me, we motored down Green Bay Road to Illinois 173 and headed west, past the Chain O’Lakes area and into McHenry County. We turned south on Greenwood Road and picked up Illinois 120 into Woodstock. The pavement dried out as we rolled along, music pouring forth from the bike’s sound system. I couldn’t help but smile.

 

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Once in Woodstock we stopped for gas and then headed toward the town square. We enjoyed lunch at D.C. Cobb’s, a delightful restaurant and bar located right on the town square. The staff is friendly, the prices are reasonable and the food is good. Come hungry, though, as the portions are fairly large.

Until this day, my only exposure to the city of Woodstock had been while passing through on Illinois 47, to or from Wisconsin. Let me tell you, I had been missing out. The McHenry Couty Seat since 1843 (then called Centerville), Woodstock has a beautiful and historic downtown area featuring a classic town square and two registered landmarks. One is the majestic Woodstock Opera House, which is still used as an entertainment venue today. The other is the Old McHenry County Courthouse, which is now home to various commercial tenants.

Woodstock is also well-known as the location where the movie Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray, was filmed. I can’t tell you exactly how Woodstock, Illinois was chosen to play the part of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, but I can tell you that Woodstock is still playing that up to this day (see http://www.woodstockgroundhog.org/).  Ann and I enjoyed visiting a few of the more memorable locations that were used in this movie.

By mid-afternoon, we were headed back to our original meeting point. By that time the day had grown more beautiful than ever and part of me had wished it didn’t have to end so soon. We said our goodbyes and then headed for our respective homes.

It had been an awesome day for something Ann and I threw together at the last minute. But I have come to realize that some of the most awesome rides I’ve taken started out exactly that way. Thanks for hanging with me.

A Nice Little Burger Run

Miss Scarlett and Me

This burger run was nearly called on account of rain. It had been an on again, off again thing all week long, as the weather forecast flipped from partly sunny to a 30% chance of rain to a 70% chance of rain and then back to a 30% chance before settling on “mostly cloudy with rain toward evening” by the time today actually arrived. That was good enough for my friend Ann and me, who had been itching to go riding together since last November. As circumstances had it, Saturday had been the far better day, weather-wise, but Sunday was our only mutually available day for riding. It isn’t always easy when riding companions live over 100 miles apart, but then I’ve never been intimidated by distances. And so we watched the weather forecast evolve daily until today, when our story begins.

Kenosha, Wisconsin has proven to be roughly equidistant between Ann’s home and my own. When the days are shorter, as is the case in early spring and late fall, we sometimes arrange to meet and begin our riding from there. Today we met up at 11:00 AM in a large parking lot just off Interstate 94, beneath an endless canopy of steel gray clouds. The ambient temperature was 52 degrees and climbing. We would have felt much warmer at that temperature had the sun been shining, but as is the case with most things in life, one must play the hand that has been dealt. We had been dealt a cold start to our morning and the promise of rain before suppertime, so we planned a short run centered around lunch and a walk. Not being strangers to riding, Ann and I both arrived dressed in layers for warmth and adjustability. Within minutes, we were on the bike—my full dresser Victory Vision Tour, affectionately named Miss Scarlett—and headed for the unlikely destination of Burlington, Wisconsin, home of one Fred’s World’s Best Burgers, also known as Fred’s Parkview.

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I have to admit, having married a girl from Kenosha, I’ve been visiting and traveling this region for decades. Over the course of all those years, I’d always known where Burlington was, but never knew much about this community, nor had I ever felt compelled to go there. Until now. Boasting the “World’s Best Burgers,” this establishment known as Fred’s sits on the northeast corner of Milwaukee Avenue and North Pine Street in downtown Burlington. The founder and owner of Fred’s is a woodworker by the name of Fred Mabson, who used his craft to create a unique atmosphere in which to enjoy this family-friendly eating and drinking establishment. As soon as we stepped through the doors, Ann and I were surrounded by tastefully finished knotty pine and a lot of smiling faces. Their corner location is rather large on the inside, with a fair number of dining tables filling two rooms. We had arrived shortly after noon and, in addition to some seats at the bar, there was exactly one table open, which we immediately grabbed for our own.

As Ann and I approached from the outside, and having never been there before, I had assumed Fred’s was a corner bar that served a pretty good burger. But once inside, I saw a higher percentage of tables filled than of bar stools. I also saw families—you know, the kind with kids—as well as friends, all eating, drinking, talking, laughing and otherwise having themselves quite a time on an early Sunday afternoon. In short, Fred’s is the kind of place where one can feel good just by stepping inside. And then there’s the food.

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As you might expect, Fred’s menu focuses on their burgers, but looking beyond that for a moment, this little place has got a pretty extensive menu! We opted to keep it simple, with a couple of cheeseburgers. Ann got the quarter-pound version, while I opted for the half-pound burger. Our toppings differed, but our experiences were quite similar. What comes to the table is a fresh, hand-made burger, cooked to your liking, served on a fresh, buttered and grilled bun and topped with equally fresh ingredients. The homemade fries are curly cut; the homemade chips are ribbon cut. It’s all very tasty and it would take a number of visits in order for me to try everything that I’d like to try off of that menu. So you see, there’s an awful lot going on inside that corner establishment in downtown Burlington.

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As is usually the case, Ann and I wanted to take a walk after we had finished our lunch. In many instances, this has involved riding to another location, usually a park or state forest destination, where we could walk off our meal and enjoy the scenery. On this particular trip, all we had to do was cross the street a few times in order to visit three riverfront parks. First, we walked through Echo Veterans Memorial Park on Echo Lake. Then we crossed over to Riverside Park, which runs along the Fox River for quite a while. Before we had gone too far, we crossed a footbridge into Wehmhoff Jucker Park, on the opposite bank of the Fox, before heading back to the parking lot where we had left Miss Scarlett.

At that point, I began to notice that the cloud cover had gradually grown darker toward the west. That suppertime rain threat should still have been hours away, but something told me it was time to carry Ann back to her car, and quickly. After all, I had promised her a day free from rain or snow. Although it never rained on us as we sped back toward Kenosha, the sky did spit on us a few times. So once I had gotten Ann back to her car, we quickly said our goodbyes before she headed north and I high-tailed it back to Illinois.

It had been a glass-half-full kind of day. Sure, I could have moaned about how short our burger run had been, or about how Mother Nature had robbed Ann and me of another hour or two of walking/riding time. Nah. Given that it was only April 2, we were lucky to have gotten the bike out at al. Besides that, we had discovered a really neat lunch stop that I’m sure we will revisit someday. And so rather than moan or complain, Ann and I will enjoy the memories of another great little run, all while planning our next one.

Life is good. Thanks for hanging with me.

Surf & Turf & Local History

Menu

It had been some time since I’d been to the Wilmot Stage Stop, an historic eating and drinking establishment—billed as Wisconsin’s oldest tap and dining room—located at the corner of highways C and W in Wilmot, Wisconsin. This establishment began as the Wilmot Hotel, an actual stagecoach stop, in 1848 and has been owned by the same family ever since.It was my wife’s family who introduced me to this place in 1984 or ’85, after Karen and I had become engaged. Known primarily for its charcoal-broiled steaks and lobster tails, the Wilmot Stage Stop had long been a favorite place for my in-laws to celebrate special occasions, entertain visitors, or simply enjoy a special meal.

There was a period during which I feared I would never enjoy eating at the Stage Stop, when the restaurant abruptly shut its doors last year—July 29, 2016 to be exact—but an article appearing in the Kenosha News last January, announcing that the popular steakhouse would be reopening that very month, put a big old smile on my face.

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The Wilmot Stage Stop is not a highbrow establishment, but a family-owned steakhouse with a tremendous history and no small amount of atmosphere. Area families have been dining there for generations. It’s a three story affair. The dining room and bar are on the ground floor. A central staircase leads up to what was once the hotel ballroom. The ballroom now houses a collection of artifacts in a museum-like setting. A much narrower and steeper staircase leads up to the third floor, where the original hotel rooms now serve as viewing areas for even more artifacts. The short beds, low ceilings, even the rooms themselves, are a reminder to us that people were generally shorter back then than they are now. And from all appearances, cross country travelers were not accustomed to having anywhere near the creature comforts that we so take for granted today.

Still, the real reason people go there is for the food, mostly steaks and lobster tails, both charcoal-broiled. A baked potato spiked with a huge slab of butter accompanies your selection, as do a salad and rolls. The bar has a nice variety of drink offerings, the servers are warm and friendly, and the seating, if a bit dense, can be arranged to accommodate quite a range of party sizes.

Our party arrived at 4:00 PM,  while there were seemingly many open tables. By the time we departed, less than 90 minutes later, the dining area and bar were both brimming with humanity. The Wilmot Stage Stop is a popular dining destination and reservations are probably a wise choice.

Thanks for hanging with me.

I Look for Places like This

nicks

I grew up in Blue Island, Illinois. I went to college in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. When I came of drinking age, which would have been 1979 in Wisconsin and 1982 in Illinois, both of these cities were dotted with neighborhood bars, taverns, pubs, saloons, or whatever you would call them. Each had a personality of its own that would be difficult to explain to one not familiar with this sort of establishment. As drinking venues go, I have always preferred those to their larger, noisier counterparts. But more than that, some of these places were special to me.

I speak of neighborhood bars, because I am by and large a city mouse, but should point out that small town bars seem to have the same flavor as these—only there aren’t nearly as many to choose from. Back when I lived and drank in Blue Island, for example, that city had a population of just over 20,000 people. Not a terribly large community by some standards, but there were many bars there, not just on the main thoroughfares, but in the residential areas—the neighborhoods—themselves. Each was a place quite unique unto itself, quite different from all the others. Many of these establishments have gone away since that time, but you get the idea.

When you find a good one, you know so, because it resonates with you somewhere deep within. Case in point, my personal favorite in the Blue Island of my day was a place called the Backstage, on the corner of Vermont Street and Hoyne Avenue. Get this, my favorite neighborhood bar wasn’t even in my neighborhood. Ha! The place was awesome. It had atmosphere. The Backstage was the kind of place where people could meet and talk and have fun, without being bothered. The owner kept a nice place, something I learned to appreciate over time. But alas, it’s long gone now. That property isn’t even a bar anymore, And truth be told, there are fewer places like this in that town… maybe elsewhere, too.

Milwaukee, circa 1983, the last year I lived there as a student at Marquette University. Back then I could walk two blocks in any direction from my apartment and hit at least one bar,  usually way more than one. The whole city seemed to be full of them. My personal favorite, that year? I had two. Very near my apartment was the Harp & Shamrock on West Wells Street. Although the place still stands, I’m sure the original proprietor Bernie Conway is now long gone. What a character he was! Bernie kept a clean place, where one would always feel safe, as long as you were not a vagrant or otherwise undesirable sort, in the owner’s estimation (let me leave it at that). He had a large bartender named Tom, who also doubled as the bouncer, and a large German Shepherd named Duke, who slept behind the bar, helping the patrons feel safe, I guess. In 1983 the Harp & Shamrock was a throwback bar, in every sense of the word, yet I loved that place. It was there that I first kissed the girl who would become my wife, despite the fact that at the time, she was already engaged to marry another—that’s a long, sordid story for another time.

My second favorite exists only as a memory now, Wimpy’s Hunt Club, way over on the east side of the city, a stone’s throw from Milwaukee’s old Oriental Theater. Now this place had class. Owned by one Wilbert “Wimpy” Kotas (I knew him only as Wimpy), a silver-haired gentleman who usually wore a crisp, white dress shirt behind the bar. Up on the wall behind him hung a beautiful painting (maybe it was a print, I no longer recall) of a classic fox hunt scene. Opposite the bar was a row of old-fashioned horseshoe booths. The jukebox was loaded with Frank Sinatra, Perry Como and such. No beer on tap, only bottled. This was a clean, quiet, classy place. I only took certain friends there and was very sad the night I returned, just a few years later, and found it gone.

Some additional years after that, while having dinner in Chicago, I learned from a business acquaintance who had lived above that very bar when he was first married (small world indeed) that Wimpy had been murdered one morning after closing up the bar. While walking home, he encountered two men fighting. I’m sure Wimpy’s barkeeper instincts kicked in, he moved in to stop the fight, and was stabbed to death. This apparently happened in 1984, just one year after I had graduated and left Milwaukee. As happy as I had been to meet somebody who had known Wimpy’s Hunt Club, I was stunned by this news.

the-mirror

Now fast forward to 2016. Bars like I just described are somewhat hard to come by in the sprawl of exurbia, where I live. Sports bars are a dime a dozen out here—they open and disappear with predictable regularity out my way, because let’s face it, how many large, noisy sports bars can any community support. But I found a place this year. I found a place that rivals the kind of establishments I just described to you.

I don’t know if Lemont, Illinois is big enough to have neighborhoods, but I’ll tell you this: Lemont has a hell of a bar. Let me tell you about Nick’s Tavern. I’ve only been there twice, so far, but I can already tell you one thing: I like this place. It has everything I look for in a drinking establishment.

signs

Here you will not find dozens of tappers, nor a ten-page menu, nor giant TV screens glaring at you from every direction. And that’s okay by me. If I want any of that, I’ll go to a mega sports bar, the kind I can find in just about every city and village within the greater Chicagoland metropolitan area. They’re all alike and on most days, as far as I’m concerned, you can have them. Just give me a place like Nick’s.

register

Give me a place with a bit of history, and maybe some good stories to go along with that history. A place where I am made to feel welcome the minute I step through that door. Nick’s Tavern is that kind of place. The wood paneling and somewhat weathered-looking wooden bar give the place a warm atmosphere. Certain touches, like the old cash register on display in one corner and the stamped metal tile ceiling, tell you that this place has been around for a while. The bartenders greet people as they arrive and seem genuinely glad to see everyone, even me. The regulars are greeted by name.

cathy-at-baratmospherethe-bar

People are eating, drinking, talking, laughing… and it just makes me smile to see and hear all this. The first time I went there, I brought my wife and we both liked it. The second time, I brought a friend who had grown up with me in Blue Island, and who had also drank quite heavily with me back in the day. The following day he texted me, “If Nick’s was in between our houses, I would make that our our usual meeting place. I like that place.”

To which I could only reply, “Me, too!” I invited my friend Ed to come out and see Nick’s because I had already known he was going to like it there. When you drink together for as long as Ed and I have been drinking together, you get to know each others preferences.

burger

I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk a little bit about the food. They make a very good burger at Nick’s, but come hungry. The full-on Nickburger is a one-pounder and the smaller Little Nickburger, which I get, is still half a pound of ground beef. Believe me, it’s fresh and tasty. They also do Italian beef, chicken sandwiches and more, but so far I haven’t gotten past the burger. No fries here, only chips.

I should also mention that Nick’s is a a cash-only proposition. What can I tell you, it’s a classic small bar.

But you know what? That’s just the way I like it. You’ll find Nick’s Tavern right on Main Street in downtown Lemont. Check it out. And as always, thanks for hanging with me.