I a special feature SUNDAY MORNNG the local liar scene ,. Number 81 Page Four he business ofgetting .., Sunday, April 15 1973 I ledrun By GLORIA JANE SMITH A TEN DOLLAR "bank" neatly folded between my index and middle fingers and an unfamiliar list of liquor prices floating in my head, I tucked my cigarettes away into an inconspicuous spot for later use, and ventured forth into the sparcely filled room of one local bar for my debut performance as a cocktail waitress. It was 8:00. Business was just beginning to pick up. In an hour, the band would begin to play. A middle-aged ,man motioned for me to come over to the corner where he was sitting. He wanted a glass of cream. Not remembering a drink of such description on the menu, I feeb- ly approached the bar to inquire whether or not this request was pos- sible. Ordinarily, I learned, it was not. But this man was a regular cus- tomer, and the bartender obliged. "I am told," he explained, "that cream settles the stomach - good for ulcers." I would have to remember that, as I was to remember many other specialty requests. Asked to describe a million and one mixed drinks, I soon learned that a "Rusty Virgin" combined Southern Compfort with cranberry juice, that a in Ann Arbor .I "student bars" per se (that is, no bars that cater entirely to students). THERE IS, however, a small- cluster of bars - Mr. Flood's Party, the Blind Pig, the Pretzel Bell, Bimbo's and the Village Bell - that draw heavily from the University campus. Reflecting the moods and desires of a fairly heterogeneous community, each bar offers an atmosphere that is in itself totally unique. MR. FLOOD'S PARTY, for instance, offers a totally surrealistic visual experience like no other to be found in town. The bar sports a "museum" of hanging stained-glass windows, Tiffany lamps, stuffed moose heads, vintage family portraits - even an outstanding Rubenesque painting, a statue of an angel with American flag in hand, an antique juke box, and a time-worn barber chair. The collection, explains owner Ned Duke, "evolved gradually over the years." He claims to know the history behind each and every artifact. In one corner sits a framed por- trait of "Mr. Flood." There really is no such man - the fictitious name is taken from an Edward Arlington Robinson poem. "We invented him," mosphere. Quiet conversation drifts through the upstairs room where dainty crocheted curtains cover the windows and candles slowly melt down aged wine bottles onto small circular tables. In 1880 the building housed the of- fices of the Ann Arbor Central Mills .-an historical fact evidenced today by a huge metal safe that still covers one wall. The days of the grain mill's occupation, however, have long since past, and the building now serves as a place where "people can get to- gether," according to Tom Isaia, who co-owns the bar with Jerry Del- Giudice. "We originally thought to name it the Melting Pot." On one wall hangs a gigantic, col- orful painting of pigs - the bar's of- ficial rascot. Disclaiming any-intend- ed allusions to those illegal sanc- tuaries of drinking and gambling of the twenties, Isaia says the name 'was chosen basically because it "sounded dirty. A man with long dark shiny hair and a flowing moustache, Isaa leans back on a sturdy wooden chair to re- kount the bar's early beginnings. Op- ened just a year ago on April 1, the Pig was originally conceived of as a wine shop. "Jerry and I had spent some time in Europe and we realized that Ann Arbor needed a bar with European flavor." And so the bar, where at least 200 cups of cappuccino are sold daily, of- fers a connoisseur's selection of im- ported wines and bread and cheeses (also beer). Plans are even in the making for weekly wine-tasting par- ties, complete with formal linen cloths on the tables. The Blind Pig offers live entertain- ment in its downstairs room six nights a week and old-time movies on Mondays. About 15 per cent of the musicians are local - featuring jazz, blues and classical music. Once a month, nationally known musicians perform. The bar, which Isaia pre- fers to call a "neighborhood tavern, cafe, and jazz-blues club," has never hosted rock or country bands because of its "size and -climate." PERHAPS ONE OF THE oldest bars in Ann Arbor, Clint Castor's Pretzel Bell offers a fairly traditional, collegiate atmosphere. Remnants from the "good old days" cover the walls .. . reminders that there once was a time on campus when school spirit was high and when the cap- tain of the football team sent young coeds swooning. Framed newspaper clippings and photographs record the faces and accomplishments of past University teams and their coaches, while heavy, round, wooden tables record the carvings of genera- tions of love-lost couples. The Pretzel Bell derives its name from good old German tradition dat- ing back to the original rathskellers --pubs in cellars and the basements of city halls where beer was never served without pretzels. An evening of drinking was often initiated then by the loud clanging of a bell. The bar, famous for its hot pret- zels, opened in 1934 immediately fol- The Blind Pig, where "candles slowly melt down aged wine bottles . lowing the repeal of Prohibition. In those days, recalls former owner Clint Castor, Sr. (the bar is now owned by his son, Clint Castor, Jr.), men were required to wear a coat an~d necktie. It is a bar, he believes, where "town and gown get together." There was a time when "having your bell" was a phrase synonomous with celebrating your 21st birthday. Until the recent age of majority rul- ing, it was Pretzel Bell tradition to announce the passing of another student into adulthood with a loud clang of the bar's official brass bell. The new adult was awarded a free pitcher of beer, which he or she us- ually, chugged down while standing precariously on top of a table sur- rounded by cheering friends. On dis- play in the bar is a book which re- cords the signatures of 25,000 stu- dents who celebrated their all-im- portant birthday in this manner. The bar, which according to mana- ger Chris Keane sells about four half- barrels of beer (that's roughly 200 pitchers) on an average weekend ment --- only a comfortable place for quiet couversation and at times loud partying. T BIMBO'S, the fare is gay nine- ties with the twang of banjos backing loud group sing-alongs of tunes from days long past. Peanut shucks on the floor and portraits of Laurel and Hardy and W. C. Fields on the walls, Bimbo's features an Italian cusine and beer, beer, beer. The bar, which takes its name from the owner's nickname, opened roughly 11 years ago. "There have been few changes since then," ex- plains manager Tony Matteis. The bar, which seats about 150 in rela- tively plush booths and long expan- sive tables, offers live music four nights a week and old-time movies two nights a week. VIEWING THE ENTIRE local bar scene, there are undoubtedly places whichhave been overlooked. The bars discussed were chosen not only because they attract a large per- centage of students, but also for the diversity of atmospheres they repre- sent. There are many other bars that offer "good times" in Ann Arbor. For example, the Del-Rio, famous for its "Det Bergers" and antipasto salads, offers a fairly mellow atmosphere with candles dripping down wine bottles onto ornately-carved wooden tables. Music is usually taped, with a jazz band performing live on Sun- days. The Scene offers a psychedelic mind-boggling atmosphere featuring a colorful flashing dance-floor. And Mackinac Jack's (which may soon change due to a recent change in ownership) offers a logger's atmos- phere complete with rest rooms marked "does" and "bucks." Despite the obvious differences between Ann Arbor bars, they all en- counter one common condition. On weekends, they are usually packed-- absolutely filled to the brim with people. It's 10:23 p.m. and you can feel the brisk night air tug at your coat. You can hear the muffled sounds of a Photographs by KAREN KASMAUSKI band playing inside, but you're out- side, and man, it's just plain and simple truth that you can't 'go in until someone comes out. Capacity seating regulations are just:,that tough. You really want to lose yourself for the evening in some strong brew and the loud, pounding vibrations of some musician. So you search other bars, finding the situation no better . anywhere else. It's a good thirty- minute wait until you get inside. The problem doesn't usually pre- sent itself if you go to a bar fairly early on a weekend night or if you get your drinking time in during the week. If, however you choose to drink late on a weekend night, be prepared for the consequences. But, friends of the mighty bottle take heart - Director of Liquor Li- censing and Enforcement Roger Ros- endale says that Ann Arbor still has 14 licenses yet to approve. According to the 1970 Federal Dicenial Census, Ann Arbor's population of 100,035 al- lows for a total of 67 licenses within the city. (one license per 1500 resi- dents). Currently, Ann Arbor maintains 43 class "C" (beer, wine and spirits) licenses, 8 "B" hotel licenses and two tavern (beer and wine) licenses. In order to obtain a liquor license, an owner's request must first be ap- proved by the City Council, then by the State Liquor Commission and fi- nally by the Police department. Points considered in an investigation include an owner's "personal back- ground and present financial con- dition," explains Rosendale. He adds that a neighborhood survey is usual- ly taken of residents within a 500' radius (about one city block) of the proposed site. "If enough residents disapprove - let's say 80 per cent - then the license is not approved," he says, * * * (LEARING OFF soppy menus,, dis- carded pistachio shells, and half- filled glasses of beer from my tables, I breathed a sigh of relief on the last night of my rather short-lived career as a cocktail waitress. It was nearing 1:30. The band had long ago p&pked away its instruments and departed. A silence, that was at once color. t- ing and unpleasantly void, settled n the room. Images of the people who had sat at those tables remained stubbornly clear in my mind. There were the crowds of boisterous students with their carefree laughter and vigorous stamping and clapping to the music; there were the many couples who had sat totally lost in each other; there were the swinging singles who had spent the night casting furtive glances at other swinging singles, and there were a few of the very lonely who had come to drink away their miseries. I remembered one man in nartien- f I Mr. Flood's Party: "A totally surrealistic visual experience" night, offers live bluegrass music four nights a week. "People who come here in the evening really en- joy bluegrass," he says. Located less than two blocks from the Engine Arch, the Village Bell (also Castor domain) comes closest to being considered a "student bar." Be- cause of its location, it attracts a per- centage of University people (espe- cially sorority and fraternity people) larger than any other local bar. Noted for its plushly carpeted ceilings, the Village Bell, nearly five years old, offers no live entertain- "Freddie Flood Fucker" combined... and so on and so forth. I became able to demonstrate the technique of drinking Tequila straight with a few grains of salt and a bite of lemon. Another waitress even advised me of the bartender's sure-fire cure for hic- ,coughs, should the problem present itself. Most of the customers, how- ever, drank pitchers of beer with few problems - an order which re- quired little to no explanation. As the strains of sonme lively blue- grass overpowered conversation, the bar filled fast with customers. And while wiping off tables, clearing glasses and pitchers to the dishwash- er and taking practically inaudible orders and delivering them to their respective tables, I noted the divers- ity in clientele there that night., It was a young crowd - mostly students, but also recent graduates and those who never chose to par- take in higher education. All, 'how- ever, were not youth, as some tables filled with groups of businessmen in suits and ties with their women in Duke explains. The bar (Duke prefers to call it a "club") was originally opened for "beatnicks who had no place to go" Duke and his now deceased partner "Buddy" Jack endured a long two- year struggle with a then Republican Council to fill a spot that had pre- viously housed the "redneck" Andy's bar. After hours of debate and a rare executive session, the license trans- fer was approved and Flood's opened in April 1969. "It was a young move," remembers Duke, a man who wears long dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses and golden earrings. In those early days, the quiet strains of folk music, and occasional- ly some blues, flowed through the small bar that when filled seats'about 100 people. "People then wanted to hear acoustic music - nothing loud," Duke explains. Today, although the bar hasn't turned to heavy rock and roll, loud vibrations of bluegrass and country music (about 75 per cent lo- cal musicians) can be heard six nights a week and on Sunday after- <. .,. ::. 4. ;.; ... .. ; .-;.