A Well Patinaed Bar: Reflections of a Restaurant Kid
I always loved a bar. I remember the well-patinaed wood bar, the row of two-top café tables dotted along the opposite wall. Long and narrow, tastefully lit with faux gaslight streetlamps, the space reflected the railroad car it once was. The Northeast was somewhat of a railroad car boneyard in the 1930s and 40s. Many of those cars were scooped up for short money, plunked down on a small lot, and retrofitted to become the ubiquitous New England diner. The original footprint of our restaurant, Armand’s Beacon Terrace, was such a railroad car. Eventually, the railroad car was absorbed by the restaurant it spawned, but the bar remained true to its origins. The original lanterns hang in our family room, their red and green glow signaling memories of simpler times.
Now, let’s pony up to the bar and reminisce about days gone by. There is no such thing as a cigarette vending machine anymore, much less the pack of Lucky Strikes that hurtled into the tray for a few coins. Smoking was great in those days before folks started dropping like flies. Women tapped their ash and sipped Rob Roys, cigarette filter, and glass rim both imprinted with Revlon’s Fire and Ice. Channeling Humphrey Bogart, smoldering cigarette between two fingers, men raised their glass with the same hand. This is the glam noir version and doesn’t account for the guy at the end of the bar hacking up a lung.
The Terrace had a robust bar scene, and bar stools were built to support it — sturdy, backless, the round seats generously cushioned and upholstered in Naugahyde. Those stools had staying power, as did many of the bottoms planted upon them. There was rarely a morning that a wedding band wasn’t swept up with the swizzle sticks, matchbooks, and other barroom debris. The haul could be substantial on weekends when married men were drunk and on the prowl. Thinking he was on the cusp of getting lucky and frantically palming his wedding ring off, he’d miss his pocket. Ping!
Sometime in the mid-60s, a bump-out was added to the bar. The five-sided room was home to a sunken cocktail lounge. Modern and cool, the room was edged with plush banquettes. The carpeting popped with color and fluid pattern, reminiscent of the Emilio Pucci caftans and palazzo pants that were all the rage. Al Petrocelli and the grand piano were upgraded from the dining room to a brand-new piano bar. Above the bar, the walnut beams formed a sunburst, a common, and rather unfortunate, design motif in those days. At the center of the sunburst hung the most awesome chandelier I had ever seen. Inside a giant glass lantern sat an enormous Manhattan glass. Was the light playing off its amber “liquid” and maraschino cherry a subliminal message to buy another round?
Not that the restaurant was a magnet for Framingham’s cheating crowd. However, there was one parking lot make-out session that was by far more memorable than any of my own. Driving with your kids was simpler in the 50s and 60s. Being under eight years old, I was relegated to the back seat where I stood, using the front seat to maintain my balance. One day when I was out and about with my mother, we stopped at the restaurant. It was mid-afternoon, and the parking lot was empty but for one car, smack dab in the middle of the asphalt expanse. Curious, my mother decided to take a look. Oh, my! Evidently, these lovebirds skipped dessert and splurged on the afternoon delight. My mother was having none of this. Her parking lot was not THAT kind of parking lot! With me rubbernecking and hanging onto the front seat, she honked the horn and circled the car. Today, she would also be shouting, “Get a room!” What a blast; I watched the action and leaned into each donut. My best make-out session ever!
I remember standing at the bar’s service area watching Marty cut limes, skewer olives, buff glasses, and generally ready his post for the Sunday dinner crowd. Tall and lanky, Marty wore chunky black-framed eyeglasses and full head of hair tamed with a generous slathering of Brylcreem. Not very many men could deliver both cool and gravitas while wearing a green polyester vest and nametag. My parents sipped their Scotch and water from coffee cups on Sunday because, in Massachusetts, it was, and unbelievably still is, unlawful to serve alcohol before noon on Sunday. Before, during, or after hours, I always did love a bar.
