Rememberence of Bars Past: The Bucket O’suds
BY JOSEPH BRYL
With the seemingly endless stream of openings of new high-end establishments touting the refined practice of mixology nationwide, it’s hard to remember a time when these practitioners in the art of imbibing were somewhat uncommon and relegated to the everyday status of “bartender”.
Yet, however passionate and knowledgeable this current crop of mixologists may be in the expertise of muddling and mix-ing a balanced and well-proportioned cocktail with a flourish more befitting a modern day conjurer than the workaday abilities of their earlier bartending brethren, these scions of the shaker are relative newcomers to the trade and no seasoned veterans of the equally important arts of conversation-al banter, jovial camaraderie and basic lifetime experiences that are discussed, argued and shared over bar tops.
Often appropriating the look of some turn-of-the-century barbershop quartet warbler with that of a character from an ironically mannered Tim Burton film, these foppish steam-punk scientists fastidiously concoct intricate libations of various hues and textures like overwrought Dr. Frankensteins. One sometimes expects to hear these affected mixologists to lay the final flourish of orange rind onto the rim of a glass and shout: “It’s alive . . . it’s alive!” as they present the creation to an eagerly awaiting customer.
The dismal state of saloon culture has reawakened distant and fond memories of a favorite watering hole of mine from over 25 years ago known as the Bucket O’Suds. Affectionately touted as “The Center of the Universe” (a claim that its various liquefied denizens would proudly agree with), the unassuming bar was located at Cicero and Belmont in the working class Cragin neighborhood of northwest Chicago.
Hanging ominously over the always-locked entrance way (on which one needed to bang heavily on to gain admittance) was a huge rusty and ossified neon sign with the establishment’s name. This foreboding frontage, a Damoclean sword that swayed in the blistering Chicago wind, glowed dimly, illu-minating the sidewalk like a film noir street scene and hung like some distant memory along the building’s facade, an en-crusted barnacle on the stationary ship’s decrepit hull.
Covering the dirty glass doorway were two aged paper cut-outs of George Washington and Abe Lincoln that attested to the tavern’s pro-American working class ethos (“Buy Buy American! Or It’s Bye Bye America”). One of an end-less grouping of catchphrase “observations”, these rejoinders were a favorite means for the larger-than-life (but small in stature) proprietor Joe Danno to enlighten his patrons and regulars. Danno’s loyal customers, who affectionately called themselves “Bucketeeers”, would listen intently as he dispensed his own form of Socratic philosophy tempered by streetwise pragmatism and a wry smile.
Tending and holding court behind the long wooden bar that surprisingly stored some of the rarest bourbons, whiskeys and Scotches in the country, Joe Danno was ultimately the evening’s main attraction, a raconteur who could regale his eager listeners with tales of Chicago during the Prohibition Era. One could come close to reliving the scene while sip-ping one of Joe’s infamous concoctions made with a bottle of hootch from the twenties. Joe took a special joy in displaying a heavily dust-encrusted Civil War-age bourbon—it was only sipped solemnly during special occasions—or a still-corked bottle of Chinese liquor of mysterious properties that held a full-grown lizard like some Adams Family version of mezcal. With his disheveled whitened hair, Harry Carry glasses too big for his rotund face and a voice that brought to mind the high-pitched cadence of perennial newsman Lee Tracy, Joe Danno would skirt behind the bar mixing drinks with names like “the Gin Rummy” or “the Roman Orgy” and pouring shots from long-defunct aged whiskeys like Belle of Nelson or James E. Pepper.
I looked upon my initial excursions to the Bucket as a pilgrimage to a sacred site, an inward journey to some long-forgotten temple that still held special spiritual powers one might reawaken by a ritual sip of a sacred elixir. In the Bucket’s case, it was “Elix-ir Lucifer”, one of Joe’s infamous cocktails made with his own liqueur that he bottled on-site. A glass of this delightful draught would quickly send a warming cascade throughout one’s body— a perfect tonic to Chicago’s many harsh winters.
Inside its crumbling clutter of mismatched chairs, wobbly tables scarred with cigarette burns, moldy stuffed animals that hovered like vultures overhead, an odd assortment of bric-a-brac and endless portraitures of Joe strewn atop the grainy bar top (and drawn on-site by the Bucket’s denizens), one could also listen to Joe’s personal collection of jazz tapes recorded from Danno’s old radio program.
This was the type of joint I cherished deeply but was slowly getting bulldozed to extinction in order to make way for some mass-marketed fast food drive-thru devoid of history, character or charm. Leading the charge against this rampant obliteration and sounding the clarion call for the tavern-as-hangout was sociologist Ray Oldenburg. In his anecdotal study “The Great Good Place,” Oldenburg articulates the transformative aspect and need for public spaces like the tavern, coffee shop, bookstore or hair salon. His vision of the “great, good place” embodied the essence of democracy the ways we commingle, discuss our issues and try to find a workable balance of compromise. This essential need for a “third place” becomes more critical as we become more culturally separated and communicate only through virtual avenues like Facebook or Linkedin.
For me, the Bucket was the great, perfect place; a no-frills neighborhood tavern where I could bump shoulders with people from all walks of life, where Joe introduced me to the intricacies of a layered pousse-cafe or to the special essence of a glass of Very, Very Old Fitzgerald. Sometimes, just share the evening with friends as we bantered the night into morning in good cheer and humor was more than enough.
The mixologists’ efforts to craft a studiously made cocktail are appreciated, but what ultimately motivates us to gather in bars and taverns and pubs is our basic need to connect as individuals. The drink is only the means—the place and the people within it are the ultimate ends.
From Issue 2 Fall/ 2012