Thursday, Feb. 4 2010 @ 12:00PM
I know nothing about cop culture. When I saw the name
Area IV on the awning, my first thought was
sci-fi dive. With enough alcohol the badges covering the wall above the bar might pass for something space-age.
Really, they're just police badges from around the country, protected by little plastic slipcovers.
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| Robin Wheeler |
No one sat at the tables, but the bar was full: Older men and one woman watched a Blues game while perched on cracked and rickety captain's-chair-style bar stools. Next to me, a gray-haired man was discussing the importance of password protecting his home wireless connection to the gray-haired man behind the bar. They looped me into their conversation as if I'd been sitting there all night.
While my wireless concerns lean on the side of not wanting moochers slowing my speed, the other patron was more concerned about pedophiles stealing Wi-Fi signals for illegal activities and then pinning their ick on someone else's IP address. Since he's the cop, it's probably best to listen to him.
Thursday, Jan. 28 2010 @ 11:30AM
If you want to learn political theory, go to school. If you want to learn about the reality of politics, go to a neighborhood bar.
I arrived at
La Rocca's ten minutes into the State of the Union address. Five men sat at the bar, silent, engrossed in the speech. They turned to look at me as I tiptoed to a bar stool and ordered a Bud Light in a whisper.
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| Chuck Kennedy, Official White House Photo |
"Tax the rich motherfuckers!" one of the men announced when President Obama referred to the tax cuts of the previous administration. He turned to me and said, "I apologize for my language. Who're you? My name's Luther. This," he swung his arms wide, "is my family."
Friday, Jan. 22 2010 @ 10:28AM
OK, so maybe I do have a few hipster tendencies. Before this week's dive trip, I spent a couple of hours coddling a $5 bottle of beer at the
Bleeding Deacon with friends.
I'm not ashamed to admit I enjoy such activities. I had a hard time pulling myself away to go a block down Gravois to
Time Out Bar and Grill.
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| Robin Wheeler |
After the dark, smokey, crowded interior of the Deacon, the diffused colored laser lights I could see through Time Out's glass brick windows threw me for a loop. That should have been my clue that perhaps the bar I'd considered the dive in that neighborhood really wasn't a dive.
Thursday, Jan. 14 2010 @ 11:30AM
Last week, Megan from
Screamer's left a note on
my year-end post, telling me where some of the late Screamer's regulars have landed. Lots of bars I've visited, it turns out, and one I'd never noticed,
Larry J's.
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| Robin Wheeler |
Feeling the need to see some friendly faces, I went in search of Larry J's, almost missing the bar on Weber Road because it's much closer to I-55 than I expected.
Thursday, Jan. 7 2010 @ 1:37PM
With Snowmageddeon '10 looming to the west, I hoped to get some local old-man weather reports over bottles of Stag but didn't want to venture far from my Metro East home.
So my east-side friend Erin and I visited the Belleville branch of
The Office -- not to be confused with
the South City cat bar or
the North County gereatric-oke bar from past bombings.
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| Robin Wheeler |
Snow? Not of concern. The bar was hopping. Pool players broke so hard it sounded like limbs cracking under the weight of ice. Two players wore matching red shirts with "Here for the beer" written on the back.
Wednesday, Dec. 30 2009 @ 12:00PM
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| Robin Wheeler |
| The bartop at the late, much-loved Screamer's |
Dive Bomber doesn't turn one until late February, but I experienced more than a year's worth of bar nuttiness. What didn't make this column?
Bartenders playing catch with a crack pipe they found on the floor. A bar owner so angered by a post that she and her friend spent a morning berating my editor on the phone. The moonshine. Good lord, there are a lot of places to get homemade hooch in this town. The toothless old man who asked me if I was going to be joined by any girlfriends because, if not, I was going to have to "fuck us all by yourself," giving me flashbacks to
The Accused.
I've been asked countless times if going to sometimes-questionable establishments scares me. That proposition was the only time I've been even a little scared. The occasions when I've been stunned by the kindness, friendliness and openness of bartenders and regulars far outnumber those when I've been uneasy. Never judge an establishment by its neighborhood, outer appearance or the raggedness of its patrons. Do so, and you might miss goodness that goes much deeper than a cheap laugh. Here are my favorites:
Thursday, Dec. 17 2009 @ 12:45PM
Earlier this week, I partook in a perilous act: I read the commentary on a news story from another local news website. I found one regarding a change of ownership at
Southtown Pub, neighbor of
Black Derby Saloon and high on my list of potential dives to investigate. In addition to claiming an improved clientele, the comment touted Southtown's high-quality sausage pizza from a little company called TJ's.
Because I'm smart enough not to partake in comment battles, I didn't point out that
TJ's Pizza is cooked in toaster ovens at questionable establishments all over town.
Thursday, Dec. 3 2009 @ 11:31AM
I lived near the
Block House Saloon for eight years but never set foot in it. A woman I knew from our neighborhood diner worked there, and she always scared the shit out of me. Assuming she represented the staff and clientele, I kept my distance, even though the beautifully dilapidated building called to me.
Thursday, Nov. 19 2009 @ 12:45PM
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| Robin Wheeler |
In my months of writing the Dive Bomber, I've only had one instance (I know of) in which I've actively pissed off someone: an octogenarian bar owner who made some angry calls after my otherwise-glowing review of her tavern.
No, I'm not stupid enough to link to the piece in question. My editor had to deal with that "force of nature" once. I'd like to keep this job.
Thursday, Nov. 19 2009 @ 10:28AM
On
Thanksgiving Day, the bars will be open. Maybe not the dance clubs, "ultra lounges" or country club-type places, but most every corner bar will be open, and we've all been in one of those. But maybe not on Thanksgiving. However, if you've ever found yourself driving or walking by one on Turkey Day, you might have noticed that nearly all of them offer a bitchin' Thanksgiving meal.
Before you feel sorry for the people who spend their Thanksgiving in a dive bar, remember that you'll be spending it with your in-laws. Who's the sorry one now?
Totino's: Perfect for the One-Person Party You'll be Having.Reportedly the best-selling "economy frozen pizza" in the U-S-of-A, Totino's pizzas take about two beers (in beer time) to cook and provide a boost of energy to prepare you for the rail gin-and-tonic you'll be ordering after you hit "Ignore" on your cell phone when you see an incoming call from a family member. G'head, have another square of Totino's. More notes: Must be cooked in a toaster oven, just like in a bar. Real ovens and pilot lights don't mix when family angst and cheap alcohol are involved.
Thursday, Nov. 12 2009 @ 11:00AM
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| Robin Wheeler |
Can a bar be a dive if it has flowers planted in front and offers issues of local foodie magazines? Can a dive bomber be a dive bomber if she goes to a bar and drinks nothing but iced tea?
Yes, if I'm having lunch at
Arena Bar and Grill. This tavern on the bottom level of a rambling old house on the edge of Dogtown epitomizes the all-American neighborhood bar, with friendly bartenders, regulars and a little corner in the back with a sign that reads, "The Little Kitchen That Could".
It's nice enough that my first reaction wasn't, "I need a beer to make this palatable."
Thursday, Nov. 5 2009 @ 11:30AM
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| Screenshot: foursquare.com |
This week, my cranky old cell phone died, so I joined the addict-addled world of the iPhone. And because I have to have every free application created, I joined the addict-addled world of
foursquare. Because I want everyone to know how to find me. That won't be annoying at all, considering how much I like people.
Foursquare proved its usefulness within hours after I joined when I saw several recommendations for
Super's Bungalow Beer Garden.
Dive bombing has officially gone digital. I hadn't heard of this joint before foursquare.
Thursday, Oct. 29 2009 @ 1:34PM
There's one in every bar, and he always manages to find me. At
Just One More Time, he was 50 years old and complaining about living with his parents.
No, he wasn't taking care of elderly parents. He was crashing on their glassed-in porch, where he's got a bed and a TV. He doesn't live with his 13-year-old daughter because he can't get along with her.
Thursday, Oct. 22 2009 @ 12:45PM
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| Robin Wheeler |
Is there anything sadder than an old bar in a strip mall? What about an old bar sandwiched between upscale rescale shops in a strip mall, with only a battered Chinese restaurant to keep it company? That's
Sappington Lounge, which looked so forlorn from the outside that I thought it was closed until I noticed the front door cracked open.
Inside, the story changes. A packed bar filled with gray-haired men laughing, talking and acting as if they've known me all my life once they learned my name, which was within seconds of me taking a seat.
Thursday, Oct. 15 2009 @ 11:30AM
I approached
Pepper's Bar and Grill (near Bevo Mill, not the place on Locust) on a cold, rainy night to see a woman sitting on the front stoop. She wore shorts and a t-shirt and was talking on the phone. She jumped up as I neared the door, smiled at me, opened the door and promptly let it slam closed in my face.
This is going to be a fun night.
Thursday, Oct. 8 2009 @ 11:30AM
Considering my history of bars with cats --
sitting on the bar with me,
being called one,
lewd drinks referencing them and
the beckoning feline presence in parking lots -- I have no idea why I waited so long to visit the
Cat's Meow. I guess it seemed too obvious.
Thursday, Oct. 1 2009 @ 12:45PM
A few weeks ago, I set out for some bar book-learnin' at
Mimi's Subway Bar and Grill. I learned about sliders and beer for lunch and little else since no one from nearby UMSL was there.
This week, by pure serendipity, I got some education at
Hilltop Inn. It wasn't so much an education in dive bars as an education in the sorry state of education. When teachers have to moonlight as bartenders, there's something seriously wrong with the system.
Thursday, Sep. 24 2009 @ 11:30AM
Why do people go to bars? To unwind. Escape from life's troubles for a bit. Companionship and company. Oh, and alcohol -- though it's easier and cheaper to drink at home. It's those social aspects that get us out of our houses and into taverns, right?
I'm not sure that's the case with
Mary's Blue Ribbon Lounge. For starters, I'm not 100% positive it's a commercial bar. I drove past the place twice before I noticed it because it's a house, surrounded by other houses. There's a slight possibility I wandered into the home of someone with a small collection of bar paraphernalia. Inside, there's dark wood
paneling on the walls, doors with large "Keep Out" signs and notes on the two window-unit air conditioners threatening death to anyone who touched the dials.
Just like home.
Thursday, Sep. 17 2009 @ 11:30AM
While all the women my age are mourning the Patrick Swayze of
Dirty Dancing and
Ghost, that's not the Dive Bomber Way. No, in light of Mr. Swayze's passing, I'm thinking about
Road House, and the lessons it had for a young Missouri girl in the late 1980s, curious about the best friend a good time ever had.
Want to find a real
road house? Go to Caseyville, Illinois. This stretch of Highway 157 between I-64 and I-70 is the middle of nowhere, but when there's a break in the trees, the
Gateway Arch is right there. Caseyville has at least five establishments that meet the road house criteria. I chose
Killion's Irish Inn and Grill.
Thursday, Sep. 10 2009 @ 11:30AM
I went to college at the University of Missouri - Columbia, where I experienced the only period of timidity in my life. On my twenty-first birthday, I had to get up before dawn to stand in
line to register for three in-demand classes. I'd like to think I celebrated getting my classes and attaining legal status by walking across the street to the
Heidelberg for a
pitcher of beer with friends. Since I didn't have friends, I didn't go. I went home and hung out with my cat.
Loser.
Thursday, Sep. 3 2009 @ 12:45PM
My friend Kim assured me that
City Club, smack-dab in the middle of St. Charles' historic district, would fit my divey criteria. I didn't want to say I doubted her, but, well, I doubted her.
I've got to learn to be more trusting.
Thursday, Aug. 27 2009 @ 11:30AM
I think I remember
Doc Haus. I went under the early haze of the flu, and I've since destroyed many brain cells with liquid medication.
Theraflu, not bourbon. I'm not a total drunk. Although a few shots of Old Crow at Doc Haus might have been a wise decision. It works faster than the over-the-counter stuff intended for colds and flu, and it would have livened things up.
I had high hopes for the Doc Haus, based on its exterior. It's a wee clapboard house with café curtains. It looks more like Grandma's house than a bar. My friend Julie noticed
the golf memorabilia in the bar, and the sign announcing that golf fees were due.
Ladies and gentlemen, we have located the MoFo Road Country Club.
Thursday, Aug. 20 2009 @ 12:00PM
West County does not have dive bars. I don't spend much time in the area, but my prejudice tells me that there are no dives in the western bottomlands.
Just to prove my prejudice wrong, my Screamer's friends Grandma and Grandpa encouraged me to go west to
Larry's Tavern in Grover for a dive and one of the finest burgers in the St. Louis area.
A dive on Manchester Road? Right.
Thursday, Aug. 13 2009 @ 4:00PM
This week, I drove past three prospective bars, and all were far too nice for the likes of me. I was forced to play GPS Bar Roulette, in which I pick the closest bar listed on my
TomTom and go with it. Tom delivered me to
Cotter's Sports Lounge.
I spend a lot of Monday nights in bars, and never have I found one that felt so much like a weekend: decent-sized crowd, pool games in progress and a blissfully overzealous
bartender.
Thursday, Aug. 6 2009 @ 2:16PM
I think they're onto me.
While nursing a beer at
One Nite Stand, the bartender asked, "So what's your name? What do you do? What brings you in here?"
The earnest nerd in me always wants to answer, "My name is Robin! I'm a freelance writer! I'm here to spy on you and post about it on the Internet!"
My brain does have a little control in such situations. I told him my name and a semi-truth: I'm a stay-at-home mom who runs away to strange bars one night a week for some peace and quiet and who will someday burn among the brimstone for drinking, lying and lax parenting.
When the owner invited me to his end of the bar and offered me a shot of Jack Daniel's, I declined. Not that this stopped him from offering three more times.
What the hell? I let him give me a shot and a beer. We toasted... and down the hatch.
Thursday, Jul. 30 2009 @ 3:45PM
After the crazy number of comments from the last time
I visited Screamer's, I had to stop by once more before they close.
When I took a seat at the bar, JoBell -- the bar wench who busted me taking photos of the building last time and rightfully told me I was weird -- took a good long look at my face, laughed and announced, "Hey! It's Robin from the
RFT!"
Instantly, I had a beer in one hand, and that guy named Grandma shaking my other. Grandma called his fiancée, Grandpa, to come meet me. Tow Truck, Billy Bob, Meg and her boyfriend, John, who met at the bar a year ago, were there, too.
Thursday, Jul. 23 2009 @ 11:45AM
I got some sad news via a blog comment the other day. One of my favorite dives,
Screamer's, will be closing at the end of the month. Just look at the comments on my post and think about all those patrons being displaced. It makes me sad to see a community that tight dissolved through a real-estate transaction.
Apparently, the new owners intend to change Screamer's into an Irish pub. Now, I have no problem with authentic U.K.-style pubs. I love the
Scottish Arms, and
Castletown Geoghegan does a decent colcannon-topped shepherd's pie.
I do have a problem with manufactured "Irish" bars that are authentic as
Dublin Pineapple Salad. We have enough of those.
Thursday, Jul. 16 2009 @ 4:36PM
Since I'm not a fan of sports (or swarming masses of humanity), the All-Star Game hoopla was wasted on me. Yeah, I know. The money and exposure are great for St. Louis, but I'd rather hit myself in the head with a bat than fight the crowds of crazy that converged on downtown this week.
Still, as a journalist in St. Louis, I'd be remiss if I didn't do some research in my area of expertise. So I found the diviest sports bar closest to my house -- the
League Lounge in
Belleville -- to experience the midsummer classic.
The place was packed like every bar in the metro area, but only two people were watching the game on an old 24-inch television without closed captioning. Stevie Ray Vaughn on the jukebox took priority over the game.
Thursday, Jul. 9 2009 @ 2:00PM
Robin Wheeler writes the blog Poppy Mom. She also has a strange attraction to drinking establishments with jars of pickled -- or possibly fossilized -- eggs. She reports on these dives for Gut Check every Thursday.While Gut Check is on vacation this week, check out some of Robin's best work:The Dive Bomber Believes in the Office (April 3, 2009):
Gruff bartender. A leering pool player who snuck up behind me and told
me to put his digits in my phone and call him later. A steady stream of
people coming in to buy cold tallboys and pints of liquor packaged in
reused Shop n' Save bags. I thought I'd drain my bottle of Bud (poured
in a tiny glass, all ladylike) and scram.
But then the only other woman in the bar hit the jukebox and played Fantasia's "I Believe," followed by a Mariah Carey song about believing in something.
Here we were, strangers in a dark, dusty tavern with a long crack down
the middle of the floor, being uplifted by modern R&B. It got to me.
I believed.
Save Screamer's (April 24, 2009):
I busied myself with drinking my beer and counting pennies. The top of
the bar is covered with them, epoxied long ago. Some have been chipped
away. One of the patrons kept asking if anyone had change for a one
hundred dollar bill. No one did, but if he had a putty knife, he could
have made change from the bar.
A man named Grandma often hangs
out at Screamer's, I was told. No one know why he's called Grandma. One
of the bartenders sometimes brings her tap-dancing daughter to visit.
She used to dance on the pennies as a toddler.
Social Networking at Jodi T.'s (June 5, 2009):
Later, I got to watch as the man next to me unwound the gauze from his
finger to show it to another patron. He'd disregarded the warning on
his lawnmower about where to not place his hands while the motor was
running.
As for the patron who wanted to see the remains of the finger, he was
on his way home. Two bartenders had refused to sell him more drinks
because he was having trouble with enunciation and staying upright. He
was still capable of hauling out the bar's trash, though.
Want to dive-bomb more dive bars? Visit the complete archive.
Thursday, Jul. 2 2009 @ 12:30PM
I'm not easily scared. There have only been two bars I've visited in the past six months that have made me uneasy. While
Frank's 1st Alarm Bar and Grill isn't what I consider a scary bar, I was quite alarmed during my visit.
Biker's don't scare me, but I don't like taking my husband to bars where bikers are present. He's a five-foot-seven computer geek with floppy indie-boy hair and ever-present red Converse sneaks. He might as well be wearing a shirt that says "Biker Chow."
Despite the presence of two giant Harleys, I took my husband to Frank's. Mainly because it was the third bar we'd tried. The other two were too nice. This happens every time I bring my husband to work. He turns dumps into respectable joints. When I'm alone, I'm guaranteed to fall into a room filled with drunks, elderly karaoke singers, cats, dogs and guys who are really interested in my tattoos.
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