This is the continuation of the “Off Broadway” article that was posted this past December. These are the memories of Alex Ramsey, who grew up on the city’s East Side. It is interesting to note that he has been living in Texas since 1977, but that his fondest memories are from his youth. Alex was born in 1956.
“The cohesiveness of the neighborhood itself made it a truly special time and place to grow up in.”
Trying to keep my entries somewhat chronological, by 1973, bicycles were being replaced with cars, by my group of friends. Even though sports remained ever-present in our lives, so did jobs, cars, girls, and our evening/night activities. We were past coming home when the streetlights came on, or negotiating for another 15 minutes, etc. Sleepovers at each other’s houses and yards, patios – a common activity with us for several years (mainly in the summertime) – was also a past memory. For us, now 16 and 17 year olds, we were noticing girls from a different perspective. Driver’s licenses and the Erie County Sheriff’s card became a “status symbol.” Driver’s licenses at 16! Some guys were lucky to have occasional access to the family car. I, by then, was working at Bells IGA on Broadway in the evenings, and United Parcel Service on Dingens Street in the mornings, before heading on the #4 bus downtown (finishing up at Hutch-Tech).
Then got my 1st car. A 1971 Chevelle, that allowed me to attend Erie Community College in Williamsville. One of our quests before turning 18, was scouting out one of the numerous taverns in our neighborhood that would serve us beer. We found a couple. I can readily talk about this now, as I know for a fact that the statute of limitations for serving minors has expired, as have the owners and bars themselves.
If you’ve driven through the East Side these past 25 to 30 years, you might have been familiar with (now long gone) Frank’s Restaurant & Bar at the dead end of Milburn Street, Pee Wee’s Brown Derby on Broadway at Milburn, Sportsman’s bar on Broadway and Wick Street, Pat & Shirley’s on Broadway, between Rommel and Person Streets…
Our “feeling out” the bartender, in retrospect, was quite humorous. Our usual group – myself, Theo Hahin, Richard Gostomski, and Bob Szyper… by the third time or so, we were “accepted” as “regulars.” They never asked for a Sheriff’s card. I’m sure they all knew, but business is business. The bartenders were also the owners. We’d pull the collars up on our jackets, lower our voices, and acted as if we belonged there. Each of us individually – all with lowered voices, as if on cue, would repeat after one another… “beer, beer, beer, beer.”
At that stage of life, few things was as cool as being in a bar, underage, holding a beer. We always “broke in” a bar on Fridays. Back then it was packed for Buffalo’s Friday Fish Fry. This was before the Pope granted “amnesty” to Catholics (to eat meat on Fridays), so the usual fare was Fish Fry and/or pierogi.
My family was Russian Orthodox, but lived in a very Catholic neighborhood. Therefore, my ma respected the “Laws of the Land,” so to speak, so no meat in our home either (other than the accepted fish, which I never really understood).
Aside from those four bars that we managed to get into on a regular bases, we were rejected by 20 to 30 bars easily, by the bartenders asking for our Sheriff’s card. DWI was virtually unheard of in our neighborhood. Why drive when you could walk? The biggest hazard was busting your keister on the snow or ice in winter, but that could happen when you’re sober!
The funniest encounter we had was literally the same script and routine for nearly 2 years at Kuzhniek’s bar on Young Street. The four of us walked in on a Friday, when all the bars were packed. Mr. Kuzhniek was a barrel chested gruff man in his 50’s, who growled as he spoke. In our pulled-up collars and lowered-voices (on our first visit to the establishment), with our “beer… beer” routine, Mr. Kuzhniek growled, “Sheriff’s card?” As if on cue, we all started patting our pockets as if we’d forgotten them. I swear, he leaned on the bar and growled, “All right fellas one beer apiece, then you bastards get the hell out of here!”
A glass of draft beer then was 20 cents, a sczhooper - a larger stein glass with a handle - was 35 cents.
A glass of draft beer then was 20 cents, a sczhooper – a larger stein glass with a handle – was 35 cents. We all gave him a quarter and said keep the change, mainly to appease him with a 20 cent tip. And there we were, having a cold one at 16, in a packed bar, with polkas blaring on the jukebox – 10 cents a song, 3 for a quarter, and cigarette machines were 35 cents a pack! Minimum wage then was $1.65/hour. My pay at Bells IGA and UPS was much better – around $6.25/hour.
The following week, and virtually every week for 2 years, we’d make the rounds, but Kuzhniek’s bacame our 1st stop. And every damn time, Mr. Kuzhniek with the same routine, asking, “Sheriff’s card?” We would pat the pockets, and say, “Forgot it, damn.. lost mine, damn! Mr.Kuzhniek: “Ok, 1 beer, then you bastards get the hell out of here!” After a couple months, we’d actually catch him smiling, sometimes, during his “bastards!” spiel.
That was, until mid-August 1974. Theo and I were the oldest of our gang of four. We both turned 18 within days of each other, went downtown to get our Sheriff’s cards, and went straight to Kuzhniek’s that Friday, with Sheriff’s cards secured in our wallet. “Beer…beer…” “Sheriff’s cards?” Szyper and Richard patted their pockets, and with defiance Theo and I slammed our newly-acquired Sheriff’s cards on the bar. Kuzhniek examined them closely, handed ’em back to us and growled [pointing to Bob and Richard] “1 beer then youse 2 bastards get the hell outta here!” He kinda grinned, looked at me and Theo, and said, “Youse 2 can stay!”
Theo and I walked a little higher that day. When we left to continue our rounds, I don’t believe we ever presented the cards at the other bars. They were never asked for. Richard hit 18 in October that year, and Bob in early 1975… by then, we all had girlfriends, and our underage beer drinking adventures became a memory.
Similar to the end of the movie Stand By Me, the four of us went our separate ways. My three friends have remained in Buffalo their whole lives. By late 1976, I had made up my mind to seek my fortune in Texas (more to come on that). Upon my yearly return visit back to Buffalo, Theo and Bob have been there every single time for our reunions at Wiechec’s Lounge. Richard always wanted to come, but in the winter he was always away, as he’s an avid hunter. And his work schedule as a prison guard at Wendy precluded his attending; perhaps he’ll make it when I come to Buffalo this June (stay tuned for a reunion photo). God willing.