YouTube’s algos happened to serve me up an interesting and profound documentary this past weekend about Irish Pubs.
The film instantly reminded me about an old hangout of ours. This pub just one of the many things we’ve lost since the pandemic. It was also a painful reminder of how much more bland life seems now because of it. Of the list of things about pre-pandemic life we miss this was the one that resided high atop the list.
My wife and I had our very own neighborhood pub once, W.A. Frost. Although we didn’t own the particular pub, it felt like an extension of our home. Many of the regulars were friends, and a few became like family. If you start with many years of familiarity between people and mix in a steady stream of generous pours what you're left with are some incredible stories, laughs, and priceless memories.
Frost was a curious place. The restaurant itself is considerably overpriced and pretentious but the bar area was something else altogether. It was more relaxed and leaned more heavily towards substance than it did show. It still reflected a bit of the grittiness of what the neighborhood use to be. What a cast of characters we met there.
There was Don who we called “Caligula”. He was an older gentleman who wore gold rings on all of his fingers. Don swore and be damned that Donald Trump was a reincarnation of the former Roman emperor Caligula and mentioned the name at least ten times in every single conversation, hence the nickname. Other regulars looked after him and would often buy him a pint.
Then there was “The White Wine Guy”. He was a navy man who was already several years past retirement, had snow white hair and mustache but apparently had a wealthy wife who was much older. He would sneak out to the bar a few times a week. “The white wine guy” earned this moniker by having the ability to consume more white wine should be humanly possible. He would easily down a couple bottles in an evening and walk out of the place, appeering to be sober as could be, as though he was drinking Red Bull all night.
Next there was “Chappy”. He was an intellectual of the highest order, very well-read. Chappy spoke very formally, carefully enunciating each word as though he stepped straight off the pages of an Victorian novel. His nickname was born when he casually mentioned wearing chaps as part of a Halloween costume long ago and the name stuck. I'm sure he regretted that slip of the tongue countless times.
“Tall Paul” was a gentle giant. He stood close to seven feet tall and was professionally trained in physics but was also a true musical savant, playing complex classical pieces while he was still in elementary school. I’ve always loved physics but only know enough to skim the surface. After a few glasses of “think juice” (red wine) Paul and I had some great, in depth conversations. I learned a great deal from him.
“The Nurse” was a sweet older woman who called everyone “honey”. The Nurse would talk your ear off. Her husband was always by her side but was often silent. I’m not sure if The Nurse craved conversation because her husband was so quiet or if he was so quiet because he couldn’t get a word in. We raised a glass to her in Frost the night after she retired with more than fifty years on the job. She never hesitated to tell us how far the American healthcare system had slipped into oblivion since she first started her career.
Next was “Dan the Man”. Dan began his career at Frost in the 1980s but had moved on after just a few years and was an old friend of the head bartender, Tommy. Dan managed another local downtown restaurant and always came into Frost around midnight when his shift was done. Dan always ordered two generous pours of Grand Marnier as a nightcap before heading home. Dan was quick-witted, hilarious, with a sarcastic sense of humor. He had no shortage of stories and loved telling us about how Tommy used to jump over the bar to break up fights in his younger days.
To me, Dan seemed like the older brother I never had. Each time he left us, as he was sliding his stool back and putting on his coat, he’d look us right in the eye and say, “Remember kids, every car’s a cop”. Imagining that each and every car was a cop on his drive home was Dan the Man's trademarked method for never getting pulled over.
Last but not least there was Tommy the bartender. Tommy, in fact, was Frost. He was the glue that held the place together, the hub around which everything else revolved. He brought in customers and kept them looking forward to coming back. Occasionally random women would bring him in containers of food and he would walk to the end of the bar and give them a hug and an innocuous peck on the cheek.
Tommy had already been bartending at Frost for decades before my wife and I came through the doors for the first time, around 2005. He ran that bar like a maestro leading a symphony orchestra. His personality and conversation were second to none. Tommy was a kind soul with a sparkle in his eyes, a true renaissance man. He was a therapist, a sommelier, world traveler, master gardener, food critic, and philosopher all rolled into one slightly ornery package. For better, or for worse Tommy introduced me to "the green fairy" a strong (and very flammable) liquor called absinthe.
I don’t mean for this to read like a eulogy because, as far as we know, all of these people are still very much alive. Tommy and Dan are, for sure. We still occasionally get together with them for dinner or a few drinks on local restaurant patios or in Tommy’s backyard garden. We bring Tommy presents for Christmas and his birthday. Both of these individuals will forever remain like family to us.
I guess this is more of a eulogy for the way we were. It was such a comfort and a pleasure to have a pub as welcoming as Frost just a block away from where we live. I can't even tell you how many times, on a whim, my wife and I would look at each other and ask, “Want to go down to Frost for a few?” We miss being able to do that more than words can convey. Thankfully, the friendships remain.
Since the pandemic and riots of 2020 everything’s changed. Tommy retired in 2021 and shortly after that most of the old regulars, including us, scattered to the wind.
Peering through the windows of W.A. Frost now is like looking into a completely different world. New and different people occupy the stools, it’s someone else other than Tommy pouring drinks behind the bar. The sight of this never fails to give us an ache of melancholy. It’s so strange that the sight and even the smell of the place is still exactly the same but it feels so completely different because the souls we knew are gone. It was, undoubtedly, that cast of characters who made the place what it was.
It’s my hope that everyone finds somewhere like Frost at least once in their lives, even if it’s for a little while. It was a rare place that added infinitely more to our lives than it took away. The handful of years that we were regulars at Frost (2009-2020) gave us enough memories to reminisce and laugh about for a lifetime.
I’m convinced that if all of the unexplainable things that make us human are to survive in this next century we desperately need a kind of reset. We need much less screen time and more face time. More places where we're comfortable conversing with strangers and places that we easily lose track of time. What we really need are more places like Frost that breathe joy into the emptiness that so many of us are feeling today before it's too late. Sometimes the best thing for the future is a touch of the past.
Be well and make the most of this day. Thank you for reading!
Growing weary of the ads and divisiveness on mainstream social media? If so, why not try Hive? Click on this link to sign-up and join our growing global community.
Let’s Keep In Touch
