I had a really nice lunch the other day with two important guys,

Mark and Chris. We ate at the Trion Tap in New Haven. It was a nice lunch, I had a Reuben and a Yuengling. The Trion was suitably dark (which I like) but the required music was playing which confused both me and my hearing aids when I was trying to pick up on the conversation.

I'm probably different than most. I like quiet. I also like only one drink, having made an exception when I was in the Service overseas, but that's another story.

This little story that I wrote some time ago was (is) the perfect example of my search for quiet. It's hard to find these days in the restaurant atmosphere. I very seldom go to bars but I can understand the need for crap kicking music of some kind when a person gets plastered, so be it.

I sure wish that I could see this story repeated today but things have changed.

The Good Ole Days

I pointed the Matchless down the alley. It was the end of another ‘plonking’ and the ‘sweet smell of summer’ day.. I stopped the Flying M in front of Mr. Clarks old ramshackle garage, I leaned the bike on its sidestand making sure it wouldn’t roll forward as the sidestand was spring loaded and the slightest twitch would let the spring pull the stand up with the resulting bike on its side and a dumb sh** exclamation.

I opened one side of the double doors, got back on the bike, rode it inside, and with one last satisfied whiff of the newly cleaned gunk enhanced engine, I reluctantly pulled the compression release to quiet the Matchless for the day. It was a very pleasant ride but at the end of the day, I felt perhaps a little more pleasantness would be very helpful.. Hastily, I closed the door of the garage and set off down the alley. It was a short walk to the neighborhood tavern.

A few minutes later I opened the door of “Todds Place” and walked in.. Todds Place had the old fashioned sights and smells of taverns of that 1940’s era. The smell of stale beer mixed with the somewhat musty odor of an old basement. No air conditioning just dim lights, and quiet conversation, no juke box playing, no loud talk. It was a relaxing place to enjoy one or more cool ones.

I sat down on one of the stools at the bar. The bar was solid walnut, marred by dents caused by thousands of beer glasses banging down as their owners made a point during their conversations. The brass rail under my feet was polished from years of supporting shoes and feet after a hard day's work.

The planked floor trembled as Jerry Helmsing, a really big guy and the owner, came ambling over to take my order. It might’ve been Todds Place but Jerry was the owner. Todds Place was sorta like ‘Duffy’s Tavern’ in that Duffy never was there…..You know “Duffy’s Tavern, This is Archie, Duffy ain’t here” I never found out why it was called Todds Place.

I gave Jerry my usual order; A Carlings Black Label and a braunschweiger on rye with extra mustard. In no time Jerry brought me the sandwich and an ice cold Carlings. Mabel would’ve been proud! Jerry wiped his hands on his tent size apron, we talked a little about riding, and then he went on to other customers.

I could feel myself relaxing even more as I wrapped myself around that simple but good sandwich and drank the Black Label. Ordering another beer, I almost was lulled to sleep by the totally relaxed and siesta like ‘easy does it’ quietness of “Todds Place’

Time to go, I paid the tab, got up and walked the short block to Mom and Dads house with the full intention of doing this again. Ride first, Todds Place second!

And so I did. Fond memories of days long gone.