It’s All Gravy

It ’s All Gravy DID I EVER TELL YOU ABOUT THE TIME I LEFT GALVESTON TO SEE A GIRL IN BOSTON AND ENDED UP ON A THREE DAY BENDER IN NEW ORLEANS? Probably not, because that story takes a solid half hour to tell. But let’s try to capture the spirit of it anyway. Buckle up. Here we go.

The Reader’s Digest version: My friend John came down from Houston to socialize. I took him to the Stage Door where, as usual, Jeff O’Malley had my beer opened and waiting before my ass hit the stool. We drank, talked, threw darts, (Jeff wouldn’t hear of corrupting the place with billiards,) and proceeded to solve the world’s problems.

Closing time rolled around and, as in any real Irish bar, they locked the door. Luckily we were safely inside, drinking for free because the register was closed. Jeff had left us with Chris McDonald and company, who kindly let us out at 3:00 AM. From there we made our way to Streeter’s Saloon, a biker bar on 14th Street, where the Mosquito Café now stands. The door to Streeter’s was wide open, and remained that way until 4:30 AM. We walked to my apartment a block from the Bishop’s Palace, got in the car with blankets and bank cards, and headed east, beginning our 72 hours adventure.

At this point in the morning most civilized folk would retire to the only Denny’s in town, at 61st and I-45 and about ten feet lower in elevation, in what is now the PetSmart parking lot. What that says about our character I’ll leave for you to decide. As for our sojourn in NOLA, catch me at the Galveston Brewery and I’ll fill a half hour of your life with all the gory details. For now we’ll remain on these sandy shores.

Had our moods been different, the only thing across from the Stage Door back then was two Korean strip clubs. Rosie’s and some other bar, in the same space as Molly’s and the Old Cellar. Rosie’s, along with the other Korean bar, would eventually get chased around the corner, before disappearing altogether. The Sweet Apple and its neighbors, over at 20th and Strand, suffered the same fate. The only other strip clubs that availed themselves were Wispers at

BY DAN MARKS

21st and Mechanic, which I’d never been in, and the Golden Mermaid at 14th and Strand. They were all dives. But the drinks were cheap and the employees left you alone if you weren’t interested in their wares.

These were the kinds of places my landlord took me to, him buying the drinks, thus subsidizing my income in some sodden way. He also introduced me to a neighborhood country bar at 12th and L, now long gone. But he was not a rager.

Dylan Thomas wrote “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”, a tome against quietly shuffling off this mortal coil. “Rage. Rage! Against the dying of the light!” If THIS was the kind of drinking you wanted, you had to head downtown.

The square around NCNB Bank, now BofA, was home to the Kon Tiki and Evolutions, some riotous fun. And I don’t say “fun” lightly. This was, after all, the tail end of the Reagan Era. Having “fun” was no small feat. Gay bars in College Station were getting fire bombed. Both of these places were advertised as gay bars, but saw quite a variety of clientele. I don’t remember any more, but one of them might have even doubled as an afterhours club. There was no Proletariat, no Black Pearl, no Nautical Antiques, Galveston Bookstore was still two blocks south, in an impossibly small nook, and Robert’s Lafitte is a mile away. Both places played modern music and had wild dance floors. The Kon Tiki, in the Diamonds Building next to the Bookstore’s present location, was also home to numerous charity drag shows, hosted by Island famous Misty Valdez. Evolutions, in the middle of the block on Mechanic, was the closest I’d seen to a rave on the Island. Although there was a short lived place in the back room of what is now the Strand Lofts, aptly named The Back Room. It only lasted one season.

One block west of the Square was an 18+ bar that no one went to. Why go there when one block east of the Square stood the Old Galveston Club, originally a speak easy. The abandoned drug store that fronted it stood in what is now the parking lot behind the Grand Opera House.

OGC’s entrance was a green door in the alley with the name painted on the wall. They were loose on the age requirement but treated you like an adult. A drunk adult. An alcohol burning meteor shooting across a big black sky above God’s little gift to Texas! Crossing the threshold into that sunless room was like stepping back in time, or onto the stage of the Galveston that was.

The Kon Tiki 2022 Evolutions 2022

Old Galveston Club 1993

The four pillars of OGC were a famously eclectic juke box, the big intricately carved mahogany bar, five giant nude portraits of Galveston debutantes (one of which was rumored to be Candy, further down the page), and bartender Santos Cruz. Santos was funny and friendly, free with the pour, and dead certain he’d invented the margarita. Don’t even bother arguing that one.

The Saturday that marked OGC’s demolition after the building had been condemned also saw the final migration of its patrons to O’Malley’s Stage Door. I pedaled down there at 9:00 AM and took a picture of Santos leaning on a parking meter with the first tumbled wall in the background. I gave copies to Santos and Jeff O’Malley. Jeff’s copy, unfortunately, had been hanging on the wall below the Ike waterline, near the sign that now reads, “You have to be THIS tall to drink here during a hurricane.”

The Grand Opera House, right next door, used to send Jeff tickets to shows that hadn’t sold out. Jeff would stand at the center of the bar, waving the tickets, and say in his deep Chicago accent, “Who wants to see a show?” Turning a night of drinking into a night of drunken cultural exposure. O’Malley’s is still there, but Jeff moved to Disneyworld and the Irish mafia changed the menu so the Frito Pie is too salty for my taste. But you can still order a Club sandwich that, last time I checked, is not on the menu.

Sarah Piel navigated through Ike to get the Grand back to its former self. I was lucky enough to see Lyle Lovett in his first show

Candy’s 2022

after the storm. He stopped in the middle of his first song, looked around, and admired the repairs to the stage he’d known since a boy. He became an IBC that night.

For a good dinner date, if the stage wasn’t your preference, the only place was Candy’s Italian restaurant, also on Mechanic, now an antique shop. Candy was the wife of a Merchant Marine Engineer and the restaurant kept her busy while he was at sea. She was an older Italian matron, always at your table and advertising which food and wine was most likely to consummate the evening’s activities. More than once she wiped a handful of bread through what was left of my spaghetti sauce and shoved it in my mouth, saying, “Come on, baby. THIS is how you eat.”

The passing of these places, with Clary’s and some others, wasn’t a tragedy for the loss of the buildings or the businesses. But for the personalities and the flavors. Few remain. But we all grow up. The days of $10,000 shotgun shacks is gone. More condos and other venues are making ready for gambling and resort living. Change isn’t bad, and that’s what’s happening to our little Island. I just miss the crazy people.