A Good Beer

Nancy Adams
Aug 9, 2017 · 5 min read

A great visit with family visiting Mom includes good stories. We sat around the dining room table gliding gently from one’s to another’s. Shared stories, whose rhythm, pace and climax make the hearing as sweet as the telling. After dinner drinks were offered casually — I just opened the old door high on the wall that the bottles have always been stored in. Sherry, whisky, brandy, cherry brandy, sweet wines.

We talked about the 1st ward in Dunkirk, the 4th ward, the 2 waves of immigration from Poland and the 2 parallel universes, 1st ward Falcons, 4th Ward Falcons, the Kosciusko Club (AKA the Doghouse,) the Moniusko Club and the 2 churches, St Hedwigs and St Hyacinths. Dad was a Yankee, no Polish blood at all, but after a successful law suit he was made an honorary member of the Doghouse. And he had clients with a bar he enjoyed, Kuznicki’s bar, in the 4th ward, close to the steel plant, close to St Hedwigs. If Dad had work in Dunkirk’s City Hall he might stop at Kuznicki’s afterwords.

Dad was thrilled to have a prospective son-in-law in the family. He often pointed out how out-voted he was. 3 daughters, a wife, a cat, all females. Only the dog Cyrano and he were males. So the entrance of Merv into the family was a thrill for Dad. Merv’s half-Polish heritage prompted a quick trip to Dunkirk, an introduction to Polish culture. So off they went. Without me.

I went to a bar once with Dad. A country German restaurant, the Schnitzel-bank. A comfortable country place, checked curtains, wood paneling, a proprietor whose bar was quiet and whose sauerbraten was notable. We pulled in, and crunched across the gravel to the door. I was a little surprised to be sat at the bar, but my newly pierced ears with their diamond studs gave me courage. So I jumped myself up onto the bar stool and balanced there as best as I could. I ordered a ginger ale. I didn’t really like ginger ale but thought it was a more dignified drink for a grown up bar. Dad ordered a beer with a sherry. The proprietor looked at him puzzled, but brought the 2 glasses. Dad kept the sherry glass between him and me and gestured to take it. I did. I sipped it. I did not cough. He sipped his beer.

Dad told me the story of his first drink. He was 10 years old in the middle of prohibition. His father liked a beer. His mother and his mother-in-law were fierce WCTU (Women’s Christian Temperance Union) members a.k.a. Tea-totalers. In other words non drinkers of the demon stuff. He told me how his father had taken his brother-in-law the Methodist organist out for a beer. He was accused of doing the work of the devil when he got back. I put 2 and 2 together and figured why all the fellows at the family reunions kept the beer in the barn. I realized I was getting inoculated against the evils of tea-totaling. A powerful little glass of sherry.

Kuznicki’s bar served little glasses alongside of the big glasses of beer. But not sherry. Whisky, to chase the beer down. A Boilermaker. To be drunk by boilermakers. Dad brought his future son-in-law in and they took 2 seats at the bar, the only 2 seats left. Men were shaking off the thirst and the tiredness of a long day at the mill. Not much conversation. Dad said to nobody in particular “This is my future son-in-law.” Only grunts in response. “He is from Pennsylvania.” Another grunt or 2. “He is finishing up at Harvard.” Another grunt. “His mother is Polish.” The bar erupted with warmth, with curiosity, with welcome, with cheer.

Merv and I put a trip together for his Mom, to take her to her parents’ home town, Zywiec, a few years ago. The borders and travel were newly available to Americans after the collapse of the USSR and I made reservations through a new Polish Board of Tourism who had organized a voucher system for rooms in converted castles and palaces turned into hotels throughout Poland. The last day of our trip we drove to the road and found a closed gate. A farm worker opened it up. He didn’t know anything about a hotel, but he pointed us to the palace. A ferocious woman at a reception desk glared at us and the voucher. She took it. She read it. Mom was tired. Her companion was exhausted. Merv and I were spent. We were in the middle of nowhere. The woman left to whisper in the next room with another harridan. They strode back to us together high heals clacking on the marble floors.

Without a word of welcome they pointed us to a door at the end of a reception room. And a reception. Elegant evening dresses. Long gowns, men in suits. Champagne glasses. Animated discussions. Startled looks at us. Messy clothes from long day in a car. We crossed the floor, trying to carry everything at once. We tried to be discrete. We tried to minimize the disruption. Merv with 2 suitcases and 2 six-packs of Zywiec beer (a gift from family earlier.) Me with 2 suitcases and map and dictionary and Mom’s purse and my purse. Helping Mom, helping her caregiver, through the confusion of the reception. Quickly. Unobtrusively. Till a six-pack fell, crashing on the marble floor. Merv drops the suitcases, strains to pick up the mess. The harridans clatter over to us. They order us out. “Ve vill take care of it,” one hisses at us in English. “Leaf!” We left. We escaped through the reception to our rooms.

St Hedwigs will be having a chicken dinner this weekend. All are welcome. Good friends will be serving. They are planning for 1300 meals. Kuznicki’s is closed. The building is falling down. The Schnitzel-bank is gone, building razed. But we can pick up some 6-packs of Zywiec and make a picnic out of it. What do you think?

Nancy Adams

Written by

Journalist covering old news of the day

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade