It takes a village to raise a pierogi. Frankowski family coat-of-arms.
Over at Orbit headquarters, we wailed into the night over the loss of Chiodo's–it with its dusty, historic underwear hanging from the ceiling and the Mystery Sandwich haunting our dreams. We took it easy with the Casio beats and flared collars of The Casual Approach (R.I.P.) who defied gravity every weekend at Dormont's Suburban Lounge (also R.I.P.). Letter-writing campaigns begged our congressmen to turn The Chart Room into a national monument and there should have been so many more piano sing-a-longs at Moré. The days of dollar pints and four-bit "lady drafts" at bygone Lawrenceville watering holes like Michalski's, A.J.'s, and Salak's feel like ancient history–but it wasn't actually that long ago.
The loss of these iconic, convivial, rowdy barrelhouses are all just eyewash to the earthquake that music-making/beer-drinking/pierogi-eating/squirt-gun-shooting Pittsburgh felt last week. The "Polish party house in the heart of Little Italy," has bled the grease from its deep friers, removed the ceramic stein collection, carved wooden stage bear, and pictures of the pope. They've powered down the spotty PA system and shooed out the last late-night booze hounds. The Bloomfield Bridge Tavern has closed forever.
The year was 1996–some time in November. Arriving from The South with its still-turning mid-fall leaves and pleasant, temperate climate, Pittsburgh was soaking in several inches of days-old dirty street slush as a steady freezing rain dripped from the unrelenting overcast gray-black sky. Needless to say, this blogger-to-be had found a new home.
By pure chance–we're talking pre-Internet tourism here–The Bloomfield Bridge Tavern was the very first place he spent a nickel. It was on a Polish Platter, and I'm pretty sure it still cost just $5.95 at the time. Carbs are pretty cheap in The South–but they don't come with names like golabki and kluski. Although my middle-aged metabolism can't demolish a plate like it used to, the food was as delicious just a few weeks ago as it was all the way back in the '90s.
For the next, gulp, twenty-one years the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern has been the most long-running, consistent presence in this transplant's Pittsburgh experience. The doctor only prescribes Polish Platters a couple times a year [yes, I know: find a new doctor!] but it's been rare to go more than a couple months without receiving an audio-visual screening from BBT's musical stage.
Typically, these are administered by local bands. [Full disclosure: the author is sometimes playing in one of them.] But despite BBT's tiny size, cramped quarters, and DIY show-running [bands were responsible for collecting at the door, setting up the PA system, and running their own sound], the bar has played host to amazing run of touring players too numerous to list here.
You think that'd be it, right? It's a tavern: there's beer, bar food, and weekend rock-and-roll–what else do you need? Well, you may not need much more, but the BBT plays into a legacy of Pittsburgh culture so deep we may take years–decades, even–to dig out from the loss.
Back in the day, then-city councilman Jim Ferlo held an annual Pittsburgh Marathon party in BBT's side parking lot, complete with polka bands, a hot dog buffet, and cold beer. A highlight of the event was seeing exhausted runners, just hitting "the wall" at the marathon's 23-mile point, veer straight off Liberty Avenue and plunge into the soft welcoming foam of a free Iron City Beer. Every local politician made it a point to stop by the BBT's temporary parking lot stage to dole out cash "prizes" for things like "best dancer" and "cutest puppy". Across the street, Foodland's electronic weekly specials sign would be programmed to read the jingoist message Go runners. Beat Kenyans.
And then there are those murals. Dozens–maybe a hundred–different coats-of-arms of Polish towns you've probably never heard of. Crests with identifying names like Głowno, Szczecin, Gryfów Ślaski, and Żywiec ring the inside of BBT's short concrete parking lot wall and come decorated in all manner of old world imagery–castles, bulls, red stags, and green griffins; kings, knights, mermaids, the sun & plow.
It's gone now, but an earlier generation will forever associate the exterior of the bar with both the wonderful potted-flower Bloomfield mural/sign and [BBT founder/patriarch] Stan Frankowski's wall-sized polemics attacking local politicians, anti-union foes, and corporate corruption. After Stan's passing in 2005, his sons Steve and Karl took over the business. They kept up all the other traditions–including the annual day-after-Easter Dyngus Day party–but toned-down the see-it-from-the-suburbs politics. The updated red-and-white paint job, side screened porch/smoker's lounge, and Polish falcons still look great.
I didn't make it out to the final night at the BBT–the body just wouldn't let me. Luckily, Mike Shanley gave us all a pretty good scene report plus a slew of his own reminiscences in this week's City Paper.
That said, news began to circulate about the (then-future) closing of the bar back in the late winter, so 2017 became a kind-of year-long living goodbye to venue. I played a last show there, saw a (different) last show there, and yes, ate a last Polish Platter. For the piece on his recent book of poetry, we interviewed Scott Silsbe over Strawb ambers in BBT's breezy side porch on a lovely day in May.
BBT near the end: bevelled mirror bar, blood red ceiling, and big cats on TV.
As much as I'll personally miss the place, I don't fault the Frankowski brothers one bit for the decision to move on. Running a bar has got to be really tough work full of long, late hours dealing with no small amount of jerks, deadbeats, drunkards, and bodily fluids. Hats off to anyone who can put up with all that and still keep smiles on their faces the way Stan, Steve, Karl, and Sheila always did.
The Orbit certainly hopes the Frankowskis find a good new owner for the building and business so they can finally relax on the weekends without the sound of electric guitars ringing in their ears. Hopefully, the next tenants at 4412 Liberty Ave. will understand the legacy and history they're dealing with–maybe they'll even keep up the outside murals.
Hallowed ground. Bloomfield Bridge Tavern.
A final note. "New" Pittsburgh: if you're out there listening and planning the next local, organic, hop-infused culinary venture, please–sweet Jesus–consider adding a Polish Platter to the menu. I'm sure I won't be the only one pining for the taste and willing to pony up every chance I get–at least as much as the doctor allows.