Ripped at the Pickwick in 2000

[Editor’s note: For this week’s essay we’ve once again pulled out a relic from the archive of Slim Goodbuzz, who served as Duluth’s “booze connoisseur” from 1999 to 2009. Twenty-five years ago the Sultan of Sot paid a visit to Duluth’s venerable Pickwick, and composed this article for the Oct. 4, 2000 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper. The Pickwick’s bar underwent significant renovations in 2010 and now features televisions.]

Call me romantic, but when my special lady friend said she was growing tired of seedy dives, I decided to treat her to a classy night at the Pickwick, where the two of us could get ripped in style.

It shouldn’t really be that difficult to make a bar a comfortable place to imbibe, yet it’s surprising how many truly annoying bars there are in this area. The Pickwick has it just right: extremely dim lighting, dark wood paneling, good furniture, no neon beer lights, no tacky antique signs, no TVs. And even though the room is decorated with taxidermy, it’s as tasteful and interesting as taxidermy can be. The only things lacking are a good sound system and a room full of couches and armchairs. But since the bar serves mainly as an area for diners to wait for tables on busy nights, it’s extremely unlikely that the Pickwick will be booking live music or ordering La-Z-Boys anytime soon.

I flipped open the cocktail menu and ordered the first thing on the list: an Ohranj Julius Martini. My special lady friend ordered a Bloody Mary, explaining, “I like them because of all the phallic objects that come with them.” Sure enough, when the waiter strode back, the drink he carried contained a giant pickle, a celery stalk and (egad!) a jumbo shrimp on a wooden skewer. Immediately, my special lady friend plucked out the shrimp, bit the end off and grinned savagely.

I tentatively tasted my martini. Then, suppressing the urge to scream the F-word in pleasure, I set my glass down and dug out my wallet to find out just how many more of these I could afford. Luckily, I had stuck my checkbook in my pocket during one of my more lucid moments: Tonight the gin would flow like wine.

Meanwhile, elderly couples and large families flowed constantly in and out the door. These people went immediately to the restaurant, while the bar seemed to be filled mainly with chain-smoking waiters and waitresses who had just finished their shifts. A woman in a flowery dress sat at the table next to us and sipped wine while spoon-feeding chocolate pudding to what looked like a little blond monkey. I was shocked at first, until closer inspection revealed that the creature was probably the woman’s infant son.

I was on my second wave of cocktails, Cosmopolitans, when I noticed the man-sized suckerfish hanging from the ceiling just above my head. It was simply the ugliest beast I had ever seen. The toilet-plunger-shaped mouth was as big as a child’s head. My hat goes off to whoever landed the son of a bitch, and to whoever decided to hang it in the bar.

Only vaguely do I remember ordering a platter of pickled herring, but when it arrived, we sure did appreciate it. The herring was arranged seductively on a bed of ice, and it came with a large basket of saltines. Let me tell you something, here’s what you want when you’re drinking cocktails: pickled herring. Hell, pickled anything tastes good when you’re drinking, but pickled herring is the best. Also, pickled herring provides your body with the nutrients it needs while it is being abused by all the horrid chemicals you’re putting into it. It helps keep you from crossing that line between feeling good and feeling like a poisoned rat.

When I hit the john there was no one in there but a little kid, about nine years old, who was washing his hands. This kid washed his hands literally three or four times. They seemed pretty clean to me after the first washing, but he just kept on soaping them up and scrubbing them and rinsing them off again, only to repeat the process. I was pretty disturbed when I realized there could be no pleasant explanation for why he saw fit to do this.

I moved on to the Razzmatazz after tiring of Cosmopolitans. The Razzmatazz is like the dessert of alcohol. It tastes like some kind of raspberry pie, only with a lot of top-shelf booze in it. By this time, my special lady friend had switched to good old reliable tap beer, of which the Pickwick has a well-chosen, but not extensive, selection. There’s at least one kind of beer for every taste, ranging from yellow American lager to thick Irish stout.

Usually, I decide to leave a bar when I’ve simply “had enough,” but eventually there actually came a time when we were fully satisfied, which almost never happens, and we decided to leave. The waiter brought the check and I sneaked a look at the damage.

Damn, I need an expense account.