Purely as a joke, we decided to check out this former cowboy bar one night, in the summer of 2000. Never imagining that this would soon become our favorite watering hole. Damon and I then acquired a habit of claiming these two barstools, at the short side nearest the door, particularly during karaoke nights. The bartender, Dan, whom we perhaps not so imaginatively began referring to as Lieutenant Dan, was about the same age as us, seemed to have more or less the same sense of humor, and was working most nights that we graced this dim but spacious hotel pub. After awhile he would begin pouring Captain and Cokes as soon as we walked through the door, not even trifling with the formalities of asking us. Convenient in that he too enjoyed the company of Captain Morgan, was not opposed to getting reacquainted with him on the job. More than one night, the three of us collectively polished off a full bottle of the Captain.
Less commonly, he would take the mic during karaoke, every once in a great while. One of my most enduring memories of this finds Lieutenant Dan singing Machinehead by Bush…from behind the bar! They had a wireless mic and he brought it back there with him. Not only this, but he was singing while pouring drinks – to this day, any time I hear that song, it’s the first image that pops in my head. I distinctly recall him belting out the lines, breathe in…breathe out…breathe in…breathe out with these drink glasses neatly lined up in a row on the bar, him pouring whatever from the shaker into them. The two of us laughing from our “Siskel & Ebert” seats over at the corner of the bar. Still one other occasion, I remember, he was singing some Madonna tune, I think Material Girl, but out on the dance floor, as a swarm of ladies danced around him.
But yes, this was mostly considered a country bar. As such we had great difficulty talking our other friends into coming here. Damon and I were on this kick of trying to pick up ladies while dressed as cowboys, however, and this place made for a perfect field study. A mixed bag, to say the least. Damon did bring one cowgirl home from here while attired as such, but I didn’t have much luck with that concept – I would eventually begin dating one woman met here, but only much later, and while dressed normally. Normal for me, anyway.
Consdering the ambivalence of our usual posse, it was a fluke, unexpected night, out instead with one of his coworkers and her friends, that turned our experience here on its head. From this point forward, we almost felt like royalty in this place. His coworker Tammie (not to be confused with my coworker Tammie), a slightly older, extremely affable brunette with wild, curly hair, had agreed to meet us here on an otherwise subdued Monday night in August. With her she will be bringing husband Dragon, his brother Boris (they are Macedonian), and their mutual friend Petro.
In light of this, we atypically grab a wobbly but spacious table, near the karaoke/dance floor, to await their arrival. When they enter, everyone has a seat with us save Boris. Clad in a trenchcoat despite the summer heat, he instead feels the need to first inspect every inch of this establishment, slowly walking it from one end to the other, examining each corner and crevice. Then, with an approving nod of the head, he finally joins us.
Then the owner, Louie, comes sailing out from around the bar, to enthusiastically greet us. Though Damon and I have met him a couple of times, we don’t really know the guy. However, it turns out that he is an old friend of these other three guys, he hails from Macedonia as well. And is extremely excited and surprised to see them here. What this means for us tonight is ridiculously cheap drink prices – heavy handed pours, too – and a wilder outing than we had bargained for.
Further stoking these fires are Boris and Dragon, who refuse to let us pay for any drinks, period. I had spent three dollars on my very first Captain and Coke, but after this never have to touch my wallet once. And these maniacs drink so fast that long before you’ve finished your current beverage, they have gone and returned with the next round. All of which, chances are, you failed to notice anyway, because they are splitting you in half with their gut busting tales. So it seems like one steady, unending stream of drink.
“On the right night out with those guys, we could end up in jail,” Damon has concluded, mostly joking, but possibly on the nose. IF there is such a thing, however, I like to think that with them, at least you’d find yourself in jail for the “right” reasons – public drunkenness, open container, pissing in an alley. Nothing too violent or bad.
Boris is by far the wilder of the two brothers. Dragon, the oldest, for the most part just sits there in his heavy black beard, adding color commentary to his younger sibling’s stories and shenanigans. Which are plenty, as Boris makes extremely comical faces, further enhanced by inebriation, in response to virtually everything.
“Hey Boris, can I call you Boris the Spider?” I ask him, near the conclusion of this outing. To this, though plainly having no clue about my obscure reference to The Who, he screws up his face, sticks his tongue and extends both arms, begins wiggling his fingers at me.
Moving forward from this night, Louie will remember us, and is all the more friendly as a result. Still, by the time we wind up leaving this side of town, about a year and a half later, we’ve gotten burned out on the place. As previously touched upon, Damon does manage a one night stand with this sharp looking blonde, during our “ten gallon hat” days. A few years later, I have this “retro” impulse and start bringing a different crop of friends over to this place – more about that era will follow, whenever I get around to it.
The last time I came over here was in the summer of 2019. Wondering whether this place was even still around, yet determined to avoid looking it up – curiosity dictated instead a drive-by, since I was already in this neck of the woods. I was saddened but not exactly surprised to see that this space had been converted to a banquet hall of sorts, in front of what’s now the Columbus Grand Hotel. Shot some pictures of it anyway, then lost them when that phone was damaged before they were able to automatically upload to the cloud. Considering that latter concept would have been unthinkable when I last visited Caddo’s, maybe that is only right, a fitting nail tapped into the coffin for this legendary bar.
