We found the Chattaway in 1966, before we found our house. (Jeanne's drawing shows the restaurant the way it looked before acquiring all the bathtubs and other quirky accessories.) A friend introduced us, and our four children, to the Chattaburger; we've stayed mostly faithful to this inexpensive treat, except for Jeanne, who's become a vegetarian.
In 1969 we moved to Driftwood, within walking distance, and the Chattaway became our regular watering hole. The bartender, Everett, was famous for his voice (he sang in many local theater productions) and for his grumpiness, which was at least part an act, like Jackie Gleason in The Honeymooners. After a while, if Everett didn't insult someone in our group — "Don't forget to bring this glass back" or "You're sure you've got enough cash?" — we were disappointed. He was especially hard on our Eckerd students, who often met us there, and looked on Everett as the Ideal Bartender, a character they could write about. (Everett was the son of Helen Lund, who took over the Chattaway in 1951, and the husband of Jillian, whose British heritage can be seen in the dining room.) Alas, as the times became more litigious, we stopped drinking with our students, afraid that somehow the College would get sued.
Back then, Jeanne was as famous for an athletic stunt as for her art. As the evenings wore on, she could sometimes be persuaded to do her gymnastic trick of grasping the iron pole supporting the bar's roof and holding herself perfectly straight and parallel to the ground. This always brought many cheers and occasional scraped elbows as various male tipplers tried to emulate her feat.
Just thinking about the Chattaway in those days brings a smile, and then a sad shaking of the head. We had no thoughts of diets then — Chattaburgers, French fries, fried onion rings, pitchers of beer littered our tables. We smoked! We stayed up late, playing loud games of shuffleboard inside until closing time. One of Eckerd's professors, may he rest in peace, became more and more accurate the more he drank, so that after he defeated us all, we'd have to drive him home.
Jeanne and I are now non-smokers, stop after a beer or two, watch our calories, and are usually in bed by 10. I know this is good, we both feel fine — but every once in a while, passing the Chattaway, I say to myself, What the hell, and pull over, order some onion rings and a pitcher of Bud.
And think about Everett, who I imagine gave St. Peter a tough time — "Come on, make up your mind!" — and all our rascally old friends.
This article appears in Jun 16-22, 2011.