I'd been away from Mayo's for a long time, since the Eagles moved to the Linc and I gave up my season tickets. I'd been a Sunday morning and night regular there during football season since I was about eight years old, and I had grown from being bored to tears there to falling absolutely in love with it. Irene bartended in the morning, Andrew at night. Some days, it seemed like two out of every three drinks were buy-backs. Others, it seemed like all of them were. It was the kind of place where five regulars could each throw $25 on the bar, drink all day or from six until last call, and leave a $95 tip with the change.
Late in my time there, it changed ownership. A friend and I had discussed buying the place, but he was too focused on how to make it profitable, whereas I was more interested in having a fun spot to hang out in all night while playing host, one that would possibly break even if we were lucky. Having such wildly divergent expectations, we did nothing, and a couple of guys we didn't know took it over. The buy-backs came to an end, which surely must have improved the bottom line, but the feel of Mayo's somehow changed beyond that. There was a sense that things were really and finally winding down after 70 or 80 years. And then we stopped going, because if we weren't driving into Philly every other Sunday, there was just no reason to travel an hour to drink all day at a dive bar in the middle of nowhere. None, at least, that either of our wives would have accepted.
Fast forward several years, and I found myself driving through the Chatsworth area with a bit of spare time. I thought, why not stop in for a drink and a bit of auld lang syne? From the outside, not much appeared to have changed. Mayo's is a squat two-storey log cabin with a gravel parking lot, always has been, and hopefully will remain so. Inside, they had renovated, removing the attic over the bar to create a cathedral ceiling, and somehow turning the bar itself 90 degrees. It was considerably more well lit than I remembered it, and way too clean. Gone were the 365 day a year Christmas lights, colors changing with the seasons. Gone was the large shell nailed to a post advertising turtle soup, and the police patches that had surrounded it. There was no one inside but the bartender, and I sat down and ordered a gin and tonic. It's pretty awkward to sit at an otherwise empty bar alone and in broad daylight, so I started making chit chat, trying to squeeze information out of her.
Obviously uninterested in my little detour down memory lane (and why should she have been otherwise?), she did know some of the people I remembered from the past, including Andrew, who as it turned out, was her husband. I would have bet the farm and all the livestock on it that Andrew was gay, so I was a bit surprised to hear that. I was even more surprised that it was they who had bought the place and basically ruined it, or, I should say, ruined it for me.
I hung around a little longer than intended, drinking significantly more than I had planned to, because I was told that Andrew was coming in and I wanted to say hello. The drinks were strong, and by the time I was done, I couldn't have told you what they cost or how many I'd had. When he finally showed up, it turned out that he didn't remember me, though he vaguely remembered my father, and he definitely remembered my friend. So I left rather drunk, disappointed with the changes that I felt had removed all traces of character from the bar, and with my feelings slightly hurt. I took the dirt road across from the parking lot as a shortcut to Route 70 and toward home, ran a stop sign in the middle of the woods, got pulled over by a State Trooper, and was initiated as a member in good standing into The DWI Club. It's not exclusive, but it's very expensive. Not a good day.
Now, when a feeling of nostalgia starts to creep up on me, I think of Mayo's and I push it away with both hands. To paraphrase Martin in Grosse Pointe Blank, you can never go home again, but I guess you can shop there. I don't recommend doing either. However, if you find yourself thirsty and ten miles from anywhere, you could do worse than Mayo's. And I mean that literally, because Joe Bell's is right up the road, and it is nothing if not worse. read more