Cheviot
I’d been on the fringes of the small suburb that sits on the larger city’s borders, but despite hailing from Cincinnati—I’d never made it to “downtown” Cheviot. “Chev-yit” as the locals say, or, “Chev-wah” as the tired old joke goes when folks try to make it sound French and fancy.
Jake and I ended up in a bar that we both agreed seemed like the kind of place John Taffer would love to “shut down” (ironically, we’d later learn that he already had). There was an aggressive chess match happening near us on the patio. That’s not a sarcastic dig at the crowd, rather, there was in fact a real game of chess playing out. One that seemed to be on the verge of violence as tempers flared and voices raised. All that going on while we waited for a few High Lifes and watched the bar’s “Don” stumble around.
You know Don. Every neighborhood bar still has one or two. The skinny, older man in a work jacket with a weathered face below hair that’s gray, but still flowing strong. He’s got a gravely voice and twirls a cigarette in one hand while skulking around to find a corner to smoke it in, deterred only if he finds a conversation to interrupt. The guy’s probably not ok to drive, but his friends will let him because, well, “he lives close enough.” We finished our dinner before “Don” could make it to our table with his opinions and a fresh bucket of Budweisers
Our next destination was a short walk away, just past a freestanding and freshly renovated Long John Silvers that had actual people dining within. The nearby Wendy’s also had guests: two Mormon door knockers that were taking a break from the tall tales of Joseph Smith for the delicacies of Dave Thomas.
Rozwell Kid at Legends Bar and Venue.
The show we caught was good and the venue was great, but the local pizza place was closed by the time we found ourselves back on Harrison Ave. A street where the aforementioned fast food locations were the exception along a main drag lined with older buildings and the local watering holes they held within. All of it resting in the evening dark like the scenes of a David Lynch project.
None of the bars on the walk back seemed to call our names, but I’m sure they were calling Dons.
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