Well, I wouldn't call a Long Island ice tea a "cure," exactly, but I'm craving one. And I do like the way Pogo's Tavern makes them (i.e. they gun the vodka). So that's where I take my cold, complete with a runny faucet of a nose, dry cough and a headache that drills into my skull like Yoko Ono's music. Anyway, it's Friday evening, so the drink is not the only attraction; Friday is jazz night.
A quiet treasure, for sure, Pogo's hosts a stellar crew of jazz musicians who play 8 to midnight, and sometimes beyond. If you're looking for someone to cover Kenny G's "Songbird," you're in the wrong hole. This band, a quintet of sprightly seniors led by keyboardist Dick Fazio, plays Hoagy Carmichael and Buddy DeSylva. (I'm curious to see how they'll soldier on without drummer Irv Kluger, a fixture at Pogo's until his death a few months ago at 84. He looked like Mr. Moneybags from Monopoly, yet his talkative nature and peppy mannerisms were those of a club DJ. How would these Friday night gigs continue without him?)
It isn't a huge crowd. I find a booth by the door. Lynn, my waitress, is in the middle of a seven-day work week—five days at Pogo's and two at the hair salon next door. Her voice is appropriately foggy, and her approach is refreshingly minimalist: "Thirsty?"
"I'll have a Long Island," I say.
"Okay, I'll bring the popcorn."
Banter over.
The musicians occupy their tiny space in the front of the bar. No, the energy level is quite the same without Irv. Dick has his own vibe, cool and laconic, and the band is breezy and tight, just the way you want it on a Friday night.
"Here you go, babe."
My dose of Long Island cold medicine has arrived, the best $7 I've spent all day ($5 for the drink, $2 for the tip). Better than blowing it on NyQuil. The fistful of popcorn I'm eating will have to be my dinner.
Pogo's has been a mainstay in its neighborhood—off Decatur and Lake Mead Boulevard—since 1968 because it steadfastly refuses to swing with the times. There's only one beer on draft: Bud. Except for the buttered popcorn, no food. The ashtrays are six inches across and an array of sporting trophies adorn the shelves. The jukebox is loaded with Dolly Parton and Eagles; Budweiser signs are the chief source of lighting. You can see why I dig the place.
A well-dressed young couple, probably in their early 30s, sits in the next booth.
"What will it be?" Lynn asks.
"What do you have?" the man replies.
Lynn points to the Bud sign on the wall.
"Do you have any menus?" the woman asks.
"We just have popcorn."
The young couple accepts the playground rules.
"Okay, two Buds will do."
Over the next hour, some combination of Budweiser, popcorn, tasty jazz and Pogo's authenticity clearly wins them over; sometimes it's good not have too many options. I feel a lot better when I leave.