The Buccaneer: An Appreciation

Alverno High School isn't the only Sierra Madre institution turning 50 this year. While not necessarily more noteworthy, the Buccaneer's 50^th birthday is certainly a great deal more… surprising, let's say, given its particular function in the city's communal life:  the only dedicated drinking establishment in squeaky-clean Sierra Madre.

Other places serve alcohol, of course, but they all have kitchens, a possession which usually entails certain attributes: an earlier closing time; the presence of children; the serving of salmon. Lucky Baldwin's, for example, closes at 1:30 a.m., a precious half-hour before is legally necessary. There are often children inside. They have salmon specials sometimes.

Café 322 is the same way, as are many of the other delightful establishments in Sierra Madre that serve alcohol. Some of them serve salmon all of the time. Now, these attributes are not flaws. And I'm not going to say that Lucky B's and 322 aren't bars, or that bars never serve salmon, because they are and they do. I'm not even going to say that there are bars and then there are bars, a bit of easy elitism that doesn't mean much of anything.

I will say, however—because it's obvious—that the Buccaneer is a different kind of bar. If you walk through its doors, there is a very strong chance you intend to imbibe an alcoholic beverage—not necessarily so elsewhere in town. This uniformity of purpose all by itself can seem, to some, downright disreputable. It contributes to the Buccaneer's aura of debauchery. Combined with the unabashed dive bar atmosphere, it's no wonder that, on any given night, you might see the cops make a round or five through the joint. And unlike at Lucky B's, you will not see them hug the bartenders.

Not that Sierra Madre is (quite) Mayberry, or its police department a gang of crusading teetotalers. They are doing their jobs, looking for signs of trouble in a place that has had its fair share over the years. That the Buc is a dive is obvious just looking at the place, from the neon sign and drawn blinds, to the dim lights and pirate murals, to the smokers out back flicking cigarettes at a miniature makeshift goal post—and everyone knows dive bars are dens of scum and villainy.

Not the Buc, though. Sure, unsavory characters show up from time to time, like the guy a few Sundays ago who ripped off his shirt, threatened to fight everybody, stormed out and threw a brick through the window, but they are the exception. In my time there—quite a lot of time in the last few months, I'm proud to admit—the overwhelming majority of patrons have been respectful and responsible, if not always gregarious or chummy. It's a dive in the best sense of the word, a neighborhood bar with dim lights, good service, and cheap, stiff drinks.

Surviving 50 years as a small business is impressive. Surviving 50 years in a small, occasionally moralistic town as the primary institutional source of drunkenness is astounding. Cheers to that.