Joe
Clark
Community
Column #7
to
run 5/26/92
Literati,
Lyrics, and Langostinos at the Grand Finale
I
have to admit it. Occasionally, something good can be found in the
city. It ain't all out there in the sinkholes, or up in trees.
Sometimes real things come to life amidst the asphalt and
cinderblocks.
I'm
talking about right down on the Tennessee Street Strip, that
bar-bedecked place where in the evenings tipsy revelers stroll from
juke to juke within inches of the humming traffic. Specifically,
smack dab in the middle of a decaying block of buildings between
Raven and Dewey. Halfway between the downstairs glitter-thump of
Kahuna's and the espresso library of Yianni's.
I'm
talking The Grand Finale.
'Cept
nobody I know calls it that. It's just Finale's--two floors of bar
and restaurant that offers great food for the belly, ears, heart, and
head. And no, I'm not related to the owner.
Best
way to approach Finale's (and a lot of other things, too, for that
matter) is from the rear. Park and lock it in the lot out back.
Look for heavy wooden doors surrounded by tropical fish, like guards
outside Neptune's favorite honky-tonk. On your way in you can dodge
or give audience to a panhandler or two, depending on your wont (I'm
an inveterate sucker for a lively tale of woe), and maybe hear the
strains of a street saxophonist echoing from the parking garage under
McDonald's. Think of these as appetizers.
The
ground-floor restaurant is a dim, cool place, low-ceilinged and
heavy-beamed. A tavern. A converted gold-mine. Slip into a casual
booth and in no time at all a relaxed but quite efficient wait-person
will arrive with menus. Maybe it'll be Susan, raiser of
squirrels--or possibly Mike, who has been known to cram nine people
into his Toyota van and head for the sinkholes at two a.m. on a
moonlit January night.
The
staff at Finale's make every effort to avoid conventional dress. No
barber-striped franchise fernbar aprons or hokey bow ties here.
Shorts and T-shirts seem to be the rule for men, while the women's
attire makes Stevie Nicks look positively prosaic.
And
the food. Ashby Stiff I ain't, but this is definitely five-burp
fare, especially if you're a lover of things that swim, crawl, or
slither under da sea. Seafood gumbo so spicy you'll cry for joy.
Crayfish, oysters, shrimp--fresh off the boat and still kicking, for
the most part. Ah, new potatoes with etoufee. . . well, enough of
that. Be sure to thank Joey and Jim and the other guys back in the
kitchen on your way out.
But
don't leave yet! After a dessert of Haagen-Dazs or cheesecake,
waddle past the TV set and head upstairs to Tennessee-Street level,
where the music plays and ice-cold longnecks are dispensed with
alacrity by LeeAnn, known to sport a low-brimmed hat and steal
surreptitious glances at Final Jeopardy on the set behind the bar--or
perhaps Mindy, who will flatter you by asking for an ID.
And
then? It all depends on the night of the week. Maybe it'll be a
crash-and-clang band with a name apparently bestowed by an aphasic
magus. Or perchance you'll have arrived in the midst of wailing
guitars and crying harmonicas, played by lean men who smoke
cigarettes between chords: the Blue Monday Jam. It's different every
night, and you can usually get a preview by cocking an ear towards
the ceiling while feasting on sea-critters downstairs.
My
favorite night--especially since I've become something of a
half-baked hanger-on of the creative-writing crowd at FSU's English
Department--is Tuesday. They call it Poetry Night, but you're just
as likely to hear a selection from someone's novel-in-progress, or a
wickedly witty short story. Both local and imported writers brave
the lurid red stage-lights and occasional mike failures to strew
their words across a lively and receptive audience that grows
church-quiet during the readings. You may hear mildly erotic poetry.
Tales of the absurd. Ripping yarns and thought-provoking
meditations--and hardly a black beret in the place. Some writers
read quietly, plainly, almost shyly--as if any taint of "performance"
would profane the pure force of their eloquence. Others fairly
bristle with anger, love, and/or humor. And never--well, almost
never--a dull moment, though there are plenty of strange ones.
Beats
network TV, though, don't it?
Tallahassee
could use a dang sight more of this kind of thing. Any place could.
Go
on. Give it a try. You never knew Tallahassee was so literate.
Tonight, fiction writers Rob McGrogan and Paul Laffan belly up to the
mike at 8 pm. Better get there early. And next Tuesday, poet Karen
Janowsky rides the muse, along with a certain community columnist who
shall remain, as always,
Joe
Clark, an admitted crustaceophile and shameless self-promoter, who is
a writer/editor and instructional project manager at FSU.
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