Northport Memories: Gunther's Tap Room

As a young boy, riding my bike past the Main Street bars, the smell of booze, brew and tobacco was at each passing. Most “gin mills” as they were referred to, had exhaust fans over the entrance door which intensified the experience. There were usually tunes of the day emanating from those old Wurlitzer juke boxes that could be heard out on the sidewalk. It's hard to imagine the honky tonk sounds of Hank Williams “Your Cheatin' Heart” coming from a New York bar, but the musical choices would have made any Southern Redneck proud.

At age 12 or so, I had no interest in these watering holes and, to me, their existence was an assault to the olfactory nerve, although I could see some basis in the old Hank Williams tunes. It wouldn't be too long and all that would change.

As it turned out, my “honky tonk” of choice was . Before it was Gunther's, it was a no-name bar. We all referred to it as “Nicks Piggery” and I suppose it had enough of its own following. Presumably, a “Piggery' was a place where you could get “pigged,” an expression we young punks used for getting drunk. The offerings were self-defining and a sign out front probably wasn't necessary.

As an under age punk of 16, naturally, I attempted to patronize “the piggery” but was asked in not-so-polite terms to leave the premises.  At age 16, I guess I looked 16 and the drinking age in New York was then 18. I think it was the following year, around 1963, when Pete Gunther and his family bought the place and classed it up by hanging a sign out front, a piece of history which still exists
today. For me at that time, the name of the game was to “get served” in a bar while still being underage, a coup that came complete with bragging rights. It was akin to fooling the teacher, or disobeying your parents. 

I was driving home from a date one night and noticed my older brother's '56 Merc in front of Gunther's, so I stopped and grabbed a bar stool next to him and ordered a draught, just as naturally as you please. Young Pete Gunther, the affable flat-topped bartender dropped a draught in front of me with a big smile. I had effectively “fooled the teacher” and brought home the bravado of “getting served” at Gunther's. My brother, Steve, who was three years my senior, didn't join me in my “private mental celebration” since he had been “carded” earlier in the evening for his brew.  

At age 17, I had already been ordered by Uncle Sam to come and visit their beautiful induction center at Whitehall Street in New York City and experience the Army physical. They were drafting 18 year olds and up and pre-qualifying 17 year olds who were no longer in school, a byproduct of the war in Viet Nam. It was still 1963 and I was in the latter group. President Kennedy was still at the helm and it was not yet Johnson's war, but things were heating up. I spent most of my induction center tour that hot August day carrying my clothes under my arm as I passed through those medical inspections as a slabof protoplasm.

Elbow to elbow with other eligibles and ineligibles from Long Island and from the five boroughs of New York, I considered my future. The process was humiliating for a 17 year old and I was certain that I would avoid the Army if I could. My older brother, Steve had joined the Naval Reserve and I thought that might be a good
example to follow. The thought of an M-16 rifle was not in my plan. Water skiing, dating, drive-in movies, hot rod cars-- this was the kind of thing I was best at.  Now the question was how long could I remain a civilian with a 4H draft status hanging around my neck?  

As I turned 18, my concern for Uncle Sam pulling the “Draft Trigger” became more intense. I balanced on the cusp as Johnson took presidential office and escalated the war. 1964 became a televised blood-bath of casualties in Southeast Asia which only confirmed my desire to stay home, but my age was against me. By early 1965, my buddy got his draft notice, so we both ran like Olympic sprinters to the Naval Reserve Center in Huntington and enlisted on the buddy plan. We spent the next 18 months attending Monday night reserve meetings and going to...where else? Gunther's!

Reserve meetings were always followed by a compulsory stop at Gunther's that  lasted well past the midnight hour. In 1965 and 1966 America, if you were wearing a United States Navy uniform in a bar, your money was no good. Those free beers just kept flowing like water and usually we would have one or two of those toaster-oven hot dogs Pete sold. Barroom philosophy was abundant and all the patrons had an opinion or two about the war, Johnson, who killed Kennedy, the
state of humanity, the Middle East and by now, the Wurlitzer juke box was pumping out Staff Sargent Barry McGuire's “Eve of Destruction”.
 
As my life moved on through service, marriage and career, I lost contact with those Monday night beer-driven philosophical summit meetings, but the memory of the barroom regulars remained with me as a warm token of just how genuine Northporters were, regardless of their age, background or station in life. Pete was always there to officiate as our Monday night referee, sometimes offering up some of his own political comments both local and national. Regular patrons could
always be counted on to express their opinions and I can't remember anyone ever getting aggressive or disorderly. 

After having been gone from Northport for 22 years, I returned in 1993 to
participate in my 30th year high school reunion and the visit included (of course) a
mandatory stop for a beer at Gunther's. I was surprised to see that the establishment hadn't changed-at all. The same stools we sat on so many years ago still stood at the bar, the original juke box and the pool table were still in place just as they were  It was like stepping into a time capsule and then...the “old guy” at the bar said, “what'll it be”? Surprisingly, the “old guy” was Pete.

His establishment had become an artifact and so had he. It was an experience that could have been the subject for a yarn from Rod Serling's “Twilight Zone.” A wealth of history lies within those hallowed halls. While it's true that an impressive list of famous icons graced the threshold of Gunther's Tap Room, the less-famous remain among my most warmest memories. Pete Gunther served a lot of beer in his tenure as the driver of “Gunther's Philosophical Bus,” but he unwittingly bridged generations, lifestyles and political divide-- Northport style.

To Pete and all the graduates of Gunther's Tap Room, a toast to a half century (and then some).