By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
Open since 1953, Durant's restaurant and lounge on Central evokes a Phoenix that exists today only in the memory. A Phoenix where a freeway out of town was but a dream. Where a crosstown drive at midnight would reveal nary a set of oncoming headlights, and a DUI was as foreign as a microbrewery. A Phoenix where very few residents doubted the essential goodness of their burgeoning township. Where the neon nights on Van Buren or Central were as inoffensively seductive as they were cozy and safe.
It was a Phoenix in which the desert was still the predominant landscape and offered a darkness at night as unspoiled as the air.
Durant's reflects the vernacular of a time when old restraints were loosened behind the decline of Calvinism and Puritanism and McCarthyism. A time in which tipping back a glass was as appropriate as a cigarette; it meant, quite reasonably, clarity for the uncertain, comfort for the lonely, confidence for the shy. A time when booze was counted on to relax the tongue and fuel a self-satisfaction that seems to offer the only escape from life's brutal demands.
A time when politicians openly drank and got drunk and politicized over gin martinis. A time about which everyone from Mailer to Martin has been known to say, "Everybody drank then."
The lounge in Durant's is an unchanged melody, an uncharted time-warp, a romantic nod to the archaic culture of drinking and smoking and to those who appreciate it as such.
Red velvet wallpaper, mahogany wall inlays, leather booths and a long, graceful bar enclosed in an atmosphere refined with an unironic nostalgic grace, a sense that not everything must be blinded by progress. It is a scene that says--in overtly sentimental tones, perhaps--that drinking and dignity are not mutually exclusive, but are, indeed, comfy bedfellows.
And where else in Phoenix but at a place like Durant's could a person find at least one bartender who matches said style, and does so with an acerbic wit? One who has legions singing his praises as both a decent human being and killer barkeep.
Born in San Francisco in 1933 to Irish/Italian parents, Richard "Richie" Finnigan is a starch-shirted, bespectacled gentleman in whom lives a kind of hard-road elegance. As a drink slinger, he is a natty master who, after 42 years of mixing up the medicine, is as animated behind the bar as anyone half his age.
"When I came to Phoenix in '60, the Westward Ho was a boomin' hotel then. I worked at The Stockyard (restaurant/lounge) at 48th Street and Washington."
He adds with a mounting laugh, "When I was there, they still had the feed pens all around. They were feeding about 30,000 head of cattle out there. Funny, we never served any Arizona beef, we served all Colorado beef. We got the better of the deal. The Arizona beef went to L.A."
Prattling nicotine-stained words like a hard-drinking Robert Mitchum, Finnigan's voice belies his manicured, groomed surface. And his discourse is punctuated with a chesty laugh, a kind of smoker's guffaw that sounds like a precursor to a nasty hack.
The hack never comes; that would be unbecoming.
"Van Buren was beautiful then. All the hotels were gorgeous. It was just loaded," Finnigan recalls. "It was the main drive right through town. Then the Black Canyon Freeway was under construction and we often wondered where the hell that went. It just died up north."
The National Highway Act of 1956 paved the way for interstates, effectively eliminating much of America's roadside culture. And when the freeway was finally completed, Van Buren went south.
"I worked and ran the Sands on Van Buren for 10 years in the Sixties and Seventies--that's when the street was nice. We had all the WAC [Western Athletic Conference] teams stay with us, all the Pac-10 teams, all the pro teams. The only people we didn't have were the NBA. The NBA stayed across the street at the Caravan."
After the Sands on Van Buren, Finnigan poured his way through various other restaurant/lounges, even owning one on Washington for a spell: a place he christened Finnigan's Rainbow after the Broadway play and one he recalls as being "a toilet, but a fun toilet." That place floundered after many of his clients, who comprised the graveyard shift from the nearby Motorola plant, were laid off.
"From 6 a.m. to noon we were packed," Finnigan says.
He arrived at Durant's 12 years ago, just in time for the heavy penalties associated with drunken driving and their fiscal side effects on the bars.
"The Sixties and Seventies probably were the high points of everybody just drinkin' and raisin' hell and havin' a good time. Then the MADD [Mothers Against Drunk Drivers] got involved, and the drunk-driving laws started drying the downtown places up.
"Your working people just can't afford it [DUI]. The amazing thing is it's the people that can't afford it are still the ones getting nailed the most."
Other things have changed, too, like the simple customer-versus-bartender knowledge of the booze. It's an inevitable change that rides on any trend train like Cocktail Nation, one which requires a fundamental knowledge of libations.