PETER BUFFA -- COMMENTS AND CURIOSITIES

You get the popcorn, I’ll get a seat. Get me a large bucket with extra

butter, a box of Bon Bons, some Raisinets and a Diet Coke. Going to the

movies. There’s nothing like it.

As you’ve heard, there is an effort underway to preserve, renovate,

make-over, whatever, the Balboa Theater. It’s a good thing, as in a very

good thing. And with Dayna Pettit in charge, it will be a smashing

success.

The Balboa will rise again -- not as a movie theater, which it was for

many of its many, many years (is that too many manys?), but as what would

have been called “a legit house” in another time. The Balboa Performing

Arts Theater Foundation has raised an impressive $2.5 million and needs

another $4 million to close the deal. But the end result will be well

worth it -- a badly needed venue for the performing arts in Newport

Beach.

The Balboa is a bona fide local landmark with a rich history

stretching back to 1927 -- my favorite chapter in the history of Newport

or any other city that was lucky enough to participate in the Jazz Age.

There were the brightest stars in the jazz galaxy, offshore casinos, the

Rendezvous Ballroom, and rum runners roaring up and down the coast in

cigarette racers. Darn it. Born too late again. But the Balboa Theater

was in the thick of it. No, it wasn’t one of the great movie palaces I

grew up with, like Radio City and the Roxy, but just imagine what that

little place has seen and heard.

By the way, I found an interesting story while researching the Balboa

Theater. In 1928, the manager of the world-renowned Rendezvous Ballroom,

one Harry H. Tudor, was arrested (yikes!) on a noise complaint for loud

music drifting out of the club. Sound familiar?

At his trial, the Santa Ana courtroom was filled with Newport Beach

residents who said they loved the “free music” from the club. “Music is

not a crime!” became a courtroom chant. Tudor was acquitted of all

charges.

One juror said, with a flourish, “Let jazz be unconfined on the

beach.” My, how times have changed.

By the way, speaking of traditions -- which we weren’t, but I can’t

think of a good segue -- St. Patrick’s Day is almost here. One of

Newport-Mesa’s leading Irish-mayor-councilman-restaurateurs, Gary

Monahan, has agreed to allow me to live out yet another midlife fantasy.

Yes, I know, you’ve heard this one a thousand times -- Italian bartender

in an Irish bar on St. Patrick’s Day -- but I’m very excited, thank you.

As an obnoxious young man in the Village of New Amsterdam, I worked as

a waiter in a number of fine eateries, specifically Patricia Murphy’s in

Yonkers and Mayer’s banquet hall in the Bronx. Are there still banquet

halls?

Patricia Murphy’s had a great gimmick, by the way, which served as one

of my early lessons in marketing. From the moment you were seated, young

women in Little Bo Peep outfits with huge baskets of hot cinnamon buns

and fresh popovers would roam from table to table. They actually called

them “bun girls” and got away with it -- a clear sign of how much more

innocent those times were.

By the time your salad arrived, you were so stuffed with sticky buns

and popovers that the only thing you wanted next was a nap. Everyone

raved about the “huge” portions (they weren’t), then went happily on

their way, sporting at least one doggy bag apiece.

Where were we? Oh yeah, bartending. I enjoyed waiting tables and was

very good at it, I might add, but I was always fascinated by the bar. I

had this image of leaning on the bar and wiping a glass while some lost

soul poured his heart out about his so-called life. I also liked that

thing where they slide a glass of beer the length of the bar and it stops

right in front of the person who ordered it. I doubt that ever happens

in real life, because there are all sorts of glasses, elbows, napkins and

bowls of nuts in the way, but it looks very cool in the movies.

Problem was, I wasn’t old enough to tend bar. In those days, just

after World War I, you could drink and wait tables in New York at 18, but

you couldn’t tend bar until you were 21. But now, I finally get my

chance.

But wait. Being a lifelong, big-time St. Patty’s Day fan, it gets even

better. Thanks to the benevolence of the proprietor of Skosh Monahan’s

(Newport Boulevard and 20th Street in Costa Mesa, write it down) I get

two fantasies for the price of one. Bartending and doing it in an Irish

bar on St. Patrick’s Day! Does it get any better than that? I think not.

OK, here’s the deal. This week, it’s on-the-job training. I’m not

telling you when. I don’t want to embarrass myself. But this much I will

tell you. By the time St. Patty’s Day rolls around, I will be drawing six

beers at once, schmoozing, listening to people’s tales of woe and

laughing at their jokes as if it’s the first time I’ve heard them -- all

in search of massive tips.

So when you hear the first strains of “Danny Boy” on Saturday next,

pull out that green thing you only wear once a year, and get yourself

down to Skosh Monahan’s. I’m even running a special deal for the first 10

people I serve. When you order, just say “Erin Go Bragh” in Italian, and

it’s on me! Live your dream.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays.

He may be reached via e-mail at [email protected].