Absent Chuck

Bad news doesn't always travel fast.

Oregon Hill's Chuckwagon, the neighborhood dive bar beloved by certain locals, has been history for how long, four, five years?

And yet when my partner in crime and I planted our butts in barstools at EAT Oregon Hill tonight, we found ourselves next to two good old boys looking for the 'Wagon.

One of the two got friendly with us, joking about the mostly empty carafe in front of me.

"Gosh, you sure drank that fast," he says, smiling and showing his missing teeth. "That's a joke!"

Where do I go from there?

The bartender was the one who informed us of the guys' mission to revisit the Chuckwagon, much to their disappointment.

He described the 'Wagon as a "knock-down, drag-out bar," at least on certain nights.

And, yes I was asked, and no I hadn't ever been to the Chuckwagon.

They asked about the "fancy food" EAT serves and we obliged with glowing talk of past meals.

They soon left and we forged forward with dinner.

A bowl of white bean minestrone was stellar, well-seasoned and with lots of body, to start.

Next it wouldn't have mattered what was under the glaze of garlic/soy/chili, but as it turned out, it was  a Korean-style game hen half.

The fried chicken came with "kimkraut" and a carrot ginger puree that could make a veggie hater ask for more.

We paired that with broccoli rabe from the Dog House, the Sausagecraft dog with cheese in it, because it doesn't really need it.

That's a satisfying dog with caramelized onions, pickled mustard seed and roasted tomato aioli.

Since the dessert section of the menu is still "under construction," we listened for what was available.

Apple crisp with housemade white cheddar ice cream could have skated by simply as a neo-Eisenhower- era novelty, but the delicacy of the ice cream and the perfect chunks of crisp topping made it the kind of dessert this chocoholic would recommend.

And speaking of mid-century classics, we had a 1949 Pulitzer and Tony award winning play to see.

Wiping ourselves free of crisp crumbs, we were off to the Firehouse Theater for "Death of a Salesman."

As a classic piece of American theater, I was thrilled to finally get to see it performed live.

And, I'm ashamed to say, I had only the most basic understanding of the story.

So I knew it was a bummer, but it also had a lot of that post-WWII disillusion that resulted in all kinds of art forms.

What reminded me of a more current generation?

"My solution is I never take any interest in anything."

What reassured me that I'll be fine?

"Personality always wins the day."

Joe Inscoe was the beaten-down Willy Loman, a character completely unlike any actual 60-year old I know, but then it isn't 1949 anymore.

The claustrophobic set evoked their similar Brooklyn apartment.

My favorite part of it was the screen door (although it didn't elicit the same satisfying sound), evoking as it did the one I had on Floyd Avenue for thirteen years.

With a strong cast, the unfolding of Willy's unfortunate end played out emotionally, with just enough humor to hang on.

I think it was during intermission that it occurred to me how happy I was to be enjoying this well-acted, classic piece of American theater less than a mile from home.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying this place is perfect.

God knows, we don't have enough knock-down, drag-out bars anymore.