Riordan’s Restaurant and Raw Bar always had a brisk late night business from the day Jack and Jean Riordan first opened on March 17, 1968.
Bowling teams would grab the big tables in the back room. It was the party room and overflow room. A huge medical community from various offices and clinics around the vicinity of Marlow Heights filled up tables and booths along with car salesmen from Sheehy Ford, Wilson Lincoln- Mercury and retail workers from GEM, Hechts and Woodies (among others). The dining room filling up at 11pm was the norm. Crabcake sandwiches, cheeseburgers, french fries, onion rings, steamed shrimp and frozen mugs of Budweiser and Schlitz crowded the tables.
Fast forward about ten years and the late night crowd has all but disappeared. There is a growing crime issue in the Silver Hill neighborhood. This area is located along Branch Avenue, Route 5 Maryland, from the DC boundary road of Southern Avenue heading South to Iverson Mall and Marlow Heights Shopping Center. Many of the old customers have moved away. Other locals don’t want to come out after dark.
It was an unusually quiet night in the hottest part of the summer. I was the lone waitress, glad to have a break after the dinner rush. But the place was empty. No customers. There was a cook, dishwasher, barkeep and server. We were all sitting at the bar, watching the Orioles. They were in a Golden Age. Washington baseball fans had nowhere to go but Baltimore, (post Senators-pre Nationals.) And you know that Senators fans were not used to winning baseball, no postseason in DC.
A vey attractive, middle-aged black lady came in and sat in a booth against the far wall. She ordered Johnny Walker Black.
It was close to nine o’clock when the front door opens again and two tall, well-dressed black men rush in, making a beeline straight to the back. One went left to the restrooms and public phone and the other, right into the kitchen. They kept moving. Out of the kitchen and into the back party room. We, the employees were a bit nervous. It was proper procedure to ask to speak to the manager and notify them that you want to conduct a quick security sweep. That didn’t happen. We realized they were casing the place. Out the front door they go and in walks DC Mayor Marion Barry. I had never seen the hizzoner in person. He joined the lady and ordered Johnny Walker Black.
He was a very charming man. Not at all what I had expected. Easy to talk to. Sweet and humble. I was knocked out by DC’s “Teflon Mayor.” We had a brief conversation about DC the daily lottery games. Maryland had recently started a Daily number and all the bars and liquor stores were installing Lottery machines. We were on Branch Avenue just a few hundred yards from the DC-Maryland boundary markers so DC was a huge competitor for Riordan’s.
My personal interest was that the legal state run numbers would hurt our local bookies. Every Saturday afternoon between 3 and 6pm, the bar at Riordan’s filled up with bookmakers. They were there to “settle up.” Boss Bookie was G Street Mike. His office was the public phone booth in front of the Hi-Boy Donut Shop about 200 feet from the front door of Riordan’s.
They were great customers, buying rounds of drinks for the entire bar and dining room was the norm. These Bookies tipped like it was a competitive sport. The legalized state gambling would signal the end of an entire culture that had served local bettors decades before the IRS put their hand in the pie.
I finally wandered back to see the Orioles leaving Hizzoner and his friend alone. Ans the dining room remained empty. Very unusual, but a blessing in disguise.
And for a while all was quiet when in walks Jack Riordan, the owner, my Dad, who had been to dinner with his wife, my Mom, at Pagoda 7. It was a favorite restaurant in the Iverson Mall that served those tasty” little drinks like Catherine the Great and Kona Moon. They tasted fabulous. And I am guessing they were almost pure alcohol with a splash of fruity juice or pineapple, passion fruit or pineapple to make the irresistible.
But I digress.
Jack was more than tipsy. A little more in his cups than normal. I thought he was adorable rocking on his feet and commenting on his empty restaurant. He had very dry humor. The bartender, Charles Woody, finally said, “Jack, that’s Mayor Barry sitting over there.”
And with that nugget of information Jack strolled over to the Mayor’s table.
“Hello Mayor. So nice to see you here this evening. I’ve met your lovely wife.” Jack looks at the lady and adds, “And that’s not her.”
As they say, drop the mike.
Woody and I exchange looks, stiffling laughter and shaking our heads. “Good one, Jack,” Woody muttered under his breath.
Marion Barry was rather amused. He asked for another round and continued chatting with the lady who was not his wife until last call.
Jack knew Mrs. Effie Barry because she was a frequent patron to Riordan’s. She usually came in alone with plenty of reading material. She liked her crab cake sandwich with a cup of coffee.
Everyone admired her and pitied her. She was married to Marion Barry.
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Image of Marion Berry courtesy dbking / CC BY (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)
