19 Sep My Year Without Hoods: I Love the Brew Pub Scene, But I Miss My Old Bar
By Donovan Wheeler of Indiana On Tap
On a long ago Greencastle Saturday night, one of the many Wendi and I spent at our favorite bar, a hard-rocking, heavy-ish metal sort of band had just finished peppering my right eardrum with microscopic holes which would take weeks to heal (all of this after a sort-of-rocking, country-metal-ish sort of band had softened them up in the warm-up round). The billing brought two things to the bar that night which weren’t normally there: a cover charge and an extra throng of people—mostly aggressive people—who normally hung out at the other bar on the south side of town (the bar which usually hosted metal and country cover bands).
Wendi and I had great seats for the night…we always had great seats. When something was going on at our bar, we got there early and usually grabbed our spots across from the then-emerging craft taps. We sat along one of the physically longer actual bars I’ve seen, and settled in for a good time.
About a half hour after the second band had finished, the hillbillies and head-bangers, those who had made this one visit for this one evening, started to get especially rowdy. Besides the expected jostling, pushing, shouting, and “what are you lookin’ at?” sort of nonsense (which sounds the best when uttered in a drunken sort of drawl), the seminal moment finally happened. Wendi, our friend Shawn, and I were in midst of a deep conversation* only to be interrupted by the sound of smashing glass.
A large fellow, a former student of mine it turned out, had mouthed off one too many times to a young lady (who I think was also a former student as well), and as he ambled his way through the pack to the front door, she chased him down from behind and dropped a Bud Light bottle across the back side of his head.
All three of us (and most of the rest of the bar as well) stopped in mid-sentence* and looked up. Once we realized that no one was hurt, we all looked at each other, shrugged, and laughed it off. Later, in quieter settings,** we would all marvel at the fact that in real life the sound a beer bottle makes breaking apart on someone’s head was identical to the sound of the same maneuver on television. But at the time—as interesting as the “Yee-Hah! Showdown” was—we weren’t giving up our seats…not unless we had to pee…and only then if it was so bad we were almost ready to cry.
On a long ago Greencastle Saturday night, one of the many Wendi and I spent at our favorite bar, a hard-rocking, heavy-ish metal sort of band had just finished peppering my right eardrum with microscopic holes which would take weeks to heal (all of this after a sort-of-rocking, country-metal-ish sort of band had softened them up in the warm-up round). The billing brought two things to the bar that night which weren’t normally there: a cover charge and an extra throng of people—mostly aggressive people—who normally hung out at the other bar on the south side of town (the bar which usually hosted metal and country cover bands).
Wendi and I had great seats for the night…we always had great seats. When something was going on at our bar, we got there early and usually grabbed our spots across from the then-emerging craft taps. We sat along one of the physically longer actual bars I’ve seen, and settled in for a good time.
About a half hour after the second band had finished, the hillbillies and head-bangers, those who had made this one visit for this one evening, started to get especially rowdy. Besides the expected jostling, pushing, shouting, and “what are you lookin’ at?” sort of nonsense (which sounds the best when uttered in a drunken sort of drawl), the seminal moment finally happened. Wendi, our friend Shawn, and I were in midst of a deep conversation* only to be interrupted by the sound of smashing glass.
A large fellow, a former student of mine it turned out, had mouthed off one too many times to a young lady (who I think was also a former student as well), and as he ambled his way through the pack to the front door, she chased him down from behind and dropped a Bud Light bottle across the back side of his head.
All three of us (and most of the rest of the bar as well) stopped in mid-sentence* and looked up. Once we realized that no one was hurt, we all looked at each other, shrugged, and laughed it off. Later, in quieter settings,** we would all marvel at the fact that in real life the sound a beer bottle makes breaking apart on someone’s head was identical to the sound of the same maneuver on television. But at the time—as interesting as the “Yee-Hah! Showdown” was—we weren’t giving up our seats…not unless we had to pee…and only then if it was so bad we were almost ready to cry.
This was the life at Hoods and Capers, a basement bar on Jackson Street, a block south of the Putnam County courthouse and half-dozen north of DePauw University’s campus. Over the 18 years I’d lived in Greencastle, the place had existed under several monikers: Hathaways, Sugar Moon, The Rock House, The Cavern Club…
But in 2010, after the most recent incarnation had shuttered, three young men: Zach, Brian, and Ryan (two of them also members of the “former student” category) took advantage of a generous offer from The Cavern’s owner, who wanted out of the Greencastle bar scene but didn’t want to let go of his assets. So—faced with a chance which rarely comes our way when we’re that age—the three entrepreneurs, barely in their twenties assumed control of the bar and christened it with its fifth, and most distinct, name yet.
The pub’s new name came from Ryan. Not a member of the “former student club,” Ryan was instead a guitarist for a regional band named Asteria, and a few years earlier, while his group toured the Midwest, he met and became friends with his future Hoods co-owner, Zach—whose own band, TGL, also enjoyed a great run less than a decade ago. Ryan took the name from a song on his band’s EP, and given the bar’s basement, speakeasy atmosphere, it was the perfect fit.
Less than a month after opening their doors, Wendi and I dropped in for a few beers after a late-evening drive home from Indy’s west side. We fell in love with the mood, the scene, the beers, and the food, and we both told each other we’d definitely come back—a commitment we’d honor at least twice a month for the next three years.
In a large city (heck, even in a smaller burg like Bloomington or Terre Haute) your attraction to a favorite watering hole often comes down to all the criteria above, and sometimes…sometimes you can build up that sort of intimate camaraderie we all used to watch in Cheers episodes. But, for the most part, city bars are places where like-minded individuals (most of whom know very little about each other) gather in circles of close friends and very politely turn inward.
While all the bars in Greencastle, all four of them at the time, were almost always filled with people who knew (or at least recognized) each other, Hoods magnified the power of that local feeling because of its crowd. Since the place was run by youngsters, it naturally became the spot where most of the town’s twenty, and early-thirty-somethings congregated. As a spry 41-year-old, I was often the joint’s resident senior citizen. Even better, almost all of the patrons were once kids in my English class, and after getting over the shock of seeing their old teacher sitting in front of a Newcastle (in 2010 the craft beer phenomenon was still a bit of a novelty in places like Greencastle), they never failed to move a conversation hurriedly away from, “How have you been?” to, “I think I’m going to train to be a deep-sea diver.”
I love all my fellow middle-aged friends, but we’re all so guarded…well, I’m not, but I probably should be. The Hoods crowd, by contrast, were people who were finally old enough to spout off the few remaining impulsive ideas they actually held back when they were in my classroom, yet still young enough not to filter a single thought. Whereas most people my age tend to gauge their words and try to anticipate whether it’s safe to tell everyone around them they got a ten-dollar lap dance in a barn, the Hoods crowd wouldn’t hesitate to describe both the nylons and the bailing twine. They didn’t care what you thought, and often rightly assumed you’d agree with them that it was actually pretty cool.
They were mostly out of college. Some were just starting their first careers, bringing home their first big paychecks. Most were single, but those who had gotten married were still a long way from popping out a litter of pups. And they had those youthful metabolisms, able to throw down pints as if they were field-testing gallons of Sprite Zero. They could party all night.
Which is exactly what they did.
But in 2010, after the most recent incarnation had shuttered, three young men: Zach, Brian, and Ryan (two of them also members of the “former student” category) took advantage of a generous offer from The Cavern’s owner, who wanted out of the Greencastle bar scene but didn’t want to let go of his assets. So—faced with a chance which rarely comes our way when we’re that age—the three entrepreneurs, barely in their twenties assumed control of the bar and christened it with its fifth, and most distinct, name yet.
The pub’s new name came from Ryan. Not a member of the “former student club,” Ryan was instead a guitarist for a regional band named Asteria, and a few years earlier, while his group toured the Midwest, he met and became friends with his future Hoods co-owner, Zach—whose own band, TGL, also enjoyed a great run less than a decade ago. Ryan took the name from a song on his band’s EP, and given the bar’s basement, speakeasy atmosphere, it was the perfect fit.
Less than a month after opening their doors, Wendi and I dropped in for a few beers after a late-evening drive home from Indy’s west side. We fell in love with the mood, the scene, the beers, and the food, and we both told each other we’d definitely come back—a commitment we’d honor at least twice a month for the next three years.
In a large city (heck, even in a smaller burg like Bloomington or Terre Haute) your attraction to a favorite watering hole often comes down to all the criteria above, and sometimes…sometimes you can build up that sort of intimate camaraderie we all used to watch in Cheers episodes. But, for the most part, city bars are places where like-minded individuals (most of whom know very little about each other) gather in circles of close friends and very politely turn inward.
While all the bars in Greencastle, all four of them at the time, were almost always filled with people who knew (or at least recognized) each other, Hoods magnified the power of that local feeling because of its crowd. Since the place was run by youngsters, it naturally became the spot where most of the town’s twenty, and early-thirty-somethings congregated. As a spry 41-year-old, I was often the joint’s resident senior citizen. Even better, almost all of the patrons were once kids in my English class, and after getting over the shock of seeing their old teacher sitting in front of a Newcastle (in 2010 the craft beer phenomenon was still a bit of a novelty in places like Greencastle), they never failed to move a conversation hurriedly away from, “How have you been?” to, “I think I’m going to train to be a deep-sea diver.”
I love all my fellow middle-aged friends, but we’re all so guarded…well, I’m not, but I probably should be. The Hoods crowd, by contrast, were people who were finally old enough to spout off the few remaining impulsive ideas they actually held back when they were in my classroom, yet still young enough not to filter a single thought. Whereas most people my age tend to gauge their words and try to anticipate whether it’s safe to tell everyone around them they got a ten-dollar lap dance in a barn, the Hoods crowd wouldn’t hesitate to describe both the nylons and the bailing twine. They didn’t care what you thought, and often rightly assumed you’d agree with them that it was actually pretty cool.
They were mostly out of college. Some were just starting their first careers, bringing home their first big paychecks. Most were single, but those who had gotten married were still a long way from popping out a litter of pups. And they had those youthful metabolisms, able to throw down pints as if they were field-testing gallons of Sprite Zero. They could party all night.
Which is exactly what they did.
It shouldn’t be surprising that, for at least the three-year stretch they were in business, the crazy things always seemed to happen, happened at Hoods. The man with the artificial leg? You know… the guy who took his prosthetic off, filled it with beer, and then passed it down the bar? Yeah, that was at Hoods. The dude who was done waiting for his turn in line and decided to drop a deuce in the middle of the bar’s floor? Yeah…Hoods again. It was the place where Zach would get on his bullhorn and get every single patronto toast Justin’s birthday with a round of Vegas Bombs. It was the spot where he would use the same bullhorn, make a similar announcement for yet another birthday, and get in response a four-word moment of impulse from his buddy Craig: “Let’s f*** s*** up!” The place broke out into spontaneous cheers.
And since they rarely had the funds to pay for bands, on a few magical nights Zach and Ryan would get their old groups together and put on electric shows in the bar’s fenced-in, outdoor patio. In a town where the dominant middle-aged bar crowd insists on cover bands, it was refreshing to see the Hoods group happily swaying to the Calumet Reel’s “June Bug” or rocking out to TGL’s “Heels Over Flats.”
Wendi and I always knew the bar’s run would be short-lived. Because they could not afford additional help to cover their workload, they were there every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday until well past 5:00 in the morning. While their friends were enjoying spontaneous nights in Indy or taking getaways down to the Gulf, they were pouring drinks, reading lips in the midst of a deafening roar, washing out used glasses, counting up receipts, and divvying up tips. To think they’d willingly throw away all of their twenties and keep the bar running was always little more than a bit of wishful thinking on our part. It was a place where we felt so at home that we remained to its closing night the only couple ever given a “reserved” pair of seats at the bar.
In the year since Hoods last shut their doors, the two of us have bounced around a few places. We often stop at a nearby pub called the Swizzle Stick. It’s a great place: clean, old town atmosphere, with good beer selections and Gail: a wonderful, friendly owner who always finds a minute to wish us a warm hello. Wendi and I even see a smattering of the old Hoods gang there, a few nights here and there, hit-and-miss for the most part. But other than that, all those youngsters from the basement have mostly dispersed. If not to the Swizzle, then over to a small bar in town called Moore’s, some of the more bold ones have even encroached the “college” bar next to DePauw, and still more have moved out of town.
When we’re not at “The Swizz”, we travel around the area hitting the wellspring of brewpubs and taprooms popping up like April tulips all over Central Indiana, and like so many mid-state Hoosiers we’ve fallen in love with the craft beer phenomenon and can almost barely remember what it was like to walk out of that basement in the wee hours of the morning. Those days mostly behind us, we now behave more like bona fide middle-agers. Nine o’clock…!? We need to get home before we fall asleep on the road! But at least, thanks to most brew pubs’ operating hours, we still get the chance to remember what it feels like to hear “last call!” and close a place down. And when one of them serves me a malty porter in a fake leg, it’ll truly feel like home again.
*Deafness disclaimer: Probably 90% of all the conversations I’ve ever had in a bar were one-sided affairs where I mostly nodded and smiled because I could never actually hear anything that anyone was saying to me.
**I’m pretty much deaf even when it’s quiet, too.
And since they rarely had the funds to pay for bands, on a few magical nights Zach and Ryan would get their old groups together and put on electric shows in the bar’s fenced-in, outdoor patio. In a town where the dominant middle-aged bar crowd insists on cover bands, it was refreshing to see the Hoods group happily swaying to the Calumet Reel’s “June Bug” or rocking out to TGL’s “Heels Over Flats.”
Wendi and I always knew the bar’s run would be short-lived. Because they could not afford additional help to cover their workload, they were there every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday until well past 5:00 in the morning. While their friends were enjoying spontaneous nights in Indy or taking getaways down to the Gulf, they were pouring drinks, reading lips in the midst of a deafening roar, washing out used glasses, counting up receipts, and divvying up tips. To think they’d willingly throw away all of their twenties and keep the bar running was always little more than a bit of wishful thinking on our part. It was a place where we felt so at home that we remained to its closing night the only couple ever given a “reserved” pair of seats at the bar.
In the year since Hoods last shut their doors, the two of us have bounced around a few places. We often stop at a nearby pub called the Swizzle Stick. It’s a great place: clean, old town atmosphere, with good beer selections and Gail: a wonderful, friendly owner who always finds a minute to wish us a warm hello. Wendi and I even see a smattering of the old Hoods gang there, a few nights here and there, hit-and-miss for the most part. But other than that, all those youngsters from the basement have mostly dispersed. If not to the Swizzle, then over to a small bar in town called Moore’s, some of the more bold ones have even encroached the “college” bar next to DePauw, and still more have moved out of town.
When we’re not at “The Swizz”, we travel around the area hitting the wellspring of brewpubs and taprooms popping up like April tulips all over Central Indiana, and like so many mid-state Hoosiers we’ve fallen in love with the craft beer phenomenon and can almost barely remember what it was like to walk out of that basement in the wee hours of the morning. Those days mostly behind us, we now behave more like bona fide middle-agers. Nine o’clock…!? We need to get home before we fall asleep on the road! But at least, thanks to most brew pubs’ operating hours, we still get the chance to remember what it feels like to hear “last call!” and close a place down. And when one of them serves me a malty porter in a fake leg, it’ll truly feel like home again.
*Deafness disclaimer: Probably 90% of all the conversations I’ve ever had in a bar were one-sided affairs where I mostly nodded and smiled because I could never actually hear anything that anyone was saying to me.
**I’m pretty much deaf even when it’s quiet, too.
Alison Dobbs
Posted at 11:08h, 19 SeptemberDefinitely made me tear up…I’m proud to say it was my home away from home during a very difficult time in my life. Makes me smile when I hear how much it meant to other people as well. Thank you for the read 🙂