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I arrived late to the festivities, fresh from a political rally at Sea World for the San Diego Mayor’s race. The place was already packed with regulars from the Sunshine Company Saloon, all there to support John Small, the owner of the “Shine” and now the proprietor of the new Cheswick’s West.

 

At first glance, the non-descript beer and wine bar didn’t impress me much.

 

Fast forward to 1984, I attended the first (and only) Cheswick’s picnic on Mission Bay. It was here that I was drawn into the eclectic mix of Cheswick’s regulars, a crew reminiscent of the Delta Tau Chi fraternity from the movie 𝘈𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦. Even the iconic John Belushi character, Bluto, seemed to have a counterpart in a Cheswick’s regular named Conray, a barrel-chested giant with a mischievous smile and a wild glint in his eye.

 

I watched from the sidelines as Conray chased off some uninvited, preppy Omega Theta Pi types, nearly coming to blows in the parking lot while his Cheswick’s comrades stood ready to back him up.

In 𝘈𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦, they had Dean Wormer. Cheswick’s had Dean Hall, who became the new owner of this hole in the wall watering hole in 1984.

 

This was when I pledged allegiance to Cheswick’s happy hour.

To be part of the gang, you had to share willingly. The ritual centered around a five-foot round table, known as “The Black Hole.” Anything placed on “The Black Hole”—a pitcher of Budweiser, a pack of Marlboro Lights—became communal property, quickly disappearing into the hands of the assembled regulars. During the three-hour happy hour, mass quantities of beer and smokes were consumed.

 

This male-dominated crew met nightly to watch Larry Bird’s Celtics or Tony Gwynn’s Padres. Passersby mistakenly thought a new gay bar had opened in O.B., given the overwhelming testosterone inside.

Much like the Delta Tau Chi fraternity, the Cheswick’s gang had their nicknames: Sauceman, Hammer, Monster, and less creative ones like Big Donnie, Little Pete, Big Steve, Middle Steve, and Little Steve. I didn’t get my nickname, Pancho, until years later, thanks to Conray. The story behind it involves a road trip to Tijuana, but of course, “What happens in TJ, stays in TJ.” (Vegas stole that line from us!)

 

The responsibility of managing this tribe of degenerates fell to a group of capable bartenders from Massachusetts which included the girls from Nantucket, Mary Jo, and Michelle (yes, the most recent owner Michelle), along with Celtic fanatic Jimmy McCormick, who had Guinness flowing through his veins. The Nantucket beauties were always welcoming but could transform into fearless she-wolves when needed, subduing any troublemaker in an instant. There are stories of Michelle hurdling over the bar to confront a hooligan, who quickly retreated into the street.

 

This frat-house phase marked the first era of Cheswick’s legacy. Thankfully, in the next chapter, a brave new world emerged where unintimidated women felt comfortable enough to enter this man cave, undeterred by the lame pickup lines from the likes of Sauceman.

——

Mike “Pancho” James