End of the Line for The Terminal Bar's Flem Shows how Dives Are Precious

I was sad to hear of the death of Flem, who had owned and run The Terminal Bar in Northeast Minneapolis for over fifty years.

Think about that for a second.

[Flem.]

Here’s the first half of the obituary:

Fleming, Clarence G. "Flem" 10 year veteran, United States Marine Corps On May 14, 2016, God needed a cribbage partner and he chose the BEST. Flem spent 79 years perfecting the art of telling jokes and becoming a master storyteller. Flem was a faithful son, remarkable brother, devoted husband, proud father, adored grandfather, warm-hearted uncle, helpful neighbor, and valued friend. Flem was also larger than life with his booming voice, infectious laugh, and generous heart. Flem was the ultimate family man, a selfless community supporter, a strong promoter for upcoming musicians, and a contributor to rugby clubs. As owner and bartender extraordinaire at the Terminal Bar for 51 years, he loved to enliven, captivate, and entertain the customers with his sense of humor and joyful hospitality.

Flem's passing holds a special place in my heart because he was synonymous with one of the purest examples of the "dive bar" genre in the Twin Cities. After the tour in January, I recently published a guide booklet that included some stuff about Flem and his bar. Here's an excerpt:

[Flem's back nook.]

The Terminal Bar is Kryptonite to progress, so resistant to change that the walls reflexively tighten with each smart phrase unsheathed. Its timelessness is to the dicey credit of its owner, who recently celebrated his 50th anniversary of owning the place. 
Flem bought the bar in ‘65 coming out of the Marines and unable to find a straightforward job. For the next half-century, he and his wife have run The Terminal, which he calls a “working man’s and families bar”, though he admits it’s a dive. Annette opens it up around 4:30 and Flem gets there at 7:00 to keep it going until nobody remains. 

The bar itself is 84 years old. I assume Flem is around the same age. I also assume the name comes from its proximity to the old Great Northern Depot. These days it has the feel of last legs: piles of strange objects stacked in corners, forgotten walls, a broken scale. It’s a reminder of mortality and, because of that, it’s one of the purest examples of the dive bar genre you’ll find in the Twin Cities. 

Wandering here resembles exploring the basement of an old uncle’s house, decades of accumulated entropy. Unfulfilled intentions, good ideas at the time, areas of taste and gathered acquaintance piled up and fill rooms claustrophobically like spiderwebs. Across the wall from the bar, a display case half-full of classic car models, small plaques, the remnants of long ago trends. In the back past the stage, a large green scale, glass display cracked, a masterpiece of an era when weight was a novelty. Objects settle like calcium marking time, and it reminds me of nothing more than memories of a childhood home, complete with aging humans. But like Grandma’s, there’s something sad about The Terminal, meaning endpoint.

Say what you will about the atmosphere, hours, or stand-up comedy at The Terminal (and I have), owning and running a Northeast bar for fifty years is one hell of an accomplishment. These are not philately shops, and keeping them running requires constant effort. As the years go on, dives reflect their stewards and owners reflect their dives. Walking into The Terminal was like getting to know Flem himself. And half the time, he’d be sitting at the end of the bar anyway with a friendly word.

[So... don't go to The Terminal for fine dining, then?]

Dive Bar Habitat Loss

Thinking about Flem and the Terminal, both of whom were clearly on their last legs for years, makes me think about dive bar mortality. At root, dive bars are overlooked and under appreciated. You rarely see dive bars appear in the newspaper, apart from those periodic lists which typically focus on former dives, hipster magnets, or some of the most famous and/or played out examples like the CC Club, Grumpy’s, or Palmer’s.

Yet few will people speak for dives. There is no dive bar Lorax, and you almost never see politicians say anything nice about them, let alone spend much time in one. Dive bar ownership, and especially the clientele, have few connections to influence, and it’s safe to say that dive bar regulars don’t often vote.

Instead, dive bars become targets, scapegoats for urban problems. When Eric’s Bar on Saint Paul’s East Side was demolished, the mayor was there celebrating. Ramsey County transportation officials seem to delight in destroying corner dive bars like Diva’s Overtime Lounge in the North End, was torn down to add a turn lane to the Maryland Avenue (four-lane death road). When Lake Street dives like Champions or (the original) Country Bar closed down, you could feel deep pockets breathing sighs of relief, because their disappearance represented a cleansing of the neighborhood, pushing crime or poverty out of sight.

[Newspaper at the Sunrise Inn.]

It’s somewhat surprising because, if you hang out in dive bars for long enough, you realize that the people there pay attention to the news and have strong opinions. There are often newspapers laying around, which men pass around and sometimes read out loud. At many dive bars, people actually watch the local TV news and talk about it. And (unfortunately) there’s almost always a few guys who listen to talk radio all day and are chomping at the bit to deliver a tirade about “tree huggers” at the drop of a hat.

This is to say that the urban dive bar is an endangered species. Dives do not make money and are often for sale. Owners and barkeeps work long hours, forced to be both servant and guardian, breaking up arguments, putting up with stress, and world-wearily bouncing rabble. These are marginal businesses caught between the rock of improving tastes and the hard place of the erosion of the working class. A dive must balance on the fine line between the two great threats: remodeling and real estate.

In other words, when a dive bar is gone, it’s gone forever. Precious few are created, because what kind of fool would intentionally set out to open a dive bar? (As with housing, the vast majority of new bars and restaurants are aimed at the wealthy.) And the loss of the dive is a loss for society, because these places offer experiences you cannot find elsewhere, meat raffles and pull tabs and tasteless jokes and all kinds of music. Dives form a foundation for working-class relaxation and do underappreciated work to bring neighborhoods together and grant them rare identity.  

But dives disappear. Ten years ago, my old North End neighborhood had twice as many dive bars as it does today. And places like The Terminal, planted in blistering real estate soil, are fated to change.

I predict a similar fate to Bonnie's Café over in the Midway, which lasted for about a year after the death of its eponymous owner. For a while, relatives or friends might carry on the tradition in honor of the departed. But eventually, someone makes a deal and moves on. And the place is never the same again. Once a dive bar dies, it never comes back.

[The Terminal doorway: open or closed?]

PS. You can purchase the Noteworthy Dive Bars of Outer Northeast booklet in the new store!

PPS. Check out Chris Strouth,'s great 2013 City Pages essay on The Terminal's music scene:

The hipster movement has taken a lot of the ol- time bars and made them if not posh, a comfortable mix of the old and new. For example, the 1029 Bar whose ceiling is literally covered in brassieres, and walls with shot up police car doors (rumored to have been done by Country kitchener Toby Keith). Yet there you can get the best lobster roll this side of Maine. Anyhow, the part of town where my mom didn't like me hanging out has become a foodie paradise that's written about in pull-out sections of newspapers.

The saying goes, evolve or die, and that seems to be the way of most of the bars in Nordeast. This is what makes the Terminal Bar weirdly special: It has done neither. The interior is much the same as I remember it from when I went in as a dare in college. I imagine it's much the same as it was in 1964, when the current owners, the Flemings, took over from the previous owner who happened to be the parents. They had owned it since 1935. Prior to that it was -- you guessed it -- a bar.

For about four years I shared a wall with the Terminal Bar. The shop that I owned with my wife was next door, and my studio above it, which later became my home as well. The Terminal is a dedicated music venue. They have a band playing almost every night. Cover bands, original bands, good ones, bad ones, really really bad ones, metal ones, even hip-hop ones. It is sort of hilarious watching someone go on stage and talk about what a player he is while drinking a 3 dollar Mich Golden.

The booking and the bartending are all handled by Flem. He's a former Marine, owner, bartender, and just all-around good guy. He also has been sober since 1968, which given that he is behind the bar six days a week, eight hours a day is saying quite a bit. Flem is in his 70s, yet spry as a 60-year-old.

While most bars have a strong curative sense, trying to get a specific vibe or groove that sets them apart from the rest, the Terminal tends to roll with anyone that gets butts in the seats, and in doing so is sort of the ultimate bar of the proletariat. Anyone can play.

Read the rest, a lovely piece of dive bar writing.

Join me at the East Side Freedom Library on November 10th for a Dive Bar Discussion and Reading

When I first discovered the East Side Freedom Library, as part of a Minnpost piece I was writing, I was pretty excited. It's a great re-use of a fantastic historic building, an impressive archive, and much-needed example of organizing across social and cultural divides.

While I was there, talking to the library's founder, Peter Rachleff, he mentioned he'd like to help have an event in honor of my Payne/Arcade Dive Bar booklet. Well, that day has finally arrived!

We're going to have the first ever Dive Bar Booklet Release Reading on November 10th at the Library. I'll give a short presentation on Twin Cities dive bars, some of the history of liquor and bars in the area, and focus on place of the East Side within this historical landscape.

I'll also do a quick reading of some of the booklet's better bits, and I am hoping for a lively Q&A at the end!

Best of all, we'll do a mini-recreation of the Payne/Arcade dive bar walking tour from a year ago. That turned out to be one of my favorite of all the dive bar tours, and I see no reason why we shouldn't head right back to the Arcade Bar after the library event for a beer.

I hope to see you there! This should be great fun.

[Facebook event is here.]

Event promo:

Just what is a “dive bar”?

It’s hard to say, but you can be sure the East Side has a lot of them.

The great dive bar debate has no easy answers, but that hasn’t stopped local geography writer Bill Lindeke from publishing a guide booklet called Noteworthy Dive Bars of Payne and Arcade. In it, Lindeke defines a quintessential dive bar as “more than the sum of its parts, a compound of qualities that seem singly inconsequential but, when considered together, come together for better or worse, for a moment or an evening, as delicate as rare jazz.”

Join us for a reading and discussion of where East Side dive bars fall in the pantheon of the Twin Cities historical liquor landscape. Lindeke will share anecodtes about the history of booze and liquor laws in the Twin Cities, talk about why old bars represent a special place within our urban and social landscape, and share some of the best parts of his most recent booklet about Payne and Arcade Streets.

Following his presentation, Bill will lead willing participants on a short walking tour and some site visits.

Bill holds a Ph.D. in Geography from the University of Minnesota and has been a frequent contributor to local historical studies and journals, such as MinnPost and streets.mn, and has taught at the University of Minnesota and Metropolitan State University.

TC Sidewalks Live: Noteworthy Dive Bars of South Minneapolis Bike Tour

[Using powertools to cut decorative wine corks inside a South Mpls dive bar.]

[Guided bicycle tour of five "dive bars" of South Minneapolis, focusing on the origin and future of dive bars in a part of the city historically inhospitable to them.

Thursday November 7, leaving from the Schooner Tavern at 6:30PM (the corner of East 29th Street and 27th Avenue South, by the Rainbow Foods).

RSVP on Facebook here.]


Q: Huh?

A: This is a bicycle tour taking place in Minneapolis called "Noteworthy Dive Bars of South Minneapolis."

Q: What is a Dive Bar?

A: Cleanly defining a dive bar is difficult, precisely because dives are not very clean. It's a bit like Justice Potter Stewart's definition of obscenity. Here's what we know...

Windows - These are a minus. Dives eschew fenestration. What happens in the dive, stays in the dive.

Staff - Ideally, there's only one staff. Maybe someone works in the back. The more staff, the less divey.

Regulars - A must. When you walk into a dive, people should stop talking like in a wild west saloon and look at you a bit funny. Unless you are a regular, you really don't belong. 

Daydrinkers -Yep.

Pull Tabs - 90%. Meat raffles are also good. Best is when there's a pot of some sort of free food sitting on a table.

Nonchalance - Dives can't be trying too hard to make money. If they are, they're not dives any more. No fancy menus. No fancy paint jobs, etc.

Cleanliness - Nope.

"Craft Beer" - Nope, unless its brewed within a mile or two of the dive.

Food - Greasy or nothing. Heggie's Pizza is the hallmark of a dive. 

[Minneapolis' historic liquor patrol limits.]

Q: I thought there weren't any dive bars in South Minneapolis?

A: This is kinda true, sorta. South Minneapolis has historically been outside the city's "liquor patrol limits," an odd bit of historical chicanery brought to you by the city's well-off WASP reformers. There are, however, some exceptions.

We will be starting at the Schooner Tavern, located in historic "hell corner," and travelling to four more interesting dive bar locations in the sub-Lake Street city, including the last remaining 3.2 bar, a constitutional exception to the city' strange "five-acre" rule, an "endangered" dive, and a dive with decent food (for the hungry among you).

Q: Do I need a bike?

A: Yep. We'll be biking approximately 10 miles in total. Not too far, all things considered.

Q: It's November, you idiot.

A: I know. Wear a warm coat, gloves, and bring bike lights for the darkness.

Q: Can I come for part of it, but not hang out with you the entire goddam time?

A: Yes. I will be tweeting locations, there will be a quasi-schedule, and you can always call (if you're lucky enough to have my digits) to find out where the tour is at. Come just for one dive, or enjoy the whole diving expedition.

Q: Is it free?

A: Yes, but buying a beer for one of the hosts is appreciated or (failing that) you can always support this blogger by purchasing an artisanal postcard for a reasonable and minimal fee.

[An awaiting cooler.]

Two New Booklets Now Available! Parking Lots of Minneapolis and Dive Bars of Old Fort Road

I have started transforming my quasi-popular "tours" into actual physical booklets. Yes, these are corporeal objects, to have and to hold, filled with words and photos of varying quality. If used correctly, they can guide you through some of the Twin Cities' finest off-the-beaten sidewalks.

The first three booklets are still available for purchase. In fact, they've gone into a second printing.

These are:

#1 - Noteworthy Bowling Alleys of Minneapolis and Saint Paul
#2 - Noteworthy Dive Bars of South Minneapolis
#3 - Noteworthy Dive Bars of the Midway
 

[You can still order them! Read about them here.]

In addition to those three, I've completed the two more booklets. Each is 36 pages, black-and-white images, maps, and text, and a cover featuring full-color art.

These two new ones are exciting for me with subjects that lie close to my heart.


Tour Guide #4 -- Noteworthy Dive Bars of Old Fort Road

This is another "dive bar" booklet, featuring the highlights from the 2013 Old Fort Road dive bar tour. That was a while ago, but luckily on West 7th Street, nothing much changes. (OK, so Joe and Stan's has been remodeled...)

Inside you'll find photos, descriptions, factoids, and maps about five of the West 7th Street neighborhood's finest dive bars.

These include: Skinner's, The Spot, Skarda's, Joe and Stan's, and Keenan's.

Here is an excerpt:

The Spot Bar

I am told that the Spot Bar dates back to 1885, which means that the Spot Bar is in a long-running battle with Christensen’s Big V’s, Neumann’s, and Joe and Stan’s for claim to the title of “oldest running bar in Saint Paul.” I’m told that Big V’s keeps a room upstairs with historical paraphernalia just to defend their title. (Difficult to imagine.) And I know the Neumann’s claims an older origin story, though since they are technically in the city of North Saint Paul, they seem to be disqualified. That leaves the Spot with a pretty good claim on the title. 

The first time I went to the Spot Bar, I sat down next to an older somewhat toothless man whose nose was stuck in that day’s Pioneer Press. He was reading the headlines, mumbling softly, and whenever the lightbulb would strike him, he’d start talking to whoever was around about the crazy things he’d found. “Boy, have you heard this one?” Then he’d read the story and say something prosaic bu toothlessly biting. We chatted about the Minneapolis Police Department’s latest semi-self-quasi-homicide with surprise and disdain.

Like all Fort Road dives, The Spot has had a series of names (though the clientele has remained largely untouched). For a while it was owned by a man named Baar, and bore the awkward moniker “Baar’s Bar.” Nobody seems to know quite when it became “The Spot.” During the 30s they served “soft drinks.” You can only imagine...

The most famous barkeep was a man named Michael O’Toole. There is an old painting of the bar from the O’Toole days that sits above the bar. (For reference, its folk art quality reminds me of the old Otter Bar mural on Northeast Central Avenue, or crude also disappeared mural at the Town Hall Brewery.) I was once sitting at the Spot Bar and asked my neighbor about the odd painting, which well captures an atmosphere of rough edges and fellowship. “That’s form the 70s” the bartender told me, “one of our our regulars was the painter.” Then he added, “Frank there, is in the painting, and he’s sitting right next to you.” I turned and looked and there was the man from the picture, same mustache thirty five years later. Same barstool.

[Read much more in the full booklet.]

[An old press clipping on the wall of the Spot.]

Tour Guide #5 -- Noteworthy Parking Lots of Minneapolis

This one is based on my "parking lots" tour from Spring 2015, and features an original drawing by bleak landscape specialist Ken Avidor.

Inside you'll find a few thoughts on the odd intersection of parking lots and Minneapolis, diving into the murky history of the city's obsession with parking lots. Then there's a map, and a description of five of my favorite Minneapolis parking lots.

These include: the Lake Street K-Mart, the Minneapolis Club parking ramp (featured in the movie Fargo), the parking lot at the former Nicollet Hotel site (next to old Gateway Park), the Nye's Polonaise Room parking lot (soon to be an apartment building), and the one-of-a-kind Northeast Bank Parking Lot Park.

Here's an excerpt:

Northeast Bank Parking Lot Park

The strangest parking lot in Minneapolis is surely the Northeast Bank Parking Lot Park, located on the corner of Broadway and Main Street NE, close to the bridge and in the shadow of the old Grain Belt (Minnesota Brewing) building that rises like a fairy tale castle on the edge of the river. Here you’ll find a plain yet elegant bank building that dates to the early 1960s. But next to the bank is the strangest sight in all of Twin Cities parking: a parking lot full of curves, trees, berms, and landscaping.

This is the parking lot park, the brainchild of post-war bank president and parking lot visionary Walter Rasmussen. He grew up in Pelican Rapids and quickly moved to Northeast Minneapolis where, like many of the neighbors on this industrial working-class area, he got involved with labor and began at the bottom. A foundry, a tour in the Navy, a grocery-and-waffle store, real estate, and insurance. Eventually he put himself through school, moved to Edina, and bought the local bank, then located on 13th Avenue (where Dangerous Man brewery is located today).

The new building was built in 1962, but the parking lot was but a gleam in Walter’s eye, and remained so for another decade. By the early 1970s, the capital and the vision was ready to meet reality.

[Read much more in the full booklet.]

[The parking lot park in Spring.]

I daresay, these are both excellent little booklets.

And all for the low low price:

• $7 each OR three for $20
• (reasonable!)

You can order them via the Paypal link (simply donate the right amount and add mailing instructions as a comment) or by check (send to Bill Lindeke, 148 West George Street #7, Saint Paul MN 55107).

These will soon available in a few bookstores, if all goes well. And stay tuned because Tour Guide #6 (Noteworthy Dive Bars of Outer Northeast) is coming soon.

TC Sidewalks Live: Noteworthy Dive Bars of Outer Northeast Walking Tour

[Map is here.]

Enough dilly dallying. It's time for the big kahuna: Northeast Minneapolis, the heart of the great city's dive bar beat.

The dive bar landscape of Northeast is too large to tackle all at once, and so we explore it piecemeal, one leg at a time. First up, the "outer rim," a strip of dives along Marshall Avenue and points south that parallel the Mississippi like a fishing line. We will be proceeding Southward from the dive apex at Lowry Avenue straight down into the heart of Hennepin and Central.

Northeast is the mecca of working class industrial Minneapolis, the largest continual stretch of old school urban Catholicism, forming a fraternal twin to the more Protestant South. 

And, like the South Minneapolis' division, the Northeast Minneapolis alcoholic landscape has a stark geography. According to the city's "liquor patrol limits," full liquor establishments weren't allowed East of 4th Street or North of 29th Avenue. 

Thus Northeast's dive bars were contained to a small area alongside the riverfront crotch. This was ostensibly because this is the distance that the city's 19th century "liquor patrol" could efficiently walk from their downtown stations. (But everyone knew the restrictions stemmed from moralistic paternalism by city's economic and religious leaders.) That is why the wealth of the city's shrines to old school libation are as concentrated as an Otter rum and coke.

(Note: 4th Street and its rich vein of dives, along with striking cluster in the "seasonal" streets, are reserved for a future date.) 

A note on walking

This will be a walking tour. (Bicycles are welcome, of course, and faster, and may proceed at their own leisure.) I will be walking at a relatively brisk pace between the dive destinations, and the total distance covered will be about two (2) miles. 

Walking in winter is an exquisite pleasure, and you should try it. For folks who'd like a shorter route, you can always meet the tour at Stop #2: Dusty's at around 7:00 PM.

[Tony Jaros' marks the Northwest corner of Northeast's dive district.]

A note on defining "dive bars"

[The N.E. Yacht Club was named by off-duty Star Tribune reporters.]

The term “dive bar” is a grey bag, a mixed and mumbled blessing. Proper definition eludes, resting close to Potter Stewart’s rule of thumb: “I know it when I see it.” 

That said, just as a litmus test is not a black-and-white affair but a spectrum of acidity, you can train yourself to measure a dive. They are often more than the sum of its parts, qualities that seem singly  inconsequential but, when considered in composition, can come together for a moment or for an evening like rare jazz. (And can be just as excruciating when they go wrong.)

Here are some things to keep your senses in tune:

Windows - These are a minus. Dives eschew fenestration. What happens in the dive, stays in the dive.

Staff - Ideally, there's only one staff. Maybe someone works in the back. The more staff, the less divey.

Regulars - A must. When you walk into a dive, people should stop talking like in a wild west saloon and look at you a bit funny. Unless you are a regular, you really don't belong.

Daydrinkers -Yep.

[A broken scale at the Terminal.]

Pull Tabs - Yes please. Meat raffles are also good. Best is when there's a pot of some sort of free food sitting on a table.

Nonchalance - Dives can't be trying too hard to make money. If they are, they're not dives any more. No fancy menus. No fancy paint jobs, etc.

Cleanliness - No more than absolutely necessary.

"Craft Beer" - Nope, unless its brewed within a mile or two of the dive. If it exists, it's largely symbolic.

Food - Greasy or nothing. Heggie's Pizza is the hallmark of a dive.

No one or two of these things is a hard or fast requirement. but together these qualities create a spatial mood and social atmosphere. While the “neighborhood bar” remains a close cousin of the dive, the distinction is important; a true dive draws from a wider environment, which explains the typical parking lots of pickups. So too with former dives (gentrified). Cop bars and some gay bars might qualify, but really belong in other categorizations. While dive bars are not the right venue for purism, one does ask for some degree of discernment.

 

[Facebook invite here.]

[The flying flag of Northeast.]

What: Walking tour of five dive bars in Northeast Minneapolis

Who: Anyone. Small donation requested, payable in beer upon arrival

When: January 28th, departing at 6:30

Where: Tony Jaros' River Garden

Why: Because it's there

How: Brief historical notes and discussions of each bar will be delivered upon arrival and/or departure. A pause for refreshment, then on to the next.


[See also: Noteworthy Dive Bars of South Minneapolis, Noteworthy Dive Bars of the Green Line, Noteworthy Dive Bars of Old Fort Road.]

Noteworthy Dive Bars of Inner Northeast Walking Tour

A follow up to this winter's exploratory merriment, it's time to wander the other half of Northeast, Minneapolis' dive bar promised land. Here we will explore the inner boundaries of the old "liquor patrol limits" that attempted to contain the neighborhood's boozing to its riverine margins.

Here's a bit of history from the last Northeast tour:

And, like the South Minneapolis' division, the Northeast Minneapolis alcoholic landscape has a stark geography. According to the city's "liquor patrol limits," full liquor establishments weren't allowed East of 4th Street or North of 29th Avenue. 

Thus Northeast's dive bars were contained to a small area alongside the riverfront crotch. This was ostensibly because this is the distance that the city's 19th century "liquor patrol" could efficiently walk from their downtown stations. (But everyone knew the restrictions stemmed from moralistic paternalism by city's economic and religious leaders.) That is why the wealth of the city's shrines to old school libation are as concentrated as an Otter Bar rum and coke.

This time we'll be strolling and stumbling straight south along NE 4th Street, where all the dive bars line up light tipsy dominoes along the West side of the street. We will venture South, hugging the interior of the dive district until we reach the train tracks. There we will make an abrupt left, and wend ourselves towards the season streets, an odd pocket of roadway nomenclature: spring, summer, but no winter or fall. Finally, we arrive at the mecca of karaoke, the fabled Vegas Lounge, where the bar for singing is simultaneously both high and low, a Northeast paradox.

What more is there to say? This is a fascinating stretch of living history. No Northern dive bar connoisseur should go without stepping foot on this fascinating stretch of sidewalk. Walk with me and plumb the inner depths of Northeast Minneapolis.


A note on walking

This will be a walking tour. (Bicycles are welcome, of course, and faster, and may proceed at their own leisure.) I will be walking at a relatively brisk pace between the dive destinations, and the total distance covered will be about two (2) miles. 

[The Knight Cap decorated for Christmastime.]

[Facebook invite here.]

[The flying flag of Northeast.]

What: Walking tour of five dive bars in Northeast Minneapolis

Who: Anyone. Tips accepted eagerly, either in beer or cash.

When: Thursday, May 26th, departing at 6:30

Where: Northeast Palace, Lowry and 4th

Why: Because it's there

How: Brief historical notes and discussions of each bar will be delivered upon arrival and/or departure. A pause for refreshment, then on to the next.  

[Map is here.] 

[Read about other dive bar tours here: Payne and Arcade, Outer Northeast, The Midway, South Minneapolis, and Old Fort Road.]

Another Dive in Limbo as Malina's Sports Bar Goes Up For Sale

The unique Dale Street dive, Malina's Sports Bar, was on the City Council agenda last week, which is something that fans of dive bars never want to see. Malina's is one of the last remaining bars on Dale Street, which used to have a bunch of dives but has become more economically marginalized ever since half of Dale Street was bulldozed and the street expanded back in the 1960s.

Back when I living in Saint Paul's North End, Malina's was the most thriving place to go to hang out. The place was unusual, for sure. It was either very closed or very open, and you could tell which was which by just scoping out the parking lot. If there were a dozen cars there, then they were open. My roommate and I used to go there whenever we were bored to drink Beer Lao and watch the best karaoke in town. This was back in the day when a man named Vone owned the place, a guy who was already friendly towards us and often insisted on me singing Sinatra songs on the karaoke stage.

(I usually obliged.)

Here's an expert from my blog when Vone was shot, trying to close up the bar one night:

The other strange thing was that Malina's was either packed or empty. There was very little in between. About half the time you'd walk in to find yourself alone with either Vone or the woman I presume was his wife. She never really spoke to us, and did all the cooking. On the other hand, Vone was gregarious. He was the bartender/owner, and he seemed to like when we'd visit. He'd chat with us, always knew how long it'd been since we'd been there last. We'd talk in vague platitudes about the bar, the neighborhood. He told us he had been a social worker, but not a lot of other details. It didn't matter. 

The bar was almost all young Hmong people from the neighborhood. I have one or two Hmong friends, and when I'd tell them that I enjoyed going to Malina's, they'd roll their eyes. "That's where guys go to cheat on their wives," one told me. Those dynamics were lost on me. All I noticed was the karaoke. I've been to a lot of karaoke bars over the years, but none of them could hold a candle to Malina's. The standards were high; there was a set of about two dozen 80s pop ballads, and you'd often see a shy looking girl wearing a sweatshirt take the stage and absolutely crush some Céline. "I Will Always Love You" was popular, and something about crying eyes, anything with gradually escalating key changes.  Usually Vone would try to get me to sing too, for some reason, and after a few beers I'd oblige with a crap rendition of some Sinatra. Nobody clapped for me, but Vone seemed to enjoy it. 

I'd often bring people to Malina's who were visiting from out of town, you know, like from Minneapolis. Vone usually made us feel comfortable there. The food was good, too. Malina's served a few different kinds of larb (a meat salad), or you could get a plate of papaya salad for a few bucks. Maybe its my imagination, but Vone seemed to delight in making it as spicy as possible. I'd sweat for fifteen minutes after eating it. There were other things on the menu too that were beyond my degree of difficulty limit.  

Over the years, Vone spent a lot of time trying to fix the place up. He always seemed to be in a struggle with the neighborhood. The other Hmong bar down the street, Moonlight Magic on Western and Thomas,  was a lot more of a dive. A few years prior, it had had a gunshot incident and been closed down by the city. That was the neighborhood. Lots of places had that problem, bars on Rice Street, anywhere with lots of young people.  

When my roommate moved away, I started going there a bit less often. Each time I'd return, Vone seemed to have done some remodeling. He painted the walls. He installed booths all around the old pool-hall room. The last time I was at Malina's was about a year ago. There was a live band, a buffet, and everybody was dancing. I'd brought a date, and we joined them. 

On the recent Frogtown dive bar tour last summer, I brought the group back into Malina's. This was years after Vone's tragic death at the hands of a disgruntled customer, but the place seemed like it was back up and running. The owner was welcoming and gracious to our tour, and everyone seemed to enjoy the eclectic space that is Malina's.

It sounds like the bar owners are trying to sell the place and keep it open, and that CM Thao is supportive of helping with the process. I hope that the owner can transfer the bar and liquor license to someone who can keep it running, and I hope the city can help make that happen. The city would be much better off with a welcoming and thriving bar instead of another vacant building on Dale Street.

[Follows are some pics of Malina's from the 2017 Frogrtown Dive Bar tour.]

[Malina's parking lot.]

[A nice Malina's sign.]

[Newspaper article on Malina's from the Hmong Times.]

[Rules.]

[Not sure this is actually a real ordinance thing...]

[The telephone pole outside Malina's is also one of those kitchen-style growth charts.]

[The stage.]

[Amazing Malina's poem.]

[The Betty Boop thing is a weird remnant from the previous bar's incarnations...]