BGNO

BGNO

By Duncan 

I conversed with Patti Schmink McQuinn yesterday across the lunch table. We were seated in Binkley’s Kitchen and Bar with a group called BGNO, which stands for Boys' and Girls’ Night Out.

Binkley’s at 59th and College Ave. Indianapolis 

Years ago, the group was made up of all women. I don’t know if it was designed to keep men in their place or if there was an “agenda.” But one bright sunny day, a strong man knew they were going to a restaurant he wanted to experience and asked if he could join the all-female group for lunch. 

The story goes that GNO (Girl’s Night Out) quickly called a tribunal to discuss the unusual situation of allowing a man to join their all-girl group. They required evidence to be presented under oath to justify such a decision. After much deliberation, they agreed to permit ‘a man’ to become a member of GNO. However, they faced another challenge: they needed to rename GNO (Girls’ Night Out) to BGNO, signifying the inclusion of both genders in the group.

(L-R) Russ Metzler, Duncan, Steve Winegardner, Marty Denton, John Kissling, Bette Wechsler, Patti Schmink McQuinn,  Holly Hubertz Rawls. 

Our gal pal, Donna Averitt, was at the end of the table and not in the group picture. She leaned into me and said she had been sick with pneumonia but was feeling much better now. She had to leave early and was not part of the group picture. 

Perhaps the events didn’t unfold exactly as described. What are the "ties that bind" this group together? First and foremost, most members are graduates of Pike High School in Indianapolis, a shared experience that has kept them connected over the years. Additionally, I was invited to join the group for lunch, which allowed me to get to know each of them better.

I don’t receive many lunch invitations these days. I was told I would continue being invited if I behaved myself. I asked to see the Covenants, Conditions, Bylaws, and Restrictions, which are humorous in referring to the group's informal rules and regulations, contributing to its unique charm.

They told me that BGNO meets once a month for lunch at different restaurants (the second Tuesday of every month). I love exploring various ‘Watering Holes’ in and around Indy. I’m always up for leaving the house and indulging in a good tenderloin with onion rings. 

Yesterday, the tenderloin was massive, bigger than the bun, and the onion rings were outstanding. The onion rings were so good I struggle to find the words to describe them.  

Big, Fat, Greasy, Vein Clogging Bar Food … Delicious.  

I leaned across the table and started a conversation with Patti. Patti lost her husband several years ago, and since then, she feels less confident driving than she used to. I asked her where she lived and how far she had to drive to reach Binkley’s. She mentioned that she lives about 11 to 12 miles north of Binkley’s but still worries about driving. Patti then asked me about my most recent road trip. I had to confess I hadn’t been on a road trip in quite some time.

I was trying to recall my last “real” road trip. I met my personal and very close friend, Jack Maynard, at the Town Club Restaurant and Lounge in Highland, Indiana, which is located in Northwest Indiana. The Town Club Lounge sits in the shadow of the Chicago skyline. That encounter was about a month ago. Although it wasn’t long ago, it feels like it has been forever.

Jack Mayand, Duncan - Town Club Restaurant and Lounge, Highland, Indiana. 

Jack lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Jack called and said, 

“How about lunch at the Town Club on Saturday, noon?”  

He called on Thursday. How long does it take to make a decision? It’s only about a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Highland. The same applies to Jack leaving Milwaukee.

We each made the trip to the Town Club for lunch, marking our second visit there. Jack suggested that we should meet more frequently than just once a year. Therefore, we have scheduled our next Town Club lunch for Saturday, January 4th, 2025, as part of a quarterly meeting.

I'm at a point where I stay home and avoid going out. However, I’ve realized that face-to-face contact—like having a cocktail or lunch, talking, laughing, and reminiscing about our good times—lifts my spirits. Why wait for the day we receive a text saying that a friend has passed away? I want to tell them today how much our friendship means to me.

I feel guilty about my last paragraph. I want to clarify that I’m not telling anyone how to live their lives. My intention is not to suggest that if you live your life like me, and if you do, you'll be better off. I often see this mindset being pushed on LinkedIn, where it seems everyone has the keys and answers to leading a productive life. 

The truth is, you have the right to live your life however you choose. 

I’m writing this diary because I enjoy reflecting on my experiences and the things that have pleased me. Only a few people read my writing, and I do not know who they are. While Google Analytics can tell me how many people have read my posts, it doesn’t reveal their identities.

I don’t fish, own a boat, work with wood, fix cars, golf, shoot skeet, or trap. So, what do I do? I enjoy lunch, savor a cocktail, engage in conversation, share laughs, and appreciate the company of my friends. When I come home, I settle into my easy chair and reflect on the day. Then, I get the urge to write a summary about my lunch, cocktail, food, and overall experience, reliving it all over again. Let’s revisit the lunch from yesterday.

I asked the group their opinions about the 9-0 Indiana University football season under the new coach, Curt Cignetti. As you can imagine, everyone was excited. They mentioned that the stadium seats were full, there was ample TV revenue and merchandise is selling extremely well. I took the opportunity to share my own story about the buzz surrounding Indiana University football.

Gabby, (Granddaughter of Tressa Faye Wheeler) John Etchison, Tressa Faye Wheeler. The lobby of the Nickle Plate Hotel. 

Saturday night, I was out with John Etchison and Tressa Faye Wheeler. We had dinner at Sahm’s Restaurant on 116th Street and Allisonville Road. During dinner, Tressa (she dislikes her name ‘Faye,’ and wants to be called Tressa) extolled her ten grandchildren's virtues and extraordinary accomplishments. She had pictures on her cell phone of her ten grandchildren that she wanted to share with John and me … all evening. 

During the dinner, she indicated she had a granddaughter who worked at the new six-story, one-hundred-six-room, thirty-million-dollar Nickle Plate Hotel in what might be considered “Downtown Fishers.” I casually mentioned that I had visited the Nickle Plate Hotel restaurant called Derailed several times last month. 

“Oh, do you know my daughter? Did you meet her by any chance? She is tall and beautiful and could be a movie star.” 

“Would her name happen to be GabbI?”

“How do you know her? Yes, that’s her. Hey, can we all go to the Nickle Plate Hotel after dinner? I will introduce you to her.”  

David Blair, GabbI - (Waitress at the restaurant called Derailed in the Nickle Plate Hotel.)  

Many of you are probably wondering how I remember a waitress named Gabbi. Here’s a short story: Dave Blair, a retired pharmacist, and I were trying to decide where to have lunch. I mentioned that I hadn’t been to the Nickle Plate Hotel Restaurant yet and wanted to go there. 

I got excited about being in this brand-new building (Opened-March 2024) and decided to celebrate with a cocktail. I always try to ask the name of the waiter or waitress serving me. It can’t hurt to say, “Gabbi, I’m thinking about a cocktail.” Instead of “Hey you, I want a drink.” 

I watch people in a restaurant and notice that many people never look up or make eye contact with the waiter or waitress when they order. 

I asked Gabbi for a Scotch with ice—or, I am sure, I said, “Scotch on the rocks.” Ice and rocks are the same thing for those who don't imbibe. I want a two-ounce pour of Scotch with ice in a tumbler. Gabbi asked, “In a tall glass or a small one?” I cupped my hands as if to suggest that the glass size was “tumbler size,” not a tall glass. 

As a young person in a restaurant or bar business, asking a customer who ordered a Scotch if I wanted a tall or short glass let me know she was relatively new to the Scotch experience. Perhaps it was a new job for her, and she was learning. After all, Scotch is an acquired taste. A young woman like her would not have experienced all the nuances of the character and history of Scotch. I sound like a snob, don’t I?

She came back and asked what brand of Scotch I preferred. I asked for the Famous Grouse, knowing they likely didn’t have a bottle. She turned her tablet around and placed her digital tablet in my hands. On the face of her tablet were 12 brands of Scotch. I didn’t recognize any of the brands. Who is the novice now? I felt like I was in a voting booth looking at the candidates for school board, and I didn’t know one of them. So, I pointed to a brand in the middle of the screen. I didn’t know it; I never heard of it.  

Well, it was an excellent choice. Wow, it was mellow. At the end of the meal, Gabbi brought us our bill. Holy smokes, I wondered why my bill was so high. I had French onion soup ($7.00), half a corned beef sandwich ($8.00), and one Glenmorangle 12-year-old Scotch. ($34.00)  With tax and tip, my first experience at Derailed came to $63.41. And that’s how Gabbi has remained in my memory. I don’t think I have ever been charged that much for a cocktail. “Let’s call it a first.”

  

Now, here's my Indiana University story. It was getting late, and I decided to head for the house. I was standing in the lobby of the Nickle Plate Hotel. I said good night to John and Tressa and turned to walk out the hotel doors. The doors were automatic; the doors opened sideways, one door going left and one going right. I started to walk through the doors and found a man trying to enter the building as I left. He stopped and allowed me to pass. He was wearing a bright red baseball cap with the insignia of IU on the cap. 

IU had just won the football game that afternoon against the Michigan Wolverines (20-15). The man was polite but had what I will call a stone face—no expression. I glanced at his cap and stopped in my tracks. I pointed to my head as if pointing to his ballcap and gave him a big thumbs up! His expression exploded; he had a huge smile on his face. 

“How about that game today?”   

“Wow, do you believe it, Michigan? We beat Michigan. That means Indiana has nine wins and no losses for the season. Unbelievable!”

“I was at the game today, and it was a madhouse.” 

“You were in Bloomington today at the game?” 

“Yes, I just had to see the game.”  

He was coming into the hotel. I assumed he was heading for the bar or to get something to eat, and I asked, “Are you from around here?”

“No, I live in Washington.”

“Washington D.C. or Washington State?”

“Washington State.”  

“Wait a minute, you live in Washington State? Are you here on business or to see family?”    

“No, neither. I flew in Friday, leaving tomorrow (Sunday) and returning home.”

“You flew into Indianapolis, rented a car, drove to Bloomington, went to the game, you’re back in Fishers, staying at this hotel tonight, and leaving tomorrow to fly back home? You did all this to see the IU / Michigan game in person?” 

“Yep!” 

We chatted for a few more minutes, then I gave him a fist bump and left the building. I need to stop worrying about a $32.00 glass of Scotch.

ARSENIC

ARSENIC 

By Duncan

Arsenic is synonymous with poison. A substance that can inadvertently lead to fatal consequences. Whether by accident or by design, the potential for arsenic to slip into a vessel of wine and cause death is a stark reminder you can’t be too careful.  

The early Chinese, Greeks, and Egyptians discovered arsenic when the earth's geological crust moved. The compound arsenic was also found after volcanic eruptions. In both cases, the heat from volcanic eruptions and tectonic plate movement created an arsenic compound.  

It was soon discovered that if you grind up this rock, it could be a silent killer. Just slip the powder into a cup of wine and “dirt nap” for one of your dearest friends.  

One of the first recorded uses of arsenic as a killer was with Attila, also known as Attila the Hun. Attila was a heathenistic, ruthless, powerful military leader driven by ego and a thirst for power who could foster multiple tribes of warriors to create vast armies. He and his merry men raped and pillaged most of Europe. Rome was his last big conquest. 

As powerful as he was, as many battles as he won, he died at the hands of women on his wedding night in 453 CE. His young, beautiful bride, Ildico, is his latest “want.” However, Attila didn’t know she was “getting it on” with Marcian, a rival Emperor to the East. Tell me it’s not true!

There was a plan afoot. The wedding celebration was a grand affair with lots of food and even more drink. The drinking that night was excessive. Attila “tied one on,” and in the process of being in a drunken stupor, it’s believed he was slipped a “Mickey Finn.” 

Of course, the term “Mickey Finn” wasn’t used until (1896-1903) when a bartender in Chicago by the name of Michael Finn was caught drugging and robbing his customers. But I digress. 

In reality, throughout history, it was a common practice to slip arsenic into a cup of wine and kill someone you didn’t want to continue to breathe your air.        

After the drunken wedding party, the palace guards were looking for Attila. The next morning, they burst into Attila’s bed chambers and found him dead in his bed. 

His new bride is weeping over his body. The guards looked for wounds, but there were none. (Hum?) After closer examination, they believed Attila had hemorrhaged through his nose and choked on his own blood.  

You can believe whatever you want, but the palace guards tried to hide the fact that Attila was dead. Now, why would they do that? There are other reports that Attila died of alcohol poisoning. 

Okay, we now have two different explanations for Attila's death. The only alcohol during that time was wine. It is also believed by some that his death was murder, and again, the guards attempted to cover that up, too. 

Because wine laced with arsenic was such a common way to kill people in the “Graeco-Roman period,” another custom arose. Important people had a wine taster. 

The wine taster would sample the wine; if it was safe, the important person could feel comfortable drinking the homemade wine. One can’t be too careful.

Can you imagine applying for a wine-tasting job? Read the fine print.    

Warriors from different tribes began to shake hands as we became more civilized. As two men look deep into their eyes, this gesture means I’m letting you know I don’t have a weapon. This silent gesture, as two men held arms or hands, assured the other, “I will not be sticking a knife in your belly.” I have nothing up my sleeve. 

Putting a shiv into someone without being seen was impossible, with so many people watching. And who wants to be caught murdering a competing warrior of another tribe in broad daylight? That could start a war. But in reality, they still want the SOB dead. So it’s back to the silent killer, arsenic.

Another custom began. As one Emperor offered another Emperor from a different tribe a cup of his homemade wine, the host Emperor took the guest's cup and poured a small amount of his wine into his guest’s cup. This gesture was to prove the wine was free of poison. 

Over time, the practice of extending good wishes along with a cup of wine became a tradition. The wine of that era was quite acidic (sour or sharp), so a small piece of seasoned bread was added to the cup to help reduce the acidity of the wine. This made the wine more enjoyable.

One of the first written accounts of it was in Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor, when the character of Falstaff demands, 

“Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in’t.” 

You see where I’m going with this, right? The word "toast," or “toasting,” takes on more meaning when we consider its origins. When we raise our glasses to toast good health, long life, or to celebrate, it is believed that this tradition relates to placing a piece of burnt toast in a cup or glass of wine. We hold our stemmed glasses in the air and clink them together to symbolically bring our glasses of wine together, reassuring each other that the drink is safe and not poisoned. 

As we approach the holiday season, a glass or two of wine may be raised in your home. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year will be celebrated. “Toasts” will be offered. I want to add one of my favorite toast, which I learned from the Irish. 

"May those who love us love us, and for those who don't love us, may God turn their hearts, and if He can't turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles so we may know them by their limping."

HIGHLAND

 HIGHLAND  

By Duncan 

A motor trip to Highland takes about two hours, give or take. 

You leave Indianapolis, jump on the super slab (I-65), and follow the signs to Chicago. Highland is nestled in the northwest corner of Indiana. On the other hand, Jack leaves Milwaukee, heads south and through Chicago, Illinois, and ends up in Highland, Indiana, at about the same time. Yes, Jack and I are meeting for lunch.

Jack is one of those friends who knows way too much about me. When he calls for lunch, on the spur of the moment, I get in “Mean Yellow” and head north, no questions asked. 

The Town Club is a family-owned "mom-and-pop" restaurant that has been in the family since 1947. The current owner is Mark Hines. Jack and I had lunch at the restaurant about a year ago. The interior is a bit old-fashioned, but it gives us a nostalgic feeling of the 1960s and 70s, reminding us of our youth. The bar is cozy, and there's no pretentiousness here. No one acts superior or more important than anyone else.

I stumbled upon this place through a Google search about a year ago. We were searching for a peaceful spot roughly halfway between our locations, and Highland, Indiana, fit the bill. I asked Google for recommendations for a mom-and-pop restaurant, and Google said, “You need to check this place out!” After looking at their website, I found the deciding factor. 

The Town Club offers steaks, seafood, and dry-rub baby back ribs. But can it compete when it comes to drinks? You bet! The Town Club serves hand-shaken martinis with a full menu of single malt scotch and bourbons. This is definitely going to be OUR place. 

Jack is on time. He is making fun of me for taking pictures. He has his camera at the ready. You can tell he is an old man by the style of the car he drives. Is that a station wagon or an SUV? I shall allow you, the reader, to decide for yourself. I don’t want to disparage my friend by suggesting his choice of vehicle color needs to be assessed. But Jack does drink from time to time. At his age, we must remember to “Live and Let Live.” 

Yes, it’s always good to be in the presence of My Maynard. If you think I’m flamboyant, you haven’t seen anything yet regarding Mr. Maynard. We entered the bar, like Cramer slinging in a room on Seinfeld. We were happy to be alive. 

One woman sat alone at a table as Jack and I climbed onto our bar stools. I looked back at the woman sitting behind us; she was not in the mood to acknowledge our presence. She seemed intimidating to me. But women with a “stiff” demeanor have always made me pause. 

The woman sitting alone behind me at the table reminded me of Anne, the Princess Royal and daughter of Queen Elizabeth. She ate her meal with the same demeanor as Anne, but I've never dined with Anne, Princess Royal. I was apprehensive about our loud and ostentatious behavior in the Town Club. I don't want you to think I've been invited to dinner at Buckingham Palace. 

 

Lauren - (Barmaid) 

Lauren, the barmaid, was in charge of the bar during our visit this trip. We introduced ourselves with fanfare and grandeur, telling Lauren that we were from Indianapolis and Milwaukee as if we were movie stars entering a public space. We were there to tell stories, catch up on each other's lives, and pretend that life couldn’t be better. Which is an understatement. When you think of the privilege I have of having a vehicle that can take me on a two-hour road trip at the drop of a hat, enjoy the friendship of a friend, eat, drink, laugh, and joke, and return home with wonderful memories. Life is good.

The first order of business was a cocktail. Jack started off the event with Lauren, 

"I would like a Gin Martini made with Bombay Sapphire Gin, shaken with lots of ice and not stirred. Please serve it to me in a v-shaped cocktail glass to enhance the aroma. When you bring it to me, please be careful and set it down gently so as not to disturb the gin from its dutiful purpose. Also, I want you to know that I will not be allowed to order another cocktail until I leave, no matter how much I plead or beg, even if I get on my knees, shed a tear, or implore you with clasped hands in a prayerful pose. Please deny me, even if I insist on another Gin Martini."

I couldn’t help but utter softly, “Like all the other women he approaches.”  

When it was my turn to order my cocktail, I asked for 'two fingers' of my favorite Scotch. For those unfamiliar with the term, 'two fingers' refers to a measurement of whiskey in the glass. 

The term originated from the old West, where a cowboy would order a drink and have it poured to the level of the bartender's finger wrapped around the bottom of the glass. A cowboy could only hope the bartender was a little on the chunky side. Today, we use the term to mean two ounces of Scotch. The thickness of the bartender's fingers is no longer a factor in the measurement.

The Town Club offered twelve (12) different brands of single malt scotch. Jack suggested that I do the same since he was drinking premium gin. After considering all the options, we decided on bottles labeled 12-year-old cast. This means the whiskey was aged in a wooden barrel for at least 12 years. As for the price, it's best not to ask.

I have readers of this "diary" who think I can be a bit frugal. However, there is a time and place to inquire about the price of something. I was raised by a very strict mother who taught me good manners. It's not polite to ask about the cost of a neighbor's car or someone's income. If you're curious about the total of a dinner bill, it's considered good manners to offer to pay the entire bill if you pick it up to look at it. 

At that point, I decided to go with the flow. I noticed a 12-year-old Glenlivet on the shelf. I know from experience that a bottle of the 12-year-old Glenlivet costs under $40.00. I asked for two fingers of Glenlivet on the rocks. The bartender and Jack approved.

It was time to order a meal. We asked Lauren what the most popular lunch at the Town Club was without looking at the menu. 

"She was quick with an answer: 'You can’t go wrong with the steak sandwich. It comes with crispy fries. How do you want your steak prepared?' Jack and I looked at each other, and we each said, 'Medium rare.'"

“Well, Jack, we met at that sleepy little mom-and-pop bank in Speedway, Indiana. You were new, and so was I. I think I was hired in 1998, and you were a week or so behind me. I will never forget that place. When they hired me to help with their mortgage loans program, they didn’t have a desk or a chair for me to sit behind. So they told me that the president had just retired and his office was not being used, so I was told to use his office.”

“Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, and you have the story all wrong.” 

“I don’t think so, my personal and very close friend.” 

"I was sitting in the opulent office of the bank president. As people walked by, they were curious about who I was. Some even asked if I was the new President. To maintain privacy, I partially closed the door, leaving it open about three to four inches. Then, Jack, you came down the hall, introducing yourself to everyone as the new Trust Officer of the bank. You were excited to be the new guy who would make this bank a ton of money."

“I think you’re over-exaggerating my enthusiasm.” 

With a smile, I lifted my tumbler of golden nectar to my lips. My mind was reconstructing that faithful day. Do I remember the details of that day, or are they made up?

Here is my side of the story: I could hear someone coming down the bank hall and getting ready to pass the Office of the President. He was loud and very excited to be a team member. I tried to put the commotion out of my mind and focus on why I was there. They didn’t have a desk, chair, or phone for me. I was confused about how I was going to operate in this environment. I was beginning to wonder if I had made a mistake. I was, to say the least, not as excited as I should have been when this guy, walking down the hall, pushed the door to the office of the President open and said, "Excuse me, I just want to introduce myself to you. I’m a new employee; I’m your new trust officer."

I sank back into the high-backed, ox-blood-colored leather chair reserved for the President and thought, "Is this guy serious? He thinks I'm the President."

With a tone of authority, I said, "Well, come on in, Jack. Have a seat and tell me a bit about yourself. It's great to have you on the team."

Jack entered the room with an air of importance and sat in one of the luxurious side chairs, perched on the edge as if to show his utmost respect.

He began by sharing his background, including his previous work and his desire to succeed. Jack hailed from Wisconsin and had a wife, children, grandchildren, and a deaf son. He took pride in his life and was honored to be a part of the bank's team.

It was becoming embarrassing. He really believed I was the President. I needed to find a way to steer this conversation in a different direction.

"Jack, could you please go to the office door and close it all the way? I'd like to have a private conversation with you." Jack almost jumped up from his chair. He closed the door very gently and returned to his seat.

"Jack, lean back in your chair and relax. I want to tell you a story. I'm not the President of this bank. You are trying to impress a nobody. I'm a new sales guy in the mortgage loan area who doesn't have a desk or a chair. They put me in here until they can figure it out. Now, what do you have to say to me?"

Jack sat there for a few seconds and then began to laugh. I started to laugh, too. I asked Jack, "Are all banks like this?"

He laughed even louder. He then said, 

“You want to get a drink after work?” 

I said, "There is a half-empty bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses left in the President's desk. What's wrong with a snort right now?"

So, there you have it. We became friends thirty-four years ago, in the President's office.

Duncan - Jack Maynard - Tampa - Jan 2, 2004  

Jack was always on the move. He didn't stay at the mom-and-pop bank for long. I'm curious to know who left first, him or me. Jack relocated to Tampa and invited me to his home almost every New Year's. Then he moved to Seattle and asked me for New Year's weekend. Jack and his wife are back where they started, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Jack Maynard - Duncan

I know a few of you want to know about the bill. In a previous post (Story: Derailed in Fishers), it seemed I got hit with a liquor bill that cost me $32.00 for two fingers of Scotch. Well, while it’s not acceptable to talk about Religion, Politics, or Sex in polite company, I guess it won’t hurt to tell you that we asked Lauren to split the bill down the middle. My half came to $30.00. 

Before we left the building, we agreed we needed to have lunch more often. How about twice a year? Lauren suggested once a quarter. We looked at each other and smiled.