I’m always blissed out when my plans, friends, excursions, duties and/or desires take me from the entrapping fervor of the west side to the Bay View area. For one, it’s just the simple benefit of saying you are going to Babe View, while every other reason revolves around the schnazzy restaurant/bar scene where hipsters and neighborhood doyens intermingle harmoniously to a backdrop of “Sunshine, Lollipops And Rainbows,” all while skipping and holding hands.
Quite the picture, I know. I wasn’t sure 12-year-old Chuck Taylors and tight jeans could handle a skipping episode down KK, but, it happens, man!
We arrive at The Newport on the corner of East Conway and South Logan, kiddy-corner from an empty, grassy lot and within a 3-wood of I-794 at around 10:00 p.m. on a Friday. To be honest, I was expecting to walk into a bar full of lubed patrons, tunes and a bartender sweating for his tips. Much to my chagrin, we found four people inside: the bartender, a dude and two middle-aged fellas in cotton slacks. Well…hmm…now that I think about it, the threesome seemed well buzzed, the barkeep was in fact sweating and the cable music channel was playing Midnight Oil’s “Beds Are Burning.” I guess my expectations, however low, had been met!
Amongst the presence of the B-Squad of regulars, I ordered my Jack and Coke (relax, it’s the go-to drink for someone bearding as a regular customer and it’s $4 for a double) and settled into my barstool. The classic rock-or-thereabouts station continued to play songs: Billy Idol, ZZ Top, Hall & Oates and the one, self-satisfying hit, “I Touch Myself,” by the Divinyls that still has a habit of raising an eyebrow…or two.
The rectangular bar is drizzled in red from two neon signs on either flank, one reading Schlitz and the other clarifying that you were, in fact, at The Newport. The two perpendicular walls are blanketed with large windows giving those inside (an out) a perspective on the other side while the biggest flat-screen in the bar was on the Golden-Tee arcade game. I found myself checking the Golden-Tee television hoping for ESPN highlights that I overheard from a smaller tele’s speakers in the corner.
My Jack and Coke were assimilating wonderfully so I ordered another before I even hit the ice of my first. And hell, why not hit the backside with a nip of Blackberry Brandy – just in case the temperature dropped. By this time I’d warmed my seat up enough to where I needed to meet the bathroom. I was very surprised to see it in such good shape! Most neighborhood bars, such as this, have regular knuckleheads that take pleasure in putting Sharpie to wall and writing their favorite satirical quote or political purge on the area above the urinal. Thanks to the bar crew and the unsullied clientele for keeping it clean.
Anyway, with my bladder emptied and my cocktail in tow, I decided to wander out the back, to see what the smoking area entailed. Imagine: your best friend has a party in his driveway in front of his one-car garage (why have a two-car, that’s just showing off). He has set up multiple, but dissimilar patio tables and chairs – some wobblier than others. The entire area is enclosed either by a man-made building or by man-made fence – you are content, and happy to be enjoying a cigarette in such a cozy, secure area. Breath in…breath out….cough…(sigh)
After playing with the pack of cigarettes in my front pocket and thinking about having a lonesome drag, (I quit…a while ago) I abort out of fear my lady-gal-girl will give me the “you smell like smoke” biz and make way for the comfort of my stool and the safety of clean air. Whew!
Back in neutral territory, I can tell she’s been thinking. She looks at me with intent. “Oh man,” I think. “Did she finally figure out why I carry a lighter everywhere?” When she says, “Did you notice the mural of famous people?” Acting like a purified 13-year-old with a lone Marlboro in his pocket, I relaxed and looked at the far wall.
There, I saw figures, sitting and standing at a bar scene straight out of The Shining, where reality was a sliver away from “The Simpsons.” Then, my lady-gal-girl begins pointing out each celebrity: “That’s Jack Nicholson, this one is a young Liz Taylor, I think that is Ingrid Bergman…”
“Pssssh. That’s not Jack!” I say. Let the debate begin!
I didn’t believe any of her theories. Her Jack looked like a Johnny Knoxville impersonator, her Liz Taylor looked like an ugly Joan Collins and Ingred Bergman looked like a three-week-old pita. Needless to say, it was hard to decipher who was who in the mural.
Well then, let’s go to the know-it-alls! I ask the barkeep to run through the entourage from left to right. He can maybe pick out 75 percent of the faces, one which included a side profile of the previous owner sipping a glass of wine. After a small razzing for not knowing the caricatures on the back wall to the bar he works, we come to find that he is the current owners’ son! C’mon, man!
At this point, thirsty folk are starting to trickle in: a group of gals at one corner, some dudes who can’t hang out inside for more than two minutes before going out for another cig, an older couple who, apparently, had been jonesing for a bar pizza (they enjoyed that pie to the cardboard) and the tattooed, mohawked lovebirds sharing a pitcher.
The Newport (Franky’s Newport) is a bar, a watering hole, a social club and a venue. It’s part of Bay View. It’s a place where the record stops when you walk in and the beat goes on as you walk out. You’ll find variety in clientele and a clean and comfortable bar for bellying up. Just remember though, when in Babe View, you’ll be amongst some of Milwaukee’s finest neighbors…no skipping on the grass!
