Story: Michael G. Rabinowitz

In a series of many incarnations I have always been fond of my role as a wallflower.  Observing people is my one and only true talent and hence, The Hub shall be my watchtower.  It’s citizenry, a populous of barflies, indie hipsters, queens, and switchblade sisters, all stop by for a late night libation or their own version of hair of the dog.  They are all actors dancing upon a hazy stage for my amusement.

Half drugstore, half Kevorkian tool shed, in the island of the bar I spy BC powders for sale.  I think, what for?  Preventative medicine?

With aluminum event chairs sharing most of the furniture duties, The Hub is a bowling alley bar that lost its home.  Either a nod to Buddhist minimalism, Spartan pragmatism, or Greek cheapness, the lack of furnishing does not take away from the atmosphere.  It is the clientele that become the Hub’s fixtures.

And said clientele is ultimately, thoroughly democratic. Noticeable is a chessboard black and white vinyl floor where you will find pawns flirting with queens and knights buying rooks PBR in cans.  A model UN for alcoholics; all races, creeds, sexualities, wardrobes, and ages.  (Dr. King would be proud.)  All brought together by the long pour (more on that below).

Then there is the bathroom, although not the quite reaching proper shithole status, such as the likes of CBGB, it does sport its own fine collection of tag art.

There is diversity in music too within the Hub’s jukebox. Wilco, Al Green, David Allen Coe, The Shins, The Clash, Ray Charles, Calexico, Beck, Merle Haggard, Hall & Oats (one of the most played, according to management), The Gourds, Patsy Cline, James Taylor, Beck, Miles Davis, The Go! Team, Sun Kil Moon, The Buzzcocks, Death From Above 1979, and Dinosaur Jr., all serve to the leisure of the bar.

The jukebox remains in the trusted hands of manager Scott Imrich, a WMNF DJ on Saturday afternoons. While proud of the selection he serves, repetition is bound to happen.  Imrich bemoans that “Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’ is becoming my own fifth inner circle of hell.”   The once proud song now absconded by indie hipsters looking to prove their cred.

A downtown mainstay for local acts since 1949 (On Tampa St., Zach St., and now on Franklin), the Hub hosted such celebrated musicians as Warren Zevon, Courtney Love (after getting kicked out of Four Green Fields for spitting on the floor. That’s all? That‘s barely a “1” on the Courtney crazy scale.), Micky Dolenz (who bitched that he was not being served Johnny Walker Black Label despite watching the bartender pour from the actual bottle.  Perhaps, if Neil Diamond poured?), and pre-“Appetite for Destruction” Guns N‘ Roses (Dizzy was well behaved).  Then there was the costume director for the traveling Broadway show “Cat’s” who trekked from the stage of the Performing Arts Center to buy a case of vodka to clean the cat outfits.  Apparently, Smirnoff makes a great all-purpose solvent.  Did Mr. Mistopheles miss the litter box?

This tradition of consistency includes the infamous long pour.  It’s no secret that The Hub has the best dollar per liquor ounce ratio in the county.  Seabreazes are tendered pale pink, Cuba Libres supply enough explosives for another revolution, and Long Island ice teas compete with ethanol as an alternative fuel source.

Scooter Melton, the 16-year senior night manager, follows the credo of former owner, Pasquale “Pat” Deyorio.  Pat instilled in Scooter that a strong drink is an egalitarian form of a blue-collar reward: “Give a man a good drink for a fair price.”  That is why the Hub’s regulars know what to expect within Scooter’s den.  And, this Mos Eisley cantina celebrates its rogues with consistency.

While old Pat always believed in fairness with the customer, God help those who owed him money.  “One time, in particular,” Scooter recalls, “Pat chased some son of a bitch who had a debt for drinks down Zach with a pistol.”  Needless to say, American Express is no longer accepted.  The former owner tended to patrons well into his 70’s.  But, his eyes slimmed to slits if the customer ordered anything more complicated than a Whiskey and Coke (not much of a place for Margarita Monday’s).

Like Pat’s bartending skills, what you see is what you get at the Hub.  Maybe, if you are lucky, you will find a lot more.  In what is easily the anti-MacDinton’s, the people behind the bar, and passed out on it, are what makes the Hub a must stop along Tampa’s lost highway.