1124 Leo Street
What are those kids doing behind the bar?
My view of the world, physically and metaphysically, was largely formed from atop a barstool. I perched there from age 3 or 4 to age 10. My brother Bob, a year and a half behind me, joined me as soon as he was able. We spent countless hours during those years parked there. When not sitting, observing, we were getting into all sorts of trouble behind the bar.
My brother’s “Once in a Lifetime Great Cigarette Giveaway” comes immediately to mind. As I recall, he was around two years old at the time. I, being the older brother, had nothing at all to do with the event. Apparently, he decided that the customers sitting at the bar needed something to go along with their drinks. So, he took as many cartons of cigarettes as a two-year-old can handle from out of their storage space behind the bar then proceeded to walk along behind the barstools and hand each customer a carton of cigarettes. I don’t know how far he got or how long this giveaway would have gone on if one of the men at the bar hadn’t ratted him out to our mother. I don’t know exactly what happened then, but except for the customers getting a kick out of his escapade, it probably wasn’t good for Bob.
Bob and I did not spend so much time in the bar because our parents had nowhere else to put us when they went out boozing. On the contrary, they owned the M&G Grill at 1124 Leo Street, Dayton, Ohio. The four of us lived above “the joint,” as we affectionately referred to it. The bar and grill was our home.
The joint was located in what came to be known as Old North Dayton. The Introduction to Portrait of a Neighborhood: OLD NORTH DAYTON, published by the Dayton and Montgomery County Public Library, December 1995, https://dayton.bibliocommons.com/v2/record/S205C1550871, says, “It was called ‘Texas.’ It was called ‘Mexico.’ It was noted for a colony within the neighborhood that was unique in the United States. Five languages were spoken, yet its people inter-related, and for a time, felt isolated from the city that contained it. As one woman said, ‘the [sic] United States was across the river.’
“What is this place? And where is it?
“It’s here, in Dayton, Ohio.”
The boundaries of Old North Dayton are fixed: the B&O Railroad on the west, the C&O railroad to the north, the Mad River to the east, and south to Keowee and First Streets. Poles, Hungarians, Germans, Lithuanians, Bohemians (Czechs), Austrians, Greeks, Italians, Croatians, Serbs, and Bulgarians [1, 2, 3] made the community a goulash of native tongues, customs, dress and food.
Every so often the Roma would travel to Old North Dayton. (Historical Note: In what was commonly considered the “old country,” and during my upbringing, the Roma were referred to as “gypsies.”) Needless to say their arrival caused quite a stir. “Driving big black touring cars, there would be six in each car.” Because of a widely-held belief that Roma stole clothes, women would take all the wash off their clotheslines. However, the most insidious belief among the residences was that the Roma would steal their children. To prevent that happening, the kids were pulled inside and hidden. One resident recalled, “ They really looked like what you imagined them to look like, very bright clothes. The men all had big black mustaches and big black hats.”
The M&G Grill was originally the Leo Cafe. With WWII’s end, my father and my uncle returned to Dayton and the Leo Cafe. My nagypapa (Hungarian for grandfather) and owner of the Leo Cafe changed the name to the M&G Grill in their honor.
During the war, the Leo Cafe became a favorite watering hole and eatery among the day- and night-shift workers at the big manufacturing plants (Delco Batteries and Chrysler Airtemp), small factories (Moran Paint), precision tool and die making shops, and specialized machine shops. Among the industrial hub were restaurants offering specialties from the old country, a small local bakery along with the Blue Bird Bakery Company, and the beer distributor only a block away across the B&O Railroad tracks. Other local purveyors offering items sorely needed throughout the neighborhood included: a drug store, a small five and dime variety store and a candy shop. Several churches, including Saint Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church, provided the faith needed to persevere throughout the war.
As luck would have it, a bar and grill named Mike’s stood cheek-by-jowl to the M&G Grill. There wasn’t more than four feet between the two establishments. Tearing down the sidewalk one day, as a five-year-old with a new bike might do, I ran squarely over both feet of a customer I did not see coming out of Mike’s. As soon as I realized what I had done, I tore out of there as fast as my short legs could pedal, then out of sight around a nearby corner.
As I see it far back in my rear-view mirror, patrons of the joint were eating the best Hungarian food, imbibing beer and drinking whiskey that hadn’t been watered-down like in Mike’s tavern. That’s what I heard; I was a kid then so what did I know?
Living a block away from the B&O railway had its downsides: train engines whistled, and screeches of the locomotive’s steel wheels grinding against steel railroad tracks when slowing down pierced the air. Boxcars, gondolas, tank cars and full coal cars bumped together before the engine finally came to its full stop. Locomotives sped through the crossing, spraying cinders, coal dust, and loose gravel from the rail beds onto cars and local folks waiting at the crossing gate.
I once placed a penny on one of the rails, wondering if it would make the train jump the tracks. It didn’t.
Despite the drawbacks, my brother and I never lost our fascination for watching one train in particular flying by — the Royal Blue. This train was Baltimore and Ohio Railroad’s flagship passenger train known for its deep blue color scheme, luxury, and high-speed route between New York City and Washington, D.C. [1, 2, 3] It didn’t chug or rumble or screech. In our young eyes it literally floated above the tracks.
The joint had its share of barroom incidents — drunken arguments, threats, challenges to one’s manhood. Physical contact mostly involved pushing and shoving. Genuine fisticuffs were rare; certainly nothing that occasioned routine police attention.
There is one incident that has stuck with me since I was five years old. We always took our meals as a family at a long table in the back of the dining area facing the front door.
The front door abruptly flew open while we were eating supper around five-thirty. A sharp fall wind caused us to look up in unison toward the open door. The short blast of cold air seemed to be forcefully pushing a shadowy, undefined figure into the bar area. As he lurched unsteady with arms thrust forward to the first barstool, he stared briefly in our direction, then began coming toward us, head bent slightly toward the floor. Startled by the unwelcome intrusion, I could see that his head was covered in blood; dripping down his forehead and cheeks onto a ragged topcoat. The sight of the man and his condition shocked us. Undeterred, our father went straight to the stranger, calming him enough so the man could explain that he’d been in a fight beside the phone booth in front of the building. By that time Mom had given Dad the small first aid kit they kept under the bar. Dad stopped the worst of the bleeding, then told the man he would call for an ambulance and the police. The yet unidentified stranger vehemently declined the offer, steadied himself sufficiently to make it to the front door, then exited. Dad followed close behind. Satisfied the intruder hadn’t fallen down the couple of steps leading to the sidewalk, my father shut the door which had stood open during the entire incident. A prolonged sigh of relief hung over the remainder of our supper
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I ask you…what are the chances two young boys with white-sidewall haircuts, polite-to-a-fault, living in the newly-grown suburbs of the city of Dayton are going to see a bludgeoned, bloody stranger stumbling toward them while scarfing down their supper; oblivious to another larger, dangerous world filled with unanticipated, unwelcome intrusions?
As extraordinary as that episode was, a more disturbing event took place several years before at what would come to be our not-so-cozy home.
The Dayton Herald, March 30, 1939, reported, “Two bandits robbed George Sopronyi, proprietor of the Leo Cafe at 1124 Leo Street of $2,000 after rendering him unconscious and binding him to a post in the establishment early Thursday morning, according to the victim. Sopronyi, still suffering from effects of the attack, could not be questioned closely by investigating officers Thursday noon.” https://www.newspapers.com/article/the-dayton-herald-victim-says-money-take/203222388/
I could not look at or pass by that pole without seeing my nagypapa.
It isn’t uncommon for a family to live above its own establishment, but that arrangement was quickly declining. An explosion of new homebuilding outside Old North Dayton was a siren song after the war to city dwellers. Fresh country air and yards sodded with greenish grass became the core piece of the American Dream.
To my classmates, cousins, neighbors, anyone who did not live at 1124 Leo Street, a yard, particularly one covered by grass, probably wasn’t a very big deal. I thought that having that sort of yard was a big deal. Oh, we had space behind the joint for a yard. We had most of the ingredients needed to grow grass: sunshine, scattered islands of grass-like plants, dirt and water. Plenty of water! Somehow the ingredients didn’t mix as well in our yard as they seemed to in other people’s…
While “bar” always gets the top billing, the joint’s reputation was made on the “grill.” Every morning, excluding Sunday when it was closed, Mom and Dad rose early and went down to the kitchen to prepare the food for that day’s menu.
Standard American dishes such as beef stew, Swiss steak, one or two soups of the day, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and stewed tomatoes were freshly prepared every morning. The daily lunchtime fare stayed hot in a large steam table situated next to the end of the bar nearest the kitchen. A slice of one of several Bluebird Bakery pies finished-off many a meal. At three or three-thirty, the empty pots and those with a smidge of food still in them were returned to the kitchen and the steam table was turned off. Supper was not served to patrons, but a pork sandwich or chili was always available for night-shift workers and the regulars who rarely wandered home before capping off their day with a shot and a beer. Regardless of time of day, the food was always fresh, tasty and priced to match the neighborhood’s wallets and purses.
Despite the excellence of the American cuisine , the native Hungarian dishes were the most desired of all the daily menu items. Freshly prepared chicken paprikas with homemade dumplings was dependably the first to sell out. Stuffed cabbage and sauerkraut, potato, bean and fisherman’s soups, smoked sausage, and goulash gave even the most finicky customer plenty of delicious choices. There was no shortage of options when it came to desserts either: thin crêpes rolled up with fillings like sweet cottage cheese, cocoa, or apricot jam, and Dobos cake — 6 layers of thin sponge cake alternated with chocolate butter cream.
My brother and I were spoiled by the tempting aromas of our grandparents’ native foods while they were being prepared at home as well as for the numerous Hungarian weddings, funerals, festivals, and picnics taking place throughout the year. It wasn’t possible to be exposed simply to the variety of delicious, exotic food. To be a part of the Hungarian clan that spread beyond Old North Dayton meant becoming immersed in all aspects of the Old World Hungarian culture.
For example, the distinctive, colorful, flamboyant traditional folk costumes worn by both men and women couldn’t help but grab your attention when seen at an Hungarian wedding or social club. I know it did mine.
Hungarian music was a staple at many social gatherings. A combo at such get-togethers would feature a classic string band typically consisting of: lead violin, second violin or viola providing rhythmic chords and an upright double bass holding the low end. Larger or more formal gatherings often added a cimbalom (hammered dulcimer). [1, 2, 3, 4, 5] It was the cimbalom that never failed to capture my attention. Perhaps it was the novelty of the instrument itself or the “utterly frantic, fierce, and breathless” sounds the musician created when the hammers build from a slow dirge into a breakneck, frenzied csardas dance. https://www.spitfireaudio.com/en-us/products/originals-cimbalom
My grandparents immigrated from Hungary and Romania early in the twentieth century. My mother and father were first-generation Americans. They spoke Hungarian fluently and could read and write it. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents who spoke only Hungarian in their home. I began learning Hungarian at a very young age just by hearing it spoken constantly. There is a family story about me that arose from my grandparents allegedly telling Mom and Dad how “beautifully” I spoke Hungarian when I visited them, usually for a week at a time. I had no first-hand knowledge of this legend.
The flip side to the legend is that my parents neither encouraged us nor spoke Hungarian themselves in our home. I don’t know why, but it definitely degraded whatever language skill I may have had.
There was a night school in Dayton that taught Hungarian. Our parents never missed an opportunity to tell Bob and me that we were going to be sent to there to learn the language. That scared me sick because the school looked to me like a reform school whenever we drove past it and I thought we were going to be sent there as punishment for something. Our parents never followed through on what I thought were their threats.
As I grew older, I was becoming more aware of my Hungarian ethnicity. Instead of appreciating my roots, it compounded my sense of being an outcast. I was sure none of the other kids at school had the same background as I had. The only place I felt truly comfortable was with my cousins. I became ashamed of where I lived. I didn’t want to be a Hungarian anymore. I wanted to be just a kid with no strings attached. I wanted to live in a house just like everyone else. Don’t misunderstand me. I did not dwell on what I only sensed. I wasn’t far enough along in my maturity to do “dwelling.”
At age ten, something happened! at the joint that I did not imagine could ever happen. Dad announced he had found a different kind of job. We were moving! We were leaving Leo Street and the joint!
Dad and Mom decided that Bob and I should trade the view from barstools for something else. We had arrived at a point where a more “appropriate” way of life was called for. The siren song of the suburbs had lured the Sopronyi family from the joint to our first house together and …it had a sodded lawn of greenish grass
