THE
QUINTESSENTIAL COLONIAL
TAVERN
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by Chris Poh
 I
love the word, quintessential and I tend to abuse
it on a fairly regular basis. Depending on my mood and locale, I might
hang this title on several other historic taprooms and inns scattered
throughout the thirteen original colonies. From Boston to Savannah,
there are a handful of storied rooms whose wide-planked floors have
been gouged by the heavy boot heels of agents intent on completing the
king's business, and scuffed by the worn leather soles of men worried
about taxes, yellow fever, and failed crops.
Many of these places have taken on a museum like atmosphere, that,
while interesting, tend to put undue limitations on one's own curious
nature. I often find myself waiting to be shushed or told to put
the blunderbuss back on the mantle. So perhaps it is accessibility more
than anything else that gives the Black
Bass Hotel an edge over its colonial counterparts.
 My own association with the
establishment began
in the mid 1980's.
Since that time many hours, with ale in hand, have been spent exploring
the spoils and remnants of two hundred and sixty years of American and
English history that fill the rugged framework of this delightful
retreat on the Delaware River.
Located just a few miles north of the heights from which Washington
kept a watchful eye on the British prior to his audacious attack on the
Hessian Troops billeted in Trenton, one might expect to find the usual
spirit of 76 accoutrements that adorn most colonial inns. But here one
is more likely to see a portrait of George the Third rather than the
venerable master of Mount Vernon. As was the case with many of the
areas population during that period, the innkeepers remained loyal to
the crown.
  
That small matter of personal politics has helped to shape the unique
charm and atmosphere of the Black Bass Hotel.
Preserved within its walls are three centuries of the stories and
struggles of both the old and new world - the American experience with
a European flare.
  On a recent afternoon, I find
myself once more engaged in a bit of
fanciful time travel. While clutching a tankard of English Pale, I stop
to run my free hand across the pewter bar brought over from Maxims in
Paris. I wander upstairs to sit on the balcony of the guest room
President Grover Cleveland favored during his stays. I watch kayakers
glide beneath the structure of the Roebling Footbridge that spans this
stretch of the Delaware. The summer heat and an empty glass drive me
back inside. I take my second beer at the original bar located in the
wine cellar. I straddle a bench made from a tree that sprouted long
before Europeans walked the forests of North America. My eyes scan the
stone walls that provided refuge to canal boatmen seeking repast and
recreation. Before taking my leave, I step back into the 21st century.
As I make my way across the footbridge back to new Jersey, a bold
declaration disrupts my daydreams. It occurs to me at this point in
time, that I have just left the quintessential colonial tavern.
OUTSIDE THE BLACK
BASS HOTEL
 I
t is a clear, brisk, spring afternoon, and I find myself once more standing
over a small piece of ground across from the Black Bass Hotel.
it is a rare
occasion indeed when my enthusiasm for the exterior of a great tavern
matches my intrigue of its inner workings.
I read the names of the fallen
companions
etched in the small blocks of quarried granite and marble: Sputnick(sp),
Hansel Extra Wicked, and Tallulah Wiggle. There are several
others who lay beneath this patch of moss and wild flowers; the
cherished
feline friends of the former owner of the hotel, who has also now
passed on
 
I
smile as the name Tallulah quietly
passes over my lips, and I remember the calicoes and tabbies that have
touched my life. A cat is very much like a good tavern. They provide
solace and shelter, and when you
allow yourself the privilege of existing within their space, time can
almost come to a halt. The harshness of life is softened.
Miss Wiggle
kept her dance card full from November of 1947 through
early May of 1954. I can imagine her sitting on top of the kitchen
table surrounded by knotty pine cabinets and avocado colored
appliances, helping to comfort a young man dealing with the red scare,
war
on the Korean Peninsula and fears of the atomic age.
A note book computer sits on my kitchen table. The fingers of a not so
young man tap out these words as the invisible paws of departed
caretakers stroll by. Again, in my mind's eye, I see the graveyard,
and once more I softly exhale the litany on names: Sputnick , Hansel
Extra Wicked and Tallulah Wiggle. I look around my kitchen, and the
litany continues: Blackie, Baby Squeaks, and Edgar Allan . .
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