Somerville Bagel Bard Krikor Hohannesian is our feature this week. He wrote the LYRICAL: “The poem was written with the intent to contrast the Church Street of 1970 with what it is today as a sort of social commentary. As some of us “elders” remember the Chez Dreyfus was a somewhat upscale French restaurant with a separate bar room area. A Runyonesque group of characters, myself included, came to hang out at the bar on Friday afternoons – one would be hard-pressed to create a more disparate group of characters. The conversations were loud, raucous, lively and reflective of the socio-political sentiments of the times. The Chez, is of course, long gone and, as the end of the poem depicts, the scene on the Church Street of today is in stark contrast other than the Christian Science Reading Room still being there!”

Krikor Hohannesian.

FRIDAY AFTERNOONS AT THE CHEZ

In the rain and wind on Church Street
a stone’s throw from The Square
a gust of nostalgia eddies
the gutter trash – crushed beer cans,
dog-eared flyers and soppy snipes –
some things never change. I flash on
the Swiss jeweler, a gremlin
in perpetual stoop, loupe
screwed to his right eye,
Bulovas staring out the shop
window. The corner bookstore
where you could hang all day
with no “can I help you?” And
why was there never a soul in
the Christian Science reading room?
But most of all, the Chez Dreyfus
bar, Friday afternoons anytime
after three. South Boston Eddie
the barkeep, white shirt starchy,
black bow tie askew, polishing
shot glasses, pilsners and
snifters ready for his posse – once
he told us he’d thought he’d
seen everything until we came
along: black, brown, white and
everything in between. There
was Billy C, “the borstal boy”
with the crapulent kisser
Judas to a lifetime of
too many shots of Bushmill’s
washed down with a growler
or three, regaling all with
Irish-laced banter and Boston
politics. Cherubic Carl
who sipped his Hennessey’s
with pinkie extended and
blew blue smoke from
his meerschaum all the while
expounding on Sartre and
Descartes. And the Friday
round table of the cats from
the Ed School. Willy B., once
right hand to Dr. King, swearing
that melanin was the only
difference between him and me.
Gerard the epicene, milk chocolat,
“wha’s happ’nin’, man!” always
on the prowl for good reefer.
Roosevelt from Bed-Stuy, equally
at ease with raps on the foibles
of public education or the attributes
of the fine young fox two tables over.
And my main man, Emmett, truck
driver from Paterson on his way
to two doctorates, his brother
in for a stretch at Attica. That

was then and this is now: a chi-chi
salad bar, upscale boutiques
anorectic mannequins empty-eyed,
students with cell-phones jammed
tight to their ears, eyes cast down
to the pavement soaked with
the silence of a thousand stories.

— Krikor Hohannesian

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