Barry and Sue poured more than just coffee into Muddy Waters
Imagine for a moment if some forward-thinking chap (or chap-ette) made a movie about New London. No need for the whole "based on a true story" thing. We're so wonderfully wacky here that no poetic license is required.
The opening scene, of course, would be where Susan Devlin's dad created the original nerve center of the 06320. The place called Hughie's, where gabfests, group-thinks and garlic conspired to create an adaptation of Cheers, where everybody knew your name and they're (mostly) glad you came.
Progress (or lack thereof in this case) took Hughie's from us in 2000, prompting Sue and her husband Barry Neistat to eventually open what has become the city's new headquarters: Muddy Waters, a coffee shop in name only. It's a lot like Hughie's, not merely because Hughie's memorabilia graces the walls and because the garlic-ablaze Love Salad adorns the menu.
No, it's a lot like Hughie's because it's where you hang out just ... because. It's where all us blowhards, gasbags and blatherers meet daily to help politicians, attorneys, journalists, sports figures, police officers, firefighters, plumbers, EB folks, morticians, carpet cleaners, teachers, school administrators, social workers, judges, restaurateurs and others do their jobs better. Our advice is never solicited but always free.
Barry and Sue, who have decided to sell the place, probably have no idea the impact they've had on the community just by choosing the
vocation of coffee-pouring. They gave us a place. New London's always had places, by the way. Hughie's. Mr. G's. The Dutch. Where the characters provide the character, much like Publicans, the epicenter of J.R. Moehringer's timeless memoir, "The Tender Bar," a gin mill full of characters whose musings on life in general ought to be memorized.
Moehringer said this once about Publicans on NPR: "Something always comes over me as I walk in the door. I really do hear the voices of all those years. I hear the laughter, the echoes of that laughter, and I don't know. I feel kind of a warmth, but also a nostalgia because of the people who aren't with us anymore. It's a feeling of both pride, homecoming and some wistfulness thrown in, too."
Muddy's is that way for many of us, too. What a wonderful way for Sue Devlin to carry on her dad's name and more importantly his passion for bringing people together and making them laugh. The bar at Hughie's and the corner table at Muddy's. As they say in the credit card commercial: priceless.
Muddy's also illustrates that people will come downtown. It's just that the product needs to be worthy. Morning coffee and a few laughs are always worthy. I mean, if listening to Steve Montanari and Murray Renshaw argue about whose tomatoes are bigger isn't good enough entertainment, there's always Barry trying to figure out the cappuccino machine.
This pandemic, among other painful lessons imparted, has shown us the human hardwiring for social interaction is a very real thing. It's why we miss sports. Competition is one thing. But it's the idle chatter between pitches that keeps us coming back.
Happily, Barry and Sue are selling Muddy's to Dave Preka, a very successful businessman and good dude. Muddy's isn't going anywhere. But Barry and Sue are: to well-deserved retirement, where they can come in and sit at the corner table with the rest of us.
Somewhere up there, Hughie is smiling. His daughter and son-in-law couldn't possibly have served the city better or carried on the Devlin name with more success. The old stories from Hughie's are legendary, like the one Tony D'Angelo tells:
"Business hadn't been so hot at the restaurant," Tony D said once. "So Hughie and Mickey (Vendetto) rent a limo and park it in front of the restaurant. Then they spread the rumor around town that Frank Sinatra is there. Half hour later, you should have seen the place. Packed."
Now we'll have stories about Muddy's, too. The voices of all those years, as Moehringer says. Here's raising a cappuccino to you all.
This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro