This community of less than 6,000 people was named for French novelist Victor Hugo and has evolved into the home base for at least 3 travelling circuses. Sadly, I arrived in Hugo after sunset and missed out on the Circus Cemetery. Not only is this place forever linked (however loosely) to Les Miserables and circus folk (living and dead) but it is also the birthplace to B.J. Thomas. Although he was reared in Texas I feel there has to be some Hugo connection to such classics as “Hooked on a Feeling” and “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head”.
My first stop is the Circus City Diner. This place would be hell on earth for anyone suffering from Coulrophobia. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I have no fear of clowns and venture inside. Everyone knows a “crazy cat lady”. Now, imagine that cats are clowns and some people love them as pets. Crazy cat/clown lady built this place. There are some cool vintage looking circus posters surrounding the old Dairy Queen style booths but it’s all overshadowed by little clown statues hanging from fake bunches of balloons dangling from the ceiling. I imagine the clown coming to life. Crying in spite of his painted on smile knowing he cannot hold on to the bunch of balloons that keep him from plunging to his death. As his grip slips he tearfully says, “I lived to make you laaaaaaugh…” Splat. Nothing but oversized shoes and a messy blob of grease paint.
The menu is ok but wouldn’t really fit my definition of a greasy spoon diner. They don’t serve breakfast all day and they have a permanent salad bar in full public view. Not the kind of salad bar that’s wheeled out every now and then because “the health department makes us serve some vegetables every now and then”. They’re proud of this display of vegetables. Although I’m sure if I looked closer it was probably a salad bar mostly of meats and pudding with a couple of items that could, maybe, be vegetables.
As I look over the menu I hear another customer ask if the chicken fried chicken* is frozen or fresh. The waitress, with a bit of a snit, said, “Of course not! It’s all fresh.” Like the customer was ridiculous for even thinking such a fine establishment would disrespect the art of fried foods with frozen products. (For my friends to the East – chicken fried chicken is not the same as fried chicken. It’s like chicken fried steak but with chicken. And, no, chicken fried steak does not have chicken in it.)
I ordered a grilled cheese with turkey and side of tater tots. I do give them kudos for using freshly sliced turkey but it does not overshadow their other grilled cheese violations.
1) I firmly believe that a good grilled cheese made outside the walls of a domicile should indeed be made on Texas toast. (You will have to Google “Texas toast” if you do not know what it is as I have other items to cover in this blog and cannot continue with the responsibility of your culinary education.)
2) I like the stuff between my Texas toast to be cheddar cheese. Maybe pepper jack if I’m feeling non-traditional. If it is not made with cheddar please do not use some Kraft imitation. If you’re going to go that route you had best be using good ol’ government commodity cheese. And trust me, you’re in Indian Country, many of us can definitely tell the difference.
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| Eyeballed me the entire time... |
I finish most of the tots and grilled cheese only feeling like I’ve been betrayed with each bite. My uneasiness grows as I continue to soak in the décor. At this point I am not only entirely creeped out by the clown figurine staring at my meal but my self-diagnosed OCD is starting to kick in because of all the poorly hung and crooked pictures lining the walls. You might think I could turn the clown figurine away from me to alleviate the growing tension of this white faced peeping tom eyeballing my tots but I feared the fallout dare I touch one of these effigies. I could see the waitress running out screaming, “You keep your greasy grilled cheese fingers off of Bingo the Clown! Interloper! What did he ever do to you?!”
I would have felt more comfortable going around and straightening every picture in the place.
I pay the less than $5.00 bill and start to imagine what kind of dive bars would exist in this town. And would the patrons call it a dive bar or just call it the bar.
I stop to inquire at the gas station…
“You have any bars around here?” I ask.
“What kind of bars?” the cashier replies.
“Ummm…”
“Like small bars? ‘Cause that’s all we got. But we got two.”
“Ok, sure. Where are those?”
The cashier gives me directions and words of either amusement or warning. “They aren’t much but are ok if you don’t mind bottles flying at your head.”
“Oh. They’re those types of bars?” I ask surprising myself with an odd sort of happy curiosity.
“Yep. Sometimes. But they’re ok.”
“Now I definitely have to check them out.”
“You be safe now.”
The Red Star Bar is easy to miss, and I did miss it earlier on my way to Circus Diner, as the two are very close in proximity. You see, the Red Star is maybe as big as a two-car garage. However, it does have two pool tables rather close together. This, I’m guessing, is how many of the beer bottles start flying. Two girls are playing a couple of (obviously) drunken guys in a game. The belts these two girls are wearing immediately distract me. These are massively wide belts that are decorated in a way difficult to describe. I can only imagine this is the product of giving an epileptic a Bedazzler and putting them in a room with leather straps and a strobe light. I seriously thought these two gals might be tag team champions or won those in some sort of title fight. I tried to not stare, as I didn’t want to get cold-cocked during my first 30 seconds inside the mini-Thunderdome because I’m pretty sure one of those girls could kick my butt. And it’s a good thing I was minding my manners, as one of them was the bartender. A quick rundown of what the Red Star Bar has to offer: no draft, cash only, basic domestic labels (and Corona), cans and bottles are $2.00 but get there early for happy hour and cans are only $1.00! But, really, even with $1 cans I don’t think anyone in that place was happy. I stay long enough to hear a DUI story, listen to the tipsy bartender get frustrated with the “Mexican’s stupid broken English” (tip: talking louder doesn’t help), see a gal making out with a guy in a way that can only be described as intentional teen comedy mockery but sadly they were serious. I find myself growing increasingly thankful for several things I may have taken for granted before this moment.
Stop number two is the Silver Dollar Saloon. This place didn’t look small at all as the gas station clerk said but it did look very dead. A light was on outside but there were no other signs it was open. As I open the door there is a ghostly feeling of regret and disappointment. Opening the first door leads to a second door. Between the two doors is a ticket type window. I think they must have live bands or special events at this place. But it all becomes clear as I open the second door. I see a bare stage with a mirrored backdrop and two brass poles. In its “glory days” this place must have been a strip club. Regret and disappointment. Luckily I wasn’t exposed to what a Hugo, Oklahoma strip club could possibly entail. There were only three people in the bar. One customer, the bartender and her friend. Domestic bottles the same price as the Red Star. I suppose the lack of canned beer makes this place the classier of the two local drinking holes. There wasn’t anything interesting enough about this place to write about. But I did wonder why, with it’s ample space and nicer pool tables, did the crowd from the other bar not frequent this establishment. If only the group from the other place would come to this place maybe there would be some line dancing. Maybe a little two-step to Snoop’s “Gin and Juice”. I could only hope that these two bars would one day merge. Overcome whatever differences they have. But maybe the other group really likes canned beer. Or maybe the wounds go too deep. Perhaps the title of B.J. Thomas’s top charting 1975 hit sums it up best – “Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong”. And some wrongs can’t be undone…
