The Tivoli

A version of this “memo” is on my weekly Substack newsletter called Love Me Avenue—you can subscribe to it, if you’d like. I forgot to add that the illustration (a painting by Charles W. Moss) in the guidebook, shows the modest Tivoli dining room with a smorgasbord setup in the background. In the foreground there’s man by himself at a table—there alone? No, a woman’s purse sits by the other chair—so she’s either in the little girl’s room, or more likely, getting food at the buffet. So why is this guy sitting there with no food and a forlorn look? Smorgasbord too exotic for him? Or are they quarreling? Whatever did Moss have in mind?

I’d heard of this place (probably from the 1950 guidebook) but never ate there—and I’m not sure how long it lasted—it might not have even been possible without the time machine—but anyway, it was close by (an hour or so drive from where I grew up) on Monroe Street in Toledo, Ohio. Online map indicates that its former location is now a Kroger parking lot. Oh well, there are worse things it could be—like… a pit leading to Hell. The restaurant, which featured a smorgasbord, was named (by its Danish owners) after the Tivoli Gardens in Denmark, one of the world’s oldest and most popular amusement parks. Interesting that I grew up near one of the oldest and most popular amusement parks in the U.S., and my favorite restaurant was the San-Dar Smorgasbord in Bellville, Ohio (about the same distance away as Toledo)—and let me tell you, this was no Shakey’s Buffet. It was very old-fashioned, and you could load up on the frogs’ legs, if you desired. It had a dessert table to die for (if it didn’t kill you first)—it was beautiful, like Jackie Gleason as Minnesota Fats—and I could eat wheat, then, too. What we did go to Toledo for was Smoker’s Inn, a place where I used to buy some fine pipe tobacco—one called MacGregor’s that I was obsessed with, and still am, since I can’t nail down the essence—really, to its fullest extent, at least. I’m not even sure if that’s spelled right—but it’s long gone, anyway. I could smoke, back then, too.

I’m fighting post-project depression (not that bad, really, I suppose, since it’s overshadowed by new fascist government horrific shitshow nausea depression)—still, you can’t get entirely out of your selfish head. Why? Oh, because I finished my novel (still not giving up the title). That was four of five years of really enjoyable hard work. Last week was four or five days of hair-pulling frustration, trying to write a synopsis. If you want me to write you a novel, sure, why not, or if you want me to help you move, glad to. But for the love of God don’t ever ask me to write a synopsis! Oh no, I just noticed that Super Bowl 19 is underway, and people will be arriving soon for the party! No time to proofread this, sorry! Under eight minutes to go it the first quarter (this is being written in real time, Dad!) and I’ve still got to clean my toilet and start the crab dip aging! Fortunately, it’s BYOB, but the savvy guest will bring me a sparkling water I haven’t yet tried. Good luck, there! On the other hand, I was just kidding. No one’s coming over. “Fox” (TV station) stopped coming in (except for a little graphic that says “No Signal”). Really? I live in a city, last I checked. So, I’ve missed the Chief’s historic comeback. No Superbowl party. No aged crab dip or ranch casserole. The toilet still needs to be cleaned.

—Randy Russell 2.9.25