Month: August 2017

Cathy and Kirk have their own posts and their own memories; this post is about Ed (from Yuma) and Tina exploring his memories in a post.

I had not returned to Jackson County in Southern Oregon since my mother’s death in January 1981. On this visit, I had to go to Four Daughters Irish Pub on W. Main St. in Medford. The entrance was easy to spot from across the street:

The front door was inviting:

For me, the floor views toward the back and easily exceeded my expectations:

And I was delighted to see this brief history of the building posted on the wall in Four Daughters

One key point stands out from this history – Christian Schempp’s Beer Parlor and the subsequent Union club only occupied the eastern half of the building space until you got nearly a third of the way through the building, so they were much smaller bars and lacked all these brick walls, tables etc.        

         But this space had a more personal meaning also: My grandfather, Christian Schempp, apprenticed as a butcher and sausage maker in the old country. He and his wife, Marie, came to the United States in 1923, and they had their first child, Hilda, my mother, a couple of months after their arrival. Christian was a hard worker and ambitious. By the late 1930s, he owned a meat packing plant in Modesto, California. However, he had been gassed in the Argonne Forest during the First World War and had severe sinus and related problems throughout his life. In 1939 an attack of mastoiditis nearly killed him. His doctor told him to give up cold damp conditions, which meant he had to give up meat packing.

As a result, he moved to Medford and purchased what would become Christian Schempp’s Beer Parlor in 1940.

Not long after Pearl Harbor, according to one of his favorite stories, he realized that the government would begin rationing and restricting the supply of beer, so he purchased a warehouse (?) full of beer. When the Army opened a training base at Camp White a few miles away, his tavern was the only place in town with enough beer to satisfy the thirsty GIs.

In early 1945, my father William Edmond (Ed) Davis was liberated from a POW camp in the Philippines and after medical treatments etc. was discharged from the Army. He made his way up to Medford. Soon my dad began working for my grandfather, where he met my mother, falling in love, and I was born in November, 1947.

In the early 1950s, Oregon legalized liquor by the drink, and my grandfather purchased a liquor license.Now that the bar was now more than a beer parlor led to the change in the name to The Union Club. In 1950s, my father took over more and more responsibilities of running the bar. When Christian had a severe stroke in 1958, he sold the bar to my dad and had a busy and pleasant retirement.

Soon my father (and my mother) were faced with a crisis. Oregon began requiring establishments with a liquor license to do at least 25% of their gross sales in food. Perhaps the measure was an effort to reduce deaths from alcoholism and cirrhosis, but it would also free up some liquor licenses for corporate hotel chains opening along the interstate highway system.

Until that time, The Union Club served a small selection of bar favorites. They could griddle up a hamburger or cheeseburger, and my dad’s beef stew and chili were always available. Bar snacks like pickled pigs’ feet and pickled eggs and peanuts were favorites, but all of these put together were less than 5% of gross sales. Therefore, they installed a full kitchen with lunch counters and booths in the middle of the building. Having steady income from the bar, they sold food at cost, and the Union Club became a popular lunch spot that also did some dinner business.

My mother managed the kitchen in its early years, and in the summer, I washed dishes for the lunch rush and sometimes did prep work and waited tables in the evening.

In the early 1970s, my father’s health began to fail and he sold the establishment.

Aologizes for the long historical interlude, but it helps to explain why I was so amazed at the transformation of the bar.

Now to the food. While the extensive menu covers all kinds of bar food, we could sample just a few, and it is really hard to sneak deep-fried mushrooms past my wife:

 
Really great crunchy exterior, moist mushroomy interior. They came with a ranch dipping sauce, and for poor lactose intolerant me, some good old-fashioned course mustard.

And beer. Four Daughters does not have a huge tap list, but there were still plenty of choices – both of these are brewed on premises:

Tina ordered the meatloaf, two thick slices, spiced with oregano, and accompanied by decent grilled vegetables, creamy cheddar mashed potatoes, and a thick slice of bread and butter:

I went for the old-fashioned Irish beef stew:

This broke no new culinary grounds, but the gravy was plenty beefy, the mashed potatoes creamy and flavorful, and the portion as much as I could eat.

Already stuffed at this point, we took our bread pudding back to the room with us:

Before we left, they urged us to go upstairs and look at the casual bar area. About two years ago, my right meniscus convinced me that climbing stairs was not something my 67-year-old knees could do anymore, so I handed Tina the camera sat back and drink beer, and waited for her return. It wasn’t until I saw the photographs later that I became aware of how the owners had transformed the space into a truly amazing bar and lounge. Here is a picture from climbing the backstairs:

This large room with 110-year-old brick walls, tons of cushy furniture, looks like a great place to show up at 8 PM and be escorted out by a Lyft driver at 1:45.

More great brick wall:
and the huge upstairs bar:

Tina took this photo of the giant staircase:

Glad I wasn’t climbing that. And when she came back to the ground floor she found your humble author approaching sensory overload and a food/alcohol induced form of enlightenment:

I hope you all enjoyed, and I just want to dedicate this post to ALL our immigrant mothers, fathers, and ancestors. We/they are America.