Don’t let a man who claims to play poker with the ghost of Harry Truman plan your birthday party.
That was just one lesson I learned while waitressing at the Top of the La Concha sometime around 1980. (Other lessons included never slicing hot peppers without protective kitchen gloves, and making sure the door to the ladies’ room was locked before holding a romantic rendezvous there.)
The seven-story La Concha Hotel was unrenovated and closed at that time, but its rooftop bar called the Top was a hangout for high-rollers and attorneys with offices on nearby Whitehead Street.
While county officials routinely conducted business at the Chart Room, the infamous pocket-sized bar at the Pier House Hotel, local legal dealings often took place at the Top. It made sense because the courthouse, public defender’s office and state attorney’s office were all practically next door to it.
The Top’s bartenders included Becky Ludacer, Aenne Medell, Cathy Flanagan, Andrea “The Greek” Weitz and Mikey Duncan — all beloved for providing strong drinks and quick-witted banter.
One of my jobs as day waitress was to call the state attorney’s and public defender’s offices to inform their staff of the kitchen’s daily lunch specials. Despite regularly opposing each other in court, the offices’ young lawyers exhibited friendly camaraderie over sandwiches and potato salad.
If they noticed the less-than-legal activity that sometimes occurred at the Top, they never mentioned it. Even when an “importer” strolled in with a large paper bag stuffed with cash, absentmindedly leaving it open on the bar for hours while he drank, they politely ignored the situation.
The kitchen at the Top was overseen by Bobby Carroll, an easygoing grey-haired man with a fondness for cocktails. Somehow he had become caretaker of the then-empty and as-yet-unrestored building known as Harry Truman’s Little White House, and he lived alone on the property.
It was well known that Truman, who spent 11 working vacations in Key West during his 1945-1952 presidency, enjoyed playing poker on a table that had been custom-built for him.
According to Bobby Carroll, the former POTUS’ passion for the game didn’t end with his death. In fact, Bobby said he frequently played poker at night with Truman’s ghost.
One day during my waitress shift, as I moped over boyfriend woes, Bobby realized my birthday was approaching. Inspired by the spirits he secretly imbibed in the kitchen, he determined to cheer me up by throwing me a lavish birthday party.
It would be a pig roast, he decided. They would cook a whole pig in the traditional manner, overnight in a “caja china” box while the chefs consumed copious quantities of alcohol. And they would do it on the grounds of the Little White House. What could possibly go wrong?
Initially, several things went right. The pig eventually got roasted, though not nearly as fast as the over-served chefs expected. Many people, including my favorite customers from the Top, showed up to wish me well.
Yet before the party’s end, I found myself running in haphazard circles around the Little White House grounds, unnerved and shrieking. Why? Because longtime friend Vic Latham, co-owner of the Full Moon Saloon, was inexplicably chasing me while waving the decapitated head of the pig — which had dripped enough barbecue sauce down his all-white outfit to make him look like a victim in a slasher film.
The ghost of Harry Truman remained absent. Or invisible. Or maybe he even materialized without being noticed in the general commotion.
Many years later, long after leaving the Top, I celebrated another birthday at the Little White House — by then beautifully restored and open for tours.
Pork was not served.
