University of Virginia Library

Resembles Manhattan's '21'

Gaslight : C'Ville's Magical Mystery Tour

By Charles Ribakoff and Chuck Hite
Cavalier Daily Staff Writers

—ed.

The Gaslight Court Stables Restaurant: Charlottesville's
version of '21,' more a legend then a restaurant, something
slightly less than a court, something more than a stable. A
place to be seen, and a place to see local celebrities, an
electropop carnival facade, hiding, housing and creating the
most interesting place in town to spend a meal.

There have been many attempts to describe John Tuck's

"Well, I'd like to have the ones in Washington and New York, but other than that I'd be glad to let the others in."

Gaslight. Most have failed because the Gaslight is different
things to different people, an ambiantic combination whose
total is somehow more than the sum of its parts. The Gaslight
is a state of mind that happily hides from stereotyping.

Walking into the Gaslight, one first sees a sign which says,
bicontextually, '21.' The resemblance to Manhattan's '21'
Club is intentional, and more successful than one might think
possible in Charlottesville. The goal of the Gaslight is to be,
like '21,' operated as a sort of informal club reserved for local
celebrities and pretenders with a group of regulars, exclusive,
hard to get into, a status symbol. In the same way that the
Krendles, owners of '21,' know most of their customers as
friends, owner John Tuck tries to know most of his customers.
Like '21,' the Gaslight is a great place to either drink or eat, or
drink and eat. Whereas downstairs at '21' is decorated with
mementos from its successful customers (Frank Gifford's
football helmet, Arnold Palmer's golf clubs, a Ford
vice-president's plastic Mark III, successful Ford dealer's
plastic Mustang) the Gaslight is decorated with mementos, art,
near art, and junk donated by its customers as well as that
ultimate Charlottesville symbol, the beer mug. Although the
Gaslight has no version of the elegant upstairs dining room at
'21,' Mr. Tuck promises one is coming next year.

The resemblance is not a coincidence. The Gaslight is the
result of a coincidental impulse Mr. Tuck had 7 years ago.
Having lost nearly all his money in an abortive attempt to
conform and run a Howard Johnson's, after past disasters with
the Gallery Court Motel and a trampoline center, he decided
to chuck it all. He gave a fabled farewell luncheon at 21 which
lasted, some 12 hours. Returning to Charlottesville to collect
his belongings, he happened to see the building that now
houses the Gaslight. Intrigued by its exposed beams, he
decided to use it originally for a fish and chips restaurant.
Then the Steak House, at the time the largest restaurant in
town, burned down. Inheriting both its waiters and its
customers, The Gaslight was in business, slowly but sincerely.

The decorating, a schizoponomonic montage, resulted from
a series of decorating parties held early in the restaurant's
history; free meals were given to the people who brought the
most interesting things in. Many of the things are noteworthy,
to say the least. There is a sequence of old photographs of
World War I aircraft dogfights that would make Snoopy
jealous, a photograph of Mr. Tuck "at his most photogenic" at
the age of about five, several memorable five card stud poker
hands, some horrendously overpriced paintings, and an electric
kaleidoscope which flashes changing images at the corners of
your mind. The losers paid, but enjoyed. All sorts of people
came in, and most have come back.

One of the most appealing features of the Gaslight today is
that it has maintained its broad mix of customers; there is no
Gaslight stereotype customer as there is at many restaurants.
On any given night, one may see several of the younger faculty
arguing theory, some distinguished-looking towns people having
dinner, perhaps a writer in a corner trying to finish a story, a
gaggle of straight looking older students trying to snow their
dates (and often succeeding; the Gaslight is conducive to that
sort of thing), a part of the ski team in a corner trying to
forget about Sweet Briar, (or remember), a first-year man with
a broken heart, learning to forget, nervously sipping his beer
and wondering if the "you must be 21" sign on the door is
enforced and hoping no one notices (and no one usually does),
and a slew of University leaders and intelligentsia. And of
course there's Mr. Tuck.

Any description of the Gaslight must continually return to
Mr. Tuck because, like all fine restaurants that are more than
food dispensaries, the Gaslight reflects the multi-faceted
personality of its owner. John Tuck, like all Gaul, is divided
into about three parts, being somewhat too much to be
contained in any one mortal. He sells more snails than anyone
in Virginia. He is a shrewd businessman who proudly admits
that the Gaslight has grossed over half a million dollars, of
which he has kept none. He runs a restaurant which gives the
best values in town (the $2.00 student special, available before
7, including an entree, salad, potato, and draft has to be one of
the best values available anywhere), while admitting he knows
nothing about food (he used to walk down the street to
Safeway to buy his meat). He claims to be too lazy to train his
waiters who, mysteriously, are the most courteous in
Charlottesville. He can tell more weird stories about
Charlottesville than nearly any other man alive. (Did you
know that Charlottesville is the release point for the annual
short distance homing pigeon race to New Jersey? It really is.)
He would love you to think that he's British, and he plays the
role more perfectly than most Englishmen (the Gaslight closes
every night with a marching rendition of "God Save the
Queen".) He is someone who loves to talk about anything, and
loves having his customers talk to him (unless he is eating,
when he smiles, converses politely, and makes a mental note to
invoke a voodoo curse on whoever allows his dinner to get
cold).

He is full of ideas. Next year he plans to open an adjoining
room, more elegant than the existing facilities, and perhaps
issue keys to his regulars for coming in the back door. He
dreamily thinks about franchising (Well, I'd like to have the
ones in Washington and New York, but other than that I'd be
glad to let the others in.") and he wants his Gaslight to be
Something, a place where students, who usually have to rely
on their father's influence to get into places, make their own
name, where perhaps their fathers will have to use their son's
influence to get in.

There is little else to say about the Gaslight; to

intellectualize is to destroy its charm, which is totally
emotional. It is the sort of place where one can forget an
occasional bad meal. See it for yourself; it is a sort of pop art
museum that doesn't charge admission, and happens to serve
great food and a variety of beer and wine. I like the Gaslight.

And how many places in Charlottesville can you say that
about?