Murphy's Tavern - Barryton

Murphy's Tavern - Barryton

Date Visited: 9/30/2007

Barryton is like a slot of towns in central MI – one major route going thru town, a blinking yellow light in the “middle” of town at the intersection of the other main street, a hardware store, an antique store, a barber shop. And like a lot of other small towns, it has a tavern, a bar, a local watering hole where on a Friday night, the factory workers and truck drivers rest their weary feet and catch up with their buddies they hadn’t seen all week.

When you get to Barryton off of route 66, go east on 30th Ave. about, oh, 26 feet, follow the smell of deep fried smelt and Marlboros, and you’ve found Murphy’s. The backlit sign mounted in front of the bar draws the people from town in like moths to a flame, like mosquitoes to the blue zapper thing. If you arrive in late September on a Friday night, as we did, you’ll find the place decked out in Halloween gear – webs, fake spiders, the whole bit. You’ll also find the palce decked out with hunters of all varieties – large ones, skinny ones, drunk ones, and old ones. Combine that with karaoke night, and you’ve got small Gong show. Contestant number one – Big Al – 5’4”, 300 pounds, dressed head-to-toe in fall camo, cheered on by his 20-some year-old son, belting out Charlie Daniels like he was by himself in the shower. He wasn’t, of course; he was known by every single person in the bar, which was packed tighter than Al’s belly in those camo pants, and everyone was cheering him on like he was Barry Manilow circa 1978.

Murphy’s probably legally sat 100 people – there’s probably 150+ on any given Friday night. We found the only open table when we walked in at 10PM – a small stand table – against the wall with no chairs, next to the pool table in the back, where the local shark was crushing all comers, daring put their stack of quarters on the table to challenge him. There weren’t too many beers on tap, a small spirit selection, decent bar food which included a $5 burger basket, but that’s not what you come for. You come to have the local drunk, who’s never laid eyes on you before in his life, come up to you and talk to you like you’re his next door neighbor. You come to scope out ‘Sally’ hanging out with her friends, the one with the great body, but whose face could melt butter and who chews her gum like Mr. Ed. You come to feel like you’re part of the town, which is what you are once you step foot into Murphy’s.