By Chris Lane
By Jeff Balke
By Aaron Reiss
By Angelica Leicht
By Dianna Wray
By Aaron Reiss
By Camilo Smith
By Craig Malisow
In Bill Sadler's mind, his restaurants run together. Was it at the River Cafe or Cafe Noche where Ntozake Shange wrote parts of a novel? Was it at Noche or the Moose Cafe where Al Reinert and Bill Broyles polished the dialogue for Apollo 13? Was it the Blue Agave that Dennis Hopper dropped into? And what about Cloris Leachman? Sadler shrugs and grins. He remembers the jokes and the stories and the names worth dropping, but the restaurants -- his own restaurants -- have faded to the background, stage sets for the cast he assembled. "My crowd," he calls them, the artists and writers, lawyers and politicos, who followed him from place to place, knocking back drinks and exchanging quips about the Issues of the Day, no matter what day it happened to be. Sadler describes the atmosphere with a bright little bar-perfect quip: "We killed many a brain cell in pursuit of intellectualism." He laughs, the way that, in his bars, he was always laughing.
He opened his first restaurant, the River Cafe, for the worst of reasons: He'd always built his social life around restaurants and liked the idea of running one, something sophisticated, like the places he'd loved in San Francisco. It was 1982, and the oil bust had just killed his crating and shipping company. He had no excuse for being naive, for not noticing the economy's trouble, for not realizing that opening a restaurant is the least likely of business propositions.
But at first, he succeeded anyway. His people came in droves: the chattering class, his old Montrose drinking buddies, the demi-celebrities he naturally gravitates toward. He was known as a soft touch for artists and writers in need of a drink, or for left-wing groups in need of a party. He shook hands, remembered names and tried to make sure that the funny, smart ones came back. "If you gotta hang out at the bar all night long," he says, "you damn sure want somebody interesting to talk to."
Artist Lucas Johnson came with his friend Dick Wray. Mayor Kathy Whitmire showed up with her agenda director, Clarence West. A weekly politics-and-media bull session jelled around the Houston Press's Tim Fleck, the Houston Business Journal's Doug Miller and UH's ubiquitous analyst Dick Murray. And always, there was Sadler, schmoozing and boozing and generally making his bar feel like the center of the universe, the liveliest party in town. Somebody in the crowd quipped that he was Houston's version of Rick Blaine: Sooner or later, everybody ended up at Sadler's.
After about a year and a half, the recession set in for good, and the River suffered like every other place. The crowd thinned to the hard core; the party died down. Sadler had always worked 18-hour days, but now he worked them unsure whether the River would survive. The uncertainty wore him out. In '89, after the economy and the restaurant had righted themselves, he sold the place and announced he was leaving the business.
"I wanted to work with my hands instead of with people," he explains. It comes off as a joke, another little piece of bar banter: Bill Sadler, life of the party, wanted to retreat from humanity! But free of the restaurant business, he had time to get married. And for the next couple of years, he ran a woodworking shop, driving to Mexico with Lucas Johnson to buy carved panels that he turned into doors. Nice doors, he says. I made some nice doors.
But by '92, he was hanging some of those doors in his new restaurant, Cafe Noche. The River was Southwestern, and Noche was Mexican, but the bar crowd hardly noticed the difference. They were Sadler's people, and he was back. They joked that, driving down Montrose, you could feel him magnetically pulling you into the bar.
By '96, Sadler was getting restless, and he opened the Moose Cafe. He'd been spending time in Canada and wanted to salute the Pacific Northwest, to serve salmon, shrimp cooked on a cedar plank, stuff like that. The bar did well -- Sadler's bars always did well -- but this time around, the restaurant didn't catch fire. Competition had grown fierce, with ambitious new restaurants opening practically every week. In '82, the River had been the only serious restaurant to open in Montrose, and its hot-new-place glow lingered nearly a year and a half. The Moose got maybe a month.
The honeymoon period was too short to gloss over the place's problems. The concept was too highbrow, Sadler says; the decor was too spare for Houston, where less has never been more, and he had the wrong person in the kitchen. (Chef Valerie Rovira later surfaced at Cafe Beignet.)
Sadler felt he was stretched too thin, running back and forth between his two restaurants, and in '97, he sold Cafe Noche to its chef, Alan Mallet. But at the Moose, Sadler was still the first in and last out, still closing down the bar, going home in the wee hours and leaving for work not much later. His wife divorced him, and Sadler turned that, too, into a bar joke: "I got excommunicated from West University."