Clemsons: The Gay Cheers of St. Louis - Part 1
Every Friday night, like clockwork, Michael and I would clock out of our day jobs and clock into weekend therapy—at Clemsons, St. Louis’s gay version of Cheers, if Cheers had a jukebox that stuck on Donna Summer and a clientele that knew how to work a pool cue in heels. It wasn’t just a bar. It was a ritual. A refuge. A riot.
And our weekly ritual always included our buddy Tom—funeral director by day, sports and vodka enthusiast by night. Tom had that undertaker handshake: soft but firm, solemn, and slightly damp, paired with eye contact that whispered, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” even if you’d just ordered mozzarella sticks. He could go from planning the embalming of a stranger to hollering at the Cardinals game in under an hour, and we loved him for it. He was the kind of guy who’d toast to life with a vodka soda while still wearing his dress shoes from the viewing.
Owned by partners, James and Jerry and James’s sister, Jill—the trio with more quirks than a RuPaul reunion special—Clemsons was held together by equal parts booze, bravado, and the sheer willpower of James’s sister.
James—bless him—was a heavy-set man with a deep, almost erotic obsession with New Orleans. He and Jerry had a condo there and were frequently “on sabbatical,” which is gay bar code for “we’re drunk in the French Quarter and not coming back until the beignets run out.”
Jerry, meanwhile, was a walking cautionary tale in a black suit that never changed—except in saturation, depending on how many screwdrivers he’d had. He was known to wet himself after round five and still try to flirt with the new bartender like nothing had happened. And honestly? We respected the commitment.
But the real backbone of Clemson’s was Jill. That woman was a Marlboro-smoking, rum-and-diet-coke-drinking goddess of grit. She ran a chain of laundromats by day and the bar by night, perched on her stool like a queen surveying her kingdom. Even after losing a lung to cancer, she kept puffing like the building was on fire and she was the only one with a hose. She watched the cash register, the bartenders, and the clientele with the precision of a Vegas pit boss and the sass of a drag queen who’s been stood up.
The bartenders. What an assortment of characters. If you a regular customer, you could expect a stiff pour and an occasional “this one is on the house.” Snarky banter, tasteless jokes, personal sharing, and the mad dash to serve a packed bar on most nights describes the scene behind that famous bar.
And then there was John—our bartender, our bear in bibs, our farm-to-bar icon. Big guy, scruffy beard, glasses, and always in OshKosh overalls like he’d just plowed a field and detoured into a disco.
He moved to St. Louis after graduating high school, when a cousin outed him to his parents back in central Illinois. Their response? A visit to the family’s Southern Baptist minister, who solemnly advised that the most loving thing they could do was to emotionally unplug from their son like he was bad cable news. Inner voice: “Ah yes, the gospel of selective amnesia—straight from the Book of Emotional Sabotage.”
John found refuge at Clemsons, where he became a legend behind the bar. They gave him the busiest shifts, and if his tip jar was telling the truth, he made more in a year than I did in the Missouri Public School System. Honestly? He deserved hazard pay and a tiara.
Now, Clemsons wasn’t just a bar—it was a nightly circus where the only ringmaster was chaos, and the crowd never needed a script. The jukebox didn’t just play; it roared, thumping like a caffeinated marching band in a phone booth. And the smoke? Good lord. It clung to you like a jealous ex, so thick you practically needed a compass to find the door—and a hazmat bag for your clothes once you made it out.
Regulars staked their turf like medieval lords defending a karaoke kingdom—dramatic, immovable, and always one cocktail away from declaring war over a barstool. Newcomers learned quickly: one misplaced glance, one ill-timed joke, and you could find yourself exiled to the sticky end of the bar with nothing but judgment and a watered-down gin and tonic.
And tucked inside this boozy universe, like a secret garden with a liquor license, was The Rainbow Fork Café. It wasn’t just an add-on—it was the pulsing stomach of the place. A restaurant so gloriously chaotic it made your grandma’s kitchen look like a showroom. Pots clanged like cymbals, grease popped like fireworks, and the aroma of butter, smoke, and reckless charm drifted through the swinging doors, wrapping every patron in a hug that smelled faintly of garlic and mischief.
At the helm of this culinary circus was Bubba—not a chef, mind you. That title implies culinary school and a working thermometer. Bubba was a cook, and a damn good one, if you didn’t mind your pot pie arriving with a side of attitude. His chicken pot pie was legendary—flaky crust, creamy filling, and just enough salt to make you question your blood pressure. And on weekends? Honey, he turned that kitchen into a prime rib altar. Thick cuts, horseradish cream sauce that could clear your sinuses and your sins, and butter, sour cream, bacon-topped baked potatoes that should’ve come with a cardiologist’s business card.
Then there was Debster, the hostess. Calling her “unfriendly” is like calling vodka “hydrating.” Debster guarded that waitlist like it was the nuclear codes. You could be a regular for ten years, show up with a smile and a coupon, and she’d still look at you like you just asked to borrow her toothbrush. She had the energy of a DMV clerk with a superiority complex and the fashion sense of someone who once modeled for a Sears catalog in 1977. But she got the job done—eventually.
And then—Waitress Darla. Sweet, sparkly, and so saccharine she could give you a cavity just by saying hello. Darla was the undisputed queen of the café. Slim as a string bean, face painted like a drag show angel, and hair pinned tighter and higher than a Pentecostal preacher’s wife. She floated from table to table like a Southern belle on roller skates, tossing out endearments like Mardi Gras beads.
“Well hi honeys! Come over here and give me some sugar!”
“You need more cocktails, babies?”
“What are you two sweeties having tonight, darlings?”
It was like being served by Dolly Parton’s long-lost cousin who’d been raised on glitter and gospel. We would practically throw elbows to get seated in her section. One time, I saw a grown man fake a limp just to get sympathy-seated by Dora. She didn’t blink—just brought him a double bourbon and coke and called him “her brave little soldier.”
The Rainbow Fork Café wasn’t just a restaurant. It was a fever dream with gravy. And we loved every damn bite.
Clemsons wasn’t just a bar. It was our cathedral of chaos, lit by neon and nicotine. Our weekly ritual of clocking out of the grind and clocking into something raw, ridiculous, and restorative. It was where we laughed until our ribs hurt, cried into our cocktails, and found communion in the chaos.
Empathy on the Rocks
That’s what Empathy on the Rocks is all about—honoring the people, places, and peculiar rituals that shaped us. Clemsons offered more than drinks and drama—it gave us stories. Each laugh, each whispered confession, each clink of a glass was another stone in the river of who we became. Empathy isn’t built on smooth, easy pebbles; it’s forged on the jagged rocks of our shared history, the ones that bruise and polish us at the same time. Clemsons handed us those stones, and oh, do we have stories.
Coming Up in Part Two
So stay tuned for Part 2, where we dive into the unforgettable lore of this St. Louis institution:
The Blizzard of 1982, when the bar stayed open and the drag queens refused to shovel snow in heels.
The world-famous marble bar on the patio, where more secrets were spilled than cocktails.
And yes, the rat that ate the cheese in The Rainbow Fork’s walk-in cooler—because even the rats knew crossing Bubba was a one-way trip to the deep fryer
The week John sadly moved back to the farm in Illinois.
The final insult? The place was sold to a couple who turned our glitter-soaked sanctuary into a straight sports bar.
It’s all coming. Grab a cocktail, light a candle (or a cigarette if you’re channeling Jill), and settle in. The next round’s on me.