By Jay Jamison
Photo special to The Source
There is plenty of time for reflection while standing in a long visitation line. Robin Vidakovich passed away on Monday, August 10.
He was the proprietor of Bahan’s Tavern in Jacksonville. The turnout to offer some condolences to the family was enormous. Rob wasn’t just a tavern owner. The people in line weren’t folks who merely transacted business with another merchant in town.
The atmosphere at Bahan’s, during lunch, on Taco Day, at Saturday morning breakfast and in all the intervening hours, has been more akin to that of an extended family. He seemed to know the names of everyone. There are many “Rob” stories out there, so here are a few.
Shortly after my company built our new building at the corner of Douglas Avenue and East Street, we had a power outage, and all production came to a halt. There was little to do but open the overhead doors and wait for the power to come back on.
Bahan’s was also dark. As we sat there waiting, we saw two men emerge from the front door of Bahan’s. One was wearing a yellow hard hat and the other wore goggles. They were wearing leather tool belts, and they both had coils of heavy-duty orange drop cord.
They were Rob Vidakovich and Pudge Ward. They walked directly toward us. Rob asked if we had any power. I said no.
“Well, we’re going to keep on walking until we find someone with power, then we’ll plug-in and run the line back to the bar.” The scene was idiotic, and hysterically funny. Our businesses were at a standstill, yet Rob found a way to lighten up the day for his staff, as well as for us.
Bahan’s always serves a plate lunch with salad bar each weekday. One day I sat at my usual table and Rob took my order. The special was chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and peas.
I told him I’ll have the special, but no peas. He delivered my lunch and as I was about to tuck into the repast, I noticed Rob and the kitchen staff, lined up grinning at the kitchen door. They were all looking directly at me.
I swirled my fork through the mashed potatoes and discovered a single hidden pea. I raised the concealed pea for all to see. The guys in the kitchen doorway gestured that their plot had been discovered. Wisecracking and kidding have been a staple for regulars at Bahan’s.
Rob put in crushing hours of hard work in his nearly fifty years at Bahan’s, and yet he took time for a moment of levity with a single pea.
My cousin and her husband were in town some years ago. We decided to go to Bahan’s for lunch on Taco Day. We got a table in the beer garden. Rob waited on us, and I introduced them to my tavern-owning friend.
Tom, my cousin’s husband, told me he’d pick up the check. Rob went back into the tavern, and then came out with the entire receipt roll from the cash register, and dramatically unrolled it in streamers, saying, “Here’s your bill.” We all roared with laughter. On one of the busiest days of the week, Taco Day, Rob decided to make an elaborate joke for the benefit of my cousin and her husband.
During his cancer treatment, Rob showed up at the bar on a slow business Saturday afternoon. He was wearing a ballcap with fake hair flowing down to his shoulders. It was a funny sight. He wasn’t just covering that he had lost his hair to the cancer treatment. He was also trying to pick us up. Here was a man in the fight of his life, yet he thought to cheer us up. That was Rob Vidakovich.
The innumerable conversations, acts of kindness, jokes, the admiration for hard work, and integrity explain the long line in Rob’s honor last week.
