Life on Tap: Tales from Maloneys - Ep. 1
A "Special" Kind of Passion
In 2003, a cozy, one-story tavern opened in downtown Overland Park, Kansas. Maloneys had a wooden L-shaped bar, full-service kitchen, and a mix of booths and high-tops. It was your standard sports bar—but with the kind of old-world charm that drew in anyone seeking good food and even better conversation.
Twenty years later, Maloneys has doubled in size and now has a wraparound patio, second-story bar, and outdoor balcony. Still, it remains a comfy, welcoming favorite for a number of locals. Including me.
Every inch of Maloneys, inside and out, is covered in TVs. Football, baseball, and basketball are prominently featured, but there’s a lot of lesser-known—even weird, some would say—sports you can catch, too, whether it’s Corgi racing, Power Slap competitions, or the Microsoft Excel World Championship. (For real, my friend Steve and I were enthralled—we love us a spreadsheet with intricate macros.)
What truly sets Maloneys apart isn’t the screens or the upgrades—it’s the people. The bartenders, servers, managers, kitchen crew, and especially the regulars are the heartbeat of this place.
We’re a colorful cast of characters. Some, like myself, are “’03 OGs” who’ve been around since the doors first opened. Others have trickled in sometime over the past five, ten, even fifteen years. We’ve been through life’s ups and downs together—marriages, divorces, layoffs, losses, new careers—you name it. We are a found family bonded by laughter, tears, and cheers in a place that feels like home.
But it’s not just about the big moments. A great night at Maloneys is filled with the kind of banter and laughter that gets retold and passed around like a modern-day Canterbury Tales. Or, as Steve calls them, “re-memories.”
Here is one of them.
Episode One: A “Special” Kind of Passion
It was an unseasonably cold October morning. The wind whipped its warning, “winter is coming,” as the temperature plunged sixty degrees in just five days. The chill cut straight to my bones. But as a true Midwesterner, I was speed-walking into the office because it was “too early" for a coat.
I am so not ready for this, I thought, trying my best to look nonchalantly not-cold.
Hours later, as the workday wound down, my thoughts turned to dinner. For someone whose fridge rarely sees groceries, dinner usually meant ordering in or eating out.
With the memory of the morning air still fresh in mind, I craved something hearty. I knew just the thing: cheap, delicious Maloneys chili. You can get a bowl with sour cream, onions, and crackers for $5.00. Or $5.75, if you add cheese (and of course you add cheese).
I walked into my second home and headed to my favorite spot at the end of the bar, right by the kitchen. This is where all the action happens—catching the latest staff gossip and hearing about last night’s antics, all within view of the order screen, so you can see how slammed the cooks are.
I exchanged greetings as I passed two other regulars, Jack and Charlie. Jack’s greeting back had a bit of a slur, and Charlie was reclining in his chair as far back as he could go—clear signs that they’d been up to some day drinking.
As I took my seat, Dustin, one of the managers, gave me a fist bump and his usual, “What’s up, my dude.”
Abby, the bartender, flashed a knowing grin as she started to pour a Miller Lite without me needing to say a word.
The other bartender, Kate, leaned against the server station beside me and nodded hello, her no-nonsense New Jersey attitude mellowed by years of Midwest living.
We chatted about the drastic turn in the weather.
“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “I need some chili to warm me up.”
“Have you tried the new chicken noodle soup?” Kate asked. “I heard it’s really good.”
“No,” I responded, intrigued. I grabbed the table tent and quickly flipped to the specials page:
“Sold!” I exclaimed.
Kate let out her hearty belly laugh and walked away.
The soup soon appeared, delicious as advertised, and lined my belly with comfort.
A few minutes later, I caught a glimpse of Jack’s red hoodie and looked up to find him standing over me. “I came to talk to you about the soup,” his tone stern.
Then, I felt a presence on my left. Charlie had joined him. “I had to come be a part of this conversation,” he said, dead serious, “because I hate soup.”
I felt like I’d been thrust into some sort of Soup Inquisition—some kind of (wait for it) long-simmering feud.
Maloneys regulars are passionate about a lot of things. But we’re really passionate about the food.
For those of us who don’t cook, Maloneys has become our primary source of sustenance, offering the comfort of consistent meals. Like the weekend pork chop special several of us looked forward to partaking in every Saturday. Until three years ago, when it was removed from the menu. “People want steak,” was the casual response to our outraged protests.
“People? What people? We’re people,” we argued back.
Years later, we were still salty about its removal when another unapproved-by-us change was made. After more than a decade, the penne in the Monday night special was switched to linguini. I was livid the night I found out.
“Did you know they changed the noodles?” Steve had said as I’d saddled up in my favorite seat.
“WHAAAAAT?” I think my head started to spin like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have even come tonight,” I fumed, arms crossed like a toddler. A bit of an overreaction, maybe, but there’s a particular sting when a familiar comfort is suddenly taken away. (Nowadays when I say, “Oh, I was pork-chop pissed” to the other regulars, the severity is understood.)
Side note: I’m happy to report that as of this writing, the pork chop dinner is back on the weekend menu and penne is again an option for the Monday night pasta special. We have been seen. We have been heard.
“How can you hate soup?” I demanded of Charlie.
“You’re drinking your meal,” he said, raising his hands to his mouth as if holding an imaginary bowl and exaggerating a “glug, glug, glug” sound.
“You just haven’t had the right kind of soup.”
Abby chimed in. “I had lasagna soup last night and it was amazing.”
“Lasagna soup? Lasagna is a casserole!” Charlie shot back.
Tipsy Jack re-entered the conversation, gesturing at Charlie, “Just get your soup-eating ass…”
“Non-soup-eating ass…,” I corrected.
“Get your non-soup-eating ass outta here,” he continued with a grin.
“How about chili?” Abby offered. “Chili is filling.”
I put up my hand, making a hold-on-now gesture. “Chili is not a soup. Just like a hotdog is not a sandwich.”
Abby, Charlie, and Jack exchanged looks as their synchronized nods signaled agreement.
“Either way, soup still isn’t a meal,” Charlie said, his closing argument, before sauntering back to his seat. He looked back. “’Course, I haven’t eaten since Saturday.” (This conversation took place on a Wednesday).
I looked at Abby, confused and whispered, “Why?”
Abby shrugged. “He’s been drinking.”
I turned back to Charlie. “So you do drink your meals—Cold Brew Stew.”
Everyone chuckled, especially Charlie, and my soul felt as warm as my belly—mission accomplished.
Love this!!!!
This had me chuckling out loud! Only having a small window into the regulars and world of Maloney’s, this is a day in the life. Great story and I know there are so many more!