Death Calls for Piggy

Note: Carl W. Hutchins (1924-2006) was a professional boxer in his youth. He claimed to have been a contender in his day. Most people called him “Piggy.” This piece that follows was written shortly after his 2006 death (references to dates have been updated).

Piggy Hutchins was known by three generations of Richmonders. They were mostly locals of a certain stride -- folks who ate, drank and shared their lives in his restaurants. Piggy’s most loyal patrons tended to use his dives/eateries as a clubhouse … except when a feud kept one of them away for a while.

A corner restaurant called “Piggy’s,” located at Mulberry and Cary (where the Cary St. Cafe is now), began the series of places he would own. The Attaché, at 5816 W. Broad St., was the last of them; it closed down in 2002.

Twenty-four years ago for a short stint I was associated with the legendary Attaché (although for some scammy reason Piggy was calling it William Henry’s that year). Needing money finally pushed me across the Henrico County line, inquiring after a bartender position that had been listed in the newspaper's want ads. That afternoon I met the one and only Piggy Hutchins. Prior to that I had known him only by reputation.

After a pleasant chat with Piggy, his older brother, Pete and a nephew, Bill, gave me a tour of the decidedly suburban split-level facility. That entailed the restaurant itself, the after-hours club on the upper story and the basement tavern. Along the way they explained that Piggy was really looking for an idea more than someone else to put on the payroll. He had advertised the job to attract someone who'd give him a new scheme.

Well, I needed money enough to jump-start my creative juices. That soon spawned a concept of how to use the basement space. Live music and comedy. So we went back upstairs.

Like characters in a Damon Runyon story, we sat at the main table to cut a deal over draft beer and coffee. Right away, Piggy liked it that I volunteered to take on the promotional costs and booking duties. He liked it even better that I wanted only a cut -- 20 percent -- of the bar receipts. No guarantees. Plus, of course, I would get tips as the bartender on duty.

Meanwhile, as I went on with my plan I could tell Piggy liked telling his colorful war stories to a writer. Piggy's other brother, Sonny, a former stock car racer, stopped by and joined us. As it happened, I left the place that afternoon nurturing an absurd notion that became the Underdog Room. For three nights a week, I presented stand-up comics and live music in the basement, which had a boxer's heavy bag hanging in it, leftover from when Piggy still worked out and trained young boxers in that space.

To kick off the Underdog Room era, I booked the Vibra-Turks. Some of them were usually known as the Bop Cats. Other had been in Li'l Ronnie and the Bluebeats. Anyway, the Vibra-Turks were: Mike Moore (bass); Gary Fralin (keyboard); Lindy Fralin (guitar); Stuart Grimes (drums); Jim Wark (guitar). In one way of looking at it, we had a band with a fake name playing in a room with a fake name.

Nonetheless, a bunch of handbills on poles and good break, publicity-wise -- the RT-D featured a story about it -- helped to flush out enough barflies and aging scenesters to make for a good-sized opening weekend audience. When Piggy came downstairs to take check it out he liked the look of the crowd. He even seemed pleased with the Vibra-turks, but some members of his staff members remained skeptical about the direction of things.

On Thursdays it was comedy night. Usually seven or eight comics would show up. My old friend, John Porter, served as the emcee/recruiter. The performers split the cash from a cheap cover charge and drank beer for free. Hoping to establish to new venue, several of the the area's comedians stopped by to do a few minutes on most Thursdays.

On Friday and Saturday nights a band played, usually the same band on both nights. The bands would take what came in at the door, but as the weeks wore on, getting my Fan District nightlife friends to venture into Henrico County grew more difficult. As the take at the door shriveled, from one week to the next, I gradually ran through the established acts I could easily persuade to give the Underdog Room a try.     

The Scariens, a local performance-art/rock 'n' roll act, stretched the culture clash aspect of my shaky gig to pieces. Piggy and his Attaché crowd of regulars were utterly baffled by the Scariens, who sometimes seemed to baffle themselves, too. They were led by another old friend, Ronnie Soffee.

To make matters more fractious, some of the comedians seemed to rub Piggy's confidants who ventured downstairs the wrong way; to say they didn't get the jokes is an understatement. After almost four months of it, I came to my senses and bailed out.

Leaving Palookaville on good terms, I limped back to the Fan. It had been fun working with the comedians and musicians in such an off-the-wall situation. And, getting to know Piggy, to the extent that I did, was like living in a low-budget film noir picture from the late-1940s.