Twenty years ago, Seth Smith went and did something his girlfriend begged him not to do. He opened a bar called Lee Harvey’s in the Cedars. The humble joint run out of a converted house—with its banging jukebox, thoughtful menu, and expansive yard filled with picnic tables and pooches—has made its way onto several national dive-bar compendiums. Locally, it has attained an almost mythical status. Lee Harvey’s is where you take disbelieving out-of-towners to prove that Dallas has a soul.
How many people told you 20 years ago not to name your place Lee Harvey’s? I don’t know there were that many. There was one person, who happens to be famous, who said, “You might make a lot of people mad.” And I said, “Like you haven’t.” And he goes, “You got me there.”
Who was the famous person? I can’t tell you. It would end a friendship. But it was going to be called something else. I think Cedars Bar and Grill or something like that. But that had no name recognition at all. And like we’ve always said, it’s just called Lee Harvey’s. You know, it could be Lee Harvey Williamson. It could be Lee Harvey Taylor.
What made you think it would be a good idea to open a bar in the Cedars? I’d already known about this bar from back in the late ’80s. It was called Tesch’s and was only beer and greasy hamburgers. The sign that says Lee Harvey’s is the original sign that used to say Tesch’s Bar and Grill. Then it changed hands a couple of times and changed names once or twice. I finally mentioned to Harry Hall, who owned the property, I said, “If that thing ever comes up for rent, you might let me know.” And he called me a few weeks later and said, “Hey, it’s available.” I talked to my girlfriend at the time, now my wife, Katelin Burton. She said, “Please, honey, don’t do it.” We opened our door September 18, 2003.
I looked up the property with the appraisal district. That house converted into your bar was built in 1945. How is it not falling down yet? A lot of duct tape. When we first opened, my bar manager said, “We’ve got to get all new stools. These stools are ripped up.” And I looked at her and I said, “Duct tape.”
Here’s how Harry Hunsicker described your clientele in his novel The Next Time You Die: “graphic designers with soul patch beards who wanted to pretend they were living on the edge, drinking a few brewskies in a bad neighborhood … the NPR crowd slumming.” Is that fair? I don’t think it’s necessarily that far off the truth. I don’t think as many of them are quote-unquote slumming. I think they are already down here, a lot of them. Everyone is welcome at my place, but you have to behave, and it’s amazing how we get all these different groups of people. People like being around people that aren’t carbon copies of themselves.
What’s the biggest change you’ve seen in the Cedars over the years? I moved into the neighborhood on February 1, 1987. I’ve had a presence here since that day. There has just been a slow growth of artists. It’s just kind of an organic growth. Now we’ve got single women or couples walking babies.
Last summer you opened a swimming pool club across the street called Lee Harvey’s Dive In. You’re just a few blocks from the Jack Evans police headquarters. Do a lot of cops go for a swim after their shift ends? I don’t know, to be honest with you. They’re always present around here, which is always nice, and I appreciate their attention. But they rarely come in with uniforms on. It’s been going really well, and we’re happy with it. It’s a different crowd, not necessarily the Lee Harvey’s crowd. We’re not all cut out to wear swimsuits. I’m a big believer in muumuus and robes.
What’s the anniversary party going to look like? You have fire breathers or anything special planned? I don’t know. We’ll probably do what we always do: have a really good time with a great band.
This story originally appeared in the July issue of D Magazine with the headline, “The Dude Abides.” Write to [email protected].
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