For parched throats, an outpost in the tempest

FORT MYERS, Fla. -- The sign outside read ''Open for lunch," and Dick Jordan, thirsty after a morning spent surveying hurricane damage, couldn't resist. Nothing, anywhere, was open. Except Tim Gilbert's place.

''Come on in," shouted the owner, a boyishly pudgy man who takes pride in staying open when everybody else is closed.

''Drove all the way from Naples to find a cold beer," Jordan said, taking a seat as a woman behind the bar handed him just what he was looking for, in a bottle.

Gilbert rode out Hurricane Wilma across the street from the establishment, staying at a friend's condo rather than heading to his home farther inland.

Last year, after Hurricane Charley, the police would not let him back into the bar right after the storm passed, so he wasn't taking chances this time. He needed to check on Tim's Place, and a connected, upscale restaurant called the Mark.

The building sits in a majestic spot only a couple of hundred feet from the bridge leading to the island section of town, Fort Myers Beach. But there are lots of pretty views on this stretch on the Gulf coast of Florida. What makes Tim's Place special is its owner, the transplanted Northerner who likes to stay put during storms.

''I think he's around 23 hours a day," Dick Wallem, a retiree who lives nearby, said of Gilbert, the father of three in worn boat shoes and baggy shirts. ''The place used to be a place you might come to once a year. Now I come three times a week."

''He's always here," Gilbert's daughter, Jaclyn, 19, said of her father, who turns 50 in two weeks.

''And," Jaclyn added, ''he wants everyone to love him like he's a part of their family."

Unconditional love would be easy to come by yesterday when Wilma blew through. Gilbert, who closed the bar at 12:30 a.m. yesterday, had reopened before noon.

That was long before some 7-Eleven stores did, and before residents of nearby Sanibel were allowed to return home.

Gilbert and his partner, Joe Caprio, fired up the gas stove in the dark kitchen. By midafternoon, more than 50 Wilma-worn customers had dined on cheeseburgers, chicken wings, and fried grouper.

''The storm is over," shouted the manager, Karen Cernoia, as the first burgers came off the grill.

Gilbert isn't one for self- analysis: He grew up in barrooms, having been taken there by his late father, Don, a man who never went to his son's wrestling matches but who didn't hesitate to haul him around pubs in their hometown of Elmira, N.Y. Don't ask him whether he does what he does to develop a larger, extended family.

''That's too much," Gilbert said with a shy smile from back in the kitchen, full of burger smoke and lit only by the flames of the gas grill. ''We're just good people who like to have fun."

And to stay open.

On Sunday night, as Wilma approached and convenience stores in Lee County began to shut down, the red-and-blue neon lights were on at Tim's Place.

Most locals were gone, either locked inside their homes or evacuated to a safer location. Gilbert worked the bar as three friends took in the World Series. He made sure his remaining customers had plenty of cold beer and, a little bit past 10, a plastic cup of champagne. ''Here's to Hurricane Wilma," Gilbert yelled, and toasted the storm. A few minutes later, they shared a pizza renamed ''the hurricane."

Just past midnight, a couple wandered in. She had stringy, wet hair from a pre-Wilma wade. He asked for a beer.

By now, Gilbert had walked out from behind the bar, sitting on a stool. He still had a small white towel on his shoulder.

''So what the hell are you doing this late?" Gilbert asked them.

''We wanted to see the storm," the woman said.

''It's not coming for another six hours," Gilbert hollered back and laughed.