Tryst Lounge
Tryst Lounge on 15th and Larimer is the epitome of everything that is wrong with Denver drinking. First of all, they really don’t know how to mix drinks. If I’m paying upwards of $8 for a Martini, a Manhattan, whatever, I expect a tasty treat. Not some watered-down abomination reminiscent of bathtub gin. It might also help if the bartenders learned that drinks like Rusty Nails and Greyhounds do, in fact, exist. I know that Denver doesn’t have the most sophisticated palate, but really, it’s OK to expand our horizons beyond Butter Babies, Lemon Drops, Redbull and whatever shots and savor the simple pleasures of a classic cocktail
It also doesn’t help that the people mixing and serving those “cocktails” are about as rude they come. I don’t say this (very) often, but they should all catch a disease and die. Or at least be forced to drink one of their Martinis. Waiting in an empty bar one night for somebody, anybody, to acknowledge my presence, I was told that the table I had selected with my girlfriend was “reserved.” When I asked which tables weren’t reserved, the hostess said, “They’re all reserved.” When I asked if there was a private party that evening, she said, “No,” adding, “Actually, we’re closed.”
“Why is the door open? Why are candles lit? Why is there music playing?”
“Fuck if I know.”
And with that she was gone.
And so was I. For good.