I was sitting in my apartment on 10th and Sherman with my then girlfriend, now ex-wife, and I was bored. We had just moved back to Denver from New York City and like most good New Yorkers (even short-term wannabe New Yorkers) I was convinced that there was nothing to do in a place like Denver. This attitude, however, was not going over very well with my girlfriend.
The Adderall I had gotten from the girl at the last bar was wearing off and I was getting antsy. Losing focus. When I first got to Herb’s, I had made the mistake of ordering a Jack and Coke, which in my family was blasphemy. One night, years ago, my father had given me shit for a solid hour for mixing ice with my Jack Daniels. It was the culmination of many disappointments, but many more were to come.
There are a lot of things I don’t like about my neighborhood. Near the top of the list (above the hot oil massage parlor but below the unnaturally large pile of chicken bones I keep finding in my alley) is Len and Bill’s Lounge on South Broadway. I used to feel guilty about my hatred of Len and Bill’s. “Who the hell am I,” I thought, “To move into this neighborhood and disrespect the local watering hole?”
I had already thrown up once and I wasn’t looking to do it again. So when the bartender at the Rock Bar set the three shots of Yeager and Redbull in front of me, I was livid. Who the hell ordered this, I thought to myself. What sick, twisted piece of shit would order something as vile as this at a time like this? The grimy mirror behind the bar told me all I needed to know.
Years ago, when I was driving from Miami to Boulder with my girlfriend, our car broke down in the middle of the Louisiana woods. We had arrived in Miami driving a one-year old Honda Accord. We left in a broken down VW “Vanagon,” an ill-advised trade-in that constituted some kind of halfhearted rebellion against my girlfriend’s privileged upbringing. We’d already spent the last two days in New Orleans waiting for parts and now, in the middle of nowhere, the damn thing was breaking down again. Prospects were grim. It was pitch black, raining, and because of highway construction, we found ourselves traveling down a barely maintained backcountry road.
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
Our Articles:
• BJ's Port
• Charlie Brown's
• Dazzle Supper Club
• Dazzle Supper Club
• Gabor's
• Leela European Cafe
• Len and Bill’s Lounge
• M&M's
• Rock Bar
• Rockmada
• Sputnik
• The Dish
• The Park
• The Star Bar
• The Thin Man
• Trios Enoteca
• Tryst Lounge
• BJ's Port
• Charlie Brown's
• Dazzle Supper Club
• Dazzle Supper Club
• Gabor's
• Leela European Cafe
• Len and Bill’s Lounge
• M&M's
• Rock Bar
• Rockmada
• Sputnik
• The Dish
• The Park
• The Star Bar
• The Thin Man
• Trios Enoteca
• Tryst Lounge