So there I am the other night, drunk and disorderly after playing numerous games of rock band and eating steak. That is right I felt like a man--a man’s man. With such testeronic juices coursing through my body that I decided to challenge the forces of time and space and with chest pushed forward marched out with my brother to his scooter, and sitting bitch behind him we puttered into the big lights of Denver’s ballpark district whooping and hollering as we pushed the limits of masculinity.
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
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.
So you know how you never know really know how you are going to spend your day, especially a Saturday? Well I spent it listening to stories from a Vietnam Vet, turned NYPD, turned ball breaking bouncer at a number of Denver Bars while sitting in the windowless environment of the Rockmada Bar located inside the Ramada Inn on Colfax.
Awash in liquor, I stumbled my way into Sputnik. On my side, some girl I'd met at the bottom of a bottle that's contents were acting like super glue for, well to be honest, the remainder of the night. The morning changed the properties of that said glue as the adhesive had become more of an abrasive and we parted on less than amiable terms. So what does this have to do with Sputnik?
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.
So, it’s 1 am, bars are closing, there is no where to go downtown. But wait, instead of getting in that cab you can still get a drink at Leela European Cafe. Open 24 hours a day, you can get a drink up till 2 am and best of all, you don’t have to go home and you can stay there. Seriously, consider going in and checking out Leela European Café and not just at 1 am. A coffee shop/bar, you can start drinking at alcohol at 8. That's a lot of time to drink in. And when last call comes switch the drink into a coffee and a burger when the last call comes around.
I haven't drank as much as I might like at the Thin Man, and admittedly I've spent a lot more time at St. Mark's Coffee shop with which they share a kitchen, however, I'll say that I like it. And I like it to the degree that anytime I'm up that direction I might even stop by just to see the single, attractive, successful 30 somethings tie one on after work. If you stop by it is even likely that I might be one of them-- minus the successful and good looking part, but in case any of you ladies are interested I am 30 something and single.
So I’m not going to describe the circumstances that led me to drinking at Trios Enoteca on Wynkoop the other night. However, so that you can understand why, the occasion began as a simple opening of an old wound, which of course Papa Sobriety can handle. However, this particular occasion took more the form of a civil war surgery gone awry as still tender scar tissue was bludgeoned through with, I don’t know, let’s says a meat tenderizer. Upon the tenderizer breaching the nigh developed covering one would be tempted to examine with sadistic fascination the well crafted hooks and barbs that played like annelids chewing vermiculated patterns into the flesh while excreting salted feces in their wake. The wound that evening was then covered back over with a tender whisper that held only the promise of future incursions.ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, I'm drinking a lot more. And when I'm drinking the beer blog is productive, and if the beer blog is productive, you the reader are better informed so as to conquer Denver's bar scene.
I first went to Dazzle Supper Club for their opening weekend and saw Gary Burton (yeah he’s on you tube now), perhaps the world best Vibraphonist. It was ritzy, or at least that was what I thought my Freshman year of College. Ritzy to me, at the time, was the Sink up in Boulder. I’d be like wow I can write my name on the wall, this is really up scale.
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?”
A long time ago, in a neighborhood far, far away from where I live now, I used to drink myself into a drunken distortion of truth. I was able to tap into the magnificent forces of the ‘drunk.’ A power that is somehow able to teleport you from the barstool to your bed or hopefully someone else’s before you even knew you wanted to go there.
Once The Painted Bench, now The Dish--'The' never changed. With spunky bartenders that will know your drink as your name and a half price "you call it" drink special (some exceptions apply), there is almost nowhere that has a better dollar for quality deal along the Mile High bar crawl.
Gabor's. Zebra carpeted walls should be all I have to say, but I know, you want more. Because you always want more and this hole in the wall lounge can choose to give it. With a great juke box, and lumpy red vinyl booths; Gabor's is a quiet alternative to a thousand other spots that forget that drinks should be accompanied by conversation.
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.
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.
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