by Karl Krumpholz | Sep 29, 2014 | 30 Miles of Cocktails
“30 Miles of Crazy?… So, what’s your book about?”, one of the many convention-goers asked me as they pass and stop by my table at the Seaport World Trade Center in South Boston that afternoon.
“Well, it’s drinking stories. Some from Denver, Boston, and Philadelphia. Stories about the strange people you meet in bars or on street corners.”
“Oh… I’m only 18, so I don’t know anything about that.”
“Ah.”
“My boyfriend is 21… but he’s kinda straight-edge, so he won’t be interested either.”
… and that’s pretty much how most of the afternoon went for us at our table over Day One of Boston Comic Con. I never thought it would be that hard to sell a comic about drinking stories (or portraits of famous drunks) to a Boston crowd. But the crowd was quite young and this was probably the most mainstream show I’ve ever done (and I’ve done San Diego every year for close to 10 years straight.) There was a notable lack of Indy cartoonists. People were just uninterested and I didn’t really deal in Batman or Spider Man prints.
“So, where would you like to get a drink? I don’t know this area,” Kelly said to me as we left the convention hall and headed across Fort Point Channel. We originally stopped in to check out the hotel bar across the street from the Con (I believe it was called TAMO), but a quick glance offered a tame inoffensive bar, a club crowd with pink cocktails, and very offensively loud techno music. Not our scene at all. Part of me had thought it may be wise to stick around, bear through it all, try to talk and have a drink with some of the rest of the artists at the convention… but I was back in my hometown. I’d rather go visit some of the old stomping grounds.
Kelly and I walked over the Channel, passing by several bars (like ‘Whiskey Priest’ and ‘The Barking Crab’) that held little interest, and started wandering through the Financial District till we approached Downtown Crossing, an area I was much more familiar with. Walking up Summer Street, took a turn at Kingston, and again found ourselves at J. J. Foleys at Downtown Crossing (21 Kingston St.)
“Wait… you have Yuengling?!” Kelly asked wide eyed.
Now, this isn’t the original Foleys, which is further south on E Berkeley Street, off Washington Street in the South End; but this is the Foley’s that I visited when I worked in the area. It’s a family-run Irish pub that can get quite loud with the blend of young college students and people from the neighborhood. Walking in, I was surprised how quiet it was for a Friday night. A dimly lit room with a scattering of people in some of the booths lining the left hand wall, mirrors along the wall, and a deep wood bar. More people were in the further back area that was more open (and better lit) for dining. Kelly and I sat at the bar, underneath one of the TVs turned to ESPN and ordered a pair of Guinnesses. As the bartender turned and raised his hand to the tap…
“Wait… you have Yuengling?!” Kelly asked wide eyed.
“Yes, we do.”
“I’ll have a pint of that instead!” Kelly was excited. This was her first Yuengling in some time (since our last trip to Delaware Valley, two some years ago.) We had heard some rumors from my friends that the Pottsville, PA beer had finally made it up to New England. While I enjoy the beer, I also grew up with it. Kelly only discovered it about ten years ago and still gets excited whenever she has a chance to order one.
“Yuengling. Yuengling. Yuengling. It’s so fun to say!” Kelly was delighted. As usual.
One of the things we also noticed in Boston, which is quite different from most of the bars we frequent back in Denver, is that most of the bartenders are older – they’ve been working behind the bar for most of their adult lives, not just as something to do while they look for a 9-to-5. They are quite happy to talk and deal with you, but this is their livelihood, their career. I respect that. Now, we know many great bartenders back in Denver, but most of them are younger (many under 50). It was a striking difference.
After two rounds, the tension from the con started to leave us and we were debating our next step, which was dinner. So, we left J.J. Foley’s, walked through Chinatown, and headed over towards Stuart Street and the Theatre District.
“I love you so much…”, the drunken man said as he groped a potted bush outside one of the clubs along Stuart Street as we walked up to Jacob Wirth (31 Stuart Street), one of the oldest restaurants in Boston (since 1868), second oldest continuously operating one (after Union Oyster House.)
In a city known for its Irish heritage, it’s nice to find an old fashioned German beer hall smack dab in the middle of the city. An old, well-worn wooden bar, photos, framed famous signatures on menus, beer banners, and the late Sox game on the few TVs scattered about the place. The place was pretty crowded as well as we found ourselves walking into some sort of ‘singing night.’ No, this wasn’t karaoke. A gentleman played the piano in the larger back dining area and the crowd joined in. This was good old German beer hall group singing. Of course, the difference being that the crowd was singing the various hits of the 1970s: Abba, Journey, Beatles, and such.
Kelly and I found a cocktail table towards the front of the bar. We were away from most of the singing so we could talk; but still close enough to appreciate the roar of the crowd. We both ordered some of the House Dark and House Lagers, thinking German.. beer… House brew… Let’s go for that! It was only natural that both were very good. We were on our second round when the waitress accidentally brought me a cider instead of a lager (I guess it’s about the same color.)
Let’s stop for a moment to point out another rule of drinking that we’ve found to be utter true: If the waitress brings you the wrong drink, keep it. Not only will you have an extra drink, but likely get the correct drink for free. … and this was still the case. So, Kelly and I (and our buddy Chris B, who joined us) sipped our beers, talked, and watched the Sox as the crowd started singing ’Sweet Caroline.’ A warm feeling came up inside me and I smiled. Forget the con. I was back home
by | Sep 28, 2014 | 30 Miles of Cocktails
Several years ago, while Kelly and I were in New York for a couple days, we ran into and met David Wondrich at a bar (it was at Swift Hibernian Lounge, if you need to ask.) Over the course of our conversation, he asked the pair of us what bars have we been to and where are we going. Kelly pulled out a photocopied map of Lower Manhattan that was filled with little dots and x’s.
“Are those all bars?”, Mr Wondrich asked slightly surprised.
“Yep.”, Kelly replied. “That’s how we travel. We pretty much sightsee in local bars. You get a better idea of a place by their bars then at the local sites. We’re heading to the Double Down next…”
Yes, that is how we travel.
“Dammit, I need a smoke”, Kelly said in the early evening as we came up the escalator of from the train and onto Concourse C of Denver International Airport (D.I.A.)
“There is always Timberline”, I mentioned with a nod of my head towards the foggy windows in dark shadowy corner of the main rotunda of the Concourse. Being an international airport, D.I.A used to have several bars where you could take a break and have a smoke (one on each concourse as well as another in the main terminal before you passed through security) even after Colorado passed smoking bans almost ten years ago. The way D.I.A. got around the smoking ban was that it was an ‘international’ airport, so people passing through may not be from areas that have the ban. Why should they be punished? D.I.A. needed to give these travelers a place to relax as they passed through this airport – with only one central security area, once you are in, it is a really problem going back outside for one last smoke – especially if you are delayed. D.I.A. is also stuck in the middle of nowhere, fifty or so miles from anywhere (why again did they build it all the way out there? Oh yeah… corruption), meaning that if you do decide to leave to airport during a layover (or delay) there is absolutely no place to go. Unfortunately, as smoking bans became more popular in each state, there was a crackdown on these last remaining bars… until only the Timberline in Concourse C was left standing as the only smoking bar left at D.I.A.
Opening the door, we were hit face first by the predictable wall of smoke that had me for a small moment remembering what smoking in bars used to be actually like before the bans. That lasted for about five seconds. My nosed itched and I started coughing. Has it really been that long since the ban started? Though I have a cigarette (or a cigar… or a pipe) every now and then, it’s been many years since I’ve been a regular smoker. I was a bit surprised at my reaction. I waved at Kelly, who was in the middle of ordering a drink (you have to purchase a drink to stay in the smoking lounge), and surprisingly she saw me through the fog. I told her that I would meet her somewhere else… at another bar that wasn’t so choking.
For the most part, Kelly and I do really enjoy airport bars. They are so much like hotel bars, where you meet strangers in transit and hear their stories of other places, where they are heading, and random chatter. That’s one of the reasons Kelly always looks for a smoking lounge whenever she flies – nothing sparks conversation with random strangers like sharing a smoke.
I grabbed my bags and walked across the rotunda over to the Root Down.
The Root Down is another one of the new bar/restaurants that have been popping up all around the LoHi (Lower Highlands… why must everything have a trendy shortened name?) section of the city (they also own Linger, in the same neighborhood and mere blocks away – you might remember that place from our review a few weeks ago…). Recently, Root Down opened up a location here in D.I.A… cause what is better than having a trapped clientele that HAVE to drink/eat there? Nothing, apparently.
I mentioned to the hostess (there a hostess? In D.I.A?) that I just wanted to sit at the bar and started moving through the crowd with all my bags. This is a tedious exercise that all travelers have to manage. The problem was that the whole restaurant was tightly packed (they really do cram seats in there) and the only free seat left at that bar was in the far, far back corner, next to a business man tapping away on his computer who didn’t realize (or didn’t care) how much room he and his bags were actually taking up. I finally got to my seat and had to start battling for room between the wall, the bar, and the Gordon Gecko wannabe. Getting to my bar stool was a trial and felt way too much like the desk fighting scene from Brazil.
Apparently, sweetness does count for something.
I gave a great sigh as I finally settled down, ordered a rye from the bartender, and only gave Mr. Gecko a slight sarcastic frown. I was surprised to see Kelly come up moments behind me, smile at the business guy, and ask if the seat all his bags were on was taken. He gave a long grumble, but moved them without saying anything. Apparently, sweetness does count for something.
“I usually really enjoy having a drink and smoke over there,“ she gestured across the rotunda, “but it’s packed, there are no seats, and no one seems to really care about being polite and offering a seat to a lady anymore!” she said with a harrumph. Sometimes, the fact that she was raised by Southern parents comes out in odd ways. Or maybe she was making a point to Mr Gecko, next to us.
Anyway, Kelly got her beer while I looked around at the space. It was done in that kind of faux-mod 70’s style that I remember being really popular in trendy bars and diners about fifteen years ago. Apparently it’s making another resurgence. However, I did really like the random assortment of open suitcases underneath the bar top. Nice touch in an airport bar. The design of Root Down really did remind me that this was the same company that also owns Linger. There are those little things, random items placed out of context, which make me think of a redone hipster-ized version of Bennigans.
But enough of the design… how was the booze, you may well ask? Well.. it was fine and got the job done. They only real problem (aside from the price… this is an airport bar after all) was that since the place was so busy, it was hard to get the bartender’s attention. It was at some point during my second drink that Kelly informed me that our flight was now delayed two hours. I sighed. Another of the perils of traveling. I contemplated ordering another drink.
So our flight back to Boston was late… which was bad for another reason as well: most of the other passengers had another two more hours to get loaded up. Once we finally boarded our flight, the ten or so people behind us seemed to be of the belief that this flight was actually a party bus. As Kelly commented, “It was as if someone threw some wings and a jet engine onto an anonymous strip mall bar and shot it into the sky. A bunch of tracks suits, bad hair, and horsey laughter – the kind of older after-hours office crowd, normally sucking on Long Island Ice Teas and feeling naughty that they weren’t at home being responsible home-owners.” The horrifying thing was that after a long shift, the flight attendant was feeding them booze and joining in.
It was a long flight and the random singing of Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ didn’t help at all. Why do they always choose THAT song?
It was after midnight when we finally landed in Boston, and drifting towards 1:30 am when we finally got out of the cab and arrived at our hotel: The Omni Parker House. We checked in and found that both of the hotel bars had just shut down. Dammit. After that flight, I needed a nightcap. I debated heading out around the corner to Barracuda Tavern for last call. I debated hitting the mini bar. I wound up simply going to bed and just starting fresh in the morning.
“Can you tell me where the Freedom Trail starts?” I heard the man ask me in a slow southern drawl as Kelly and I walked across Charles Street and entered the Public Garden the next morning.
“Oh yeah…”, I replied as I pointed across the street and into Boston Commons. “Just walk across the Commons, follow the path towards the church and Pahk Street Station. You’ll see a sign and the red brick path up to the State House.”
Kelly snickered. Not only was I still confused for a local, but the Boston already started to slip out again. It was only natural. I was back in the city that I still consider my home. Yes, I’m always up for a visit, but this time we came out to exhibit at Boston Comic Con over the weekend. However, that didn’t start till the next day, giving us a free afternoon just to wander around and hit some of the old haunts.
Now the amount of times I think about moving back to New England, I have to remind myself about one big thing: there are no happy hours. I was always told that it was based on some old puritanical law about selling alcohol at a discount, but yes, there are no happy hours in Boston. Sure, you may find a place claiming to have happy hour, but it is always discounted food specials, not booze. It’s a shame really.
Kelly and I wandered around Comm Ave and Newbury Street for a while before walking into Solas (710 Boylston St.) in Back Bay to meet some friends for lunch. I’d been here only a couple times while I lived in Boston. The reason being that the pub seemed a bit too… manufactured… like something you may see at Ireland exhibit at EPCOT for my tastes. You can’t swing a dead cat in this city without hitting any number of decent Irish pubs. However, we’ve been stopping by Solas during recent trips simply because it was an easy place to meet friends working in the office buildings in the area. In the end, any place that can pour a decent Guinness… I’m fine with. We came in early. Kelly and I moved towards at the same corner of the bar we always find ourselves in.
“It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” the bartender commented as he threw down some coasters in front of us. “About six-seven months since you were last here? And you sat right there as well.”
That’s a sign of a great bartender.
Kelly and I were surprised. It has been that long since we were last back in Boston… and the bartender remembered us. That’s a sign of a great bartender.
Owen (the mindful bartender) got us a couple Guinnesses as Etain and Kristen arrived. Both were people that I used to work and drink with up and down Boylston and through the South End as well. In the years since I left, they have become responsible adults, married, started families, and no longer tear through the evening with a beer and a shot.
“God, I miss it,” Kristen tells me after her second pint. “I hate having to be responsible.” She originally told us that lunch with us would have to be brief as she had a meeting in the afternoon. As the second pint became a third one, Kristen kept on her blackberry, pushing the meeting back, and planning another round. After two or so hours, she couldn’t put it off any longer and left, swaying slightly.
Leaving Solas, Kelly and I continued wandering around, heading back across the Public Gardens and Boston Common towards the statehouse. Half a block down Park Street from the capitol is a small little cocktail lounge that we were told about on one of our previous trips. We’ve been there a couple times now and our buddy, Brant, wanted to meet us there as they opened for a drink. Unlike Solas, catering more to the office worker crowd, the location of No. 9 Park (9 Park St.) made it much more suited for the political statehouse worker.
Brant was waiting outside just as the doors of the bar were opening and we walked up to take seats at the bar. Kelly went for the Jack’s Abbey Framingham Ale while I did my standard Old Fashioned. While I do like this bar, and they also make a good cocktail, there is something that throws me off about the place. I don’t think it’s the size (it is a small lounge), but more of the lack of character. Could be the closeness to the Statehouse, but the only thing I could really write about No. 9 Park was “it’s very nice.”
After our second round, we decided to keep the party moving along. Brant was on his way home, through Davis Square in Somerville. So, all of us jumped onto the T and took the Red Line out to Davis. Now, this is the area I lived in when I first moved to Boston from Philadelphia many years ago. Because of that, I still really enjoy the vibe of this place (and oddly, keep thinking about Man or Astroman when I walk through it – I was listening to a lot of them back then.) Sure, the area is rapidly gentrifying and Tufts is right around the corner, but a lot of it is still an old Somerville neighborhood a block or two away. The only other remnant of the area’s ‘neighborhood’ past is the Sligo… which I was happy to see was still open as we passed by. The wood door was still there and some neon show through the slatted windows, but it looked like the same old bar where I watched way too many Sox and Patriots games.
A friend had introduced us to the Saloon (255 Elm Street – another one of the hidden speakeasy type bars that are popping up all over the place) the last time we were in town. Both Kelly and I enjoyed our time there and were willing to give it another go, though it also seemed a bit artificial (slap a handlebar mustache and apron on a guy and make him a bartender!) and I think they use way too much Fernet Branca in most of their custom cocktails. Still, my Old Fashioned was quite good as Kelly downshifted to a Narragansett.
After the second round, Brant stumbled off while Kelly and I walked around the corner to our favorite BBQ place in the nation: Redbones (55 Chester Street), which I know is a bold claim (especially for a place in Somerville, MA). Most people I mention Redbones to dismiss me simply cause I’m from the East Coast (“What the hell would you know about BBQ?”), however Kelly’s family is firmly from the south… and she will tell you. This is one of the best.
Aside from the food, a big reason we love Redbones is the bar – just sitting at the bar, away from the restaurant area. It’s a great one, with locals from the all around the neighborhood who wouldn’t go into the more flashy college bars (Joshua Tree?) that have been popping up as the area’s been gentrifying. Kelly and I sat in the corner, drinking Narragansetts, with pulled pork (Kelly) and a catfish sandwich (me), chatting with the locals about the Sox, the coming Patriots season (the first pre-season game was on the TVs just then), and Boston Comic Con that was starting the next day (“So… there will be all these people in costumes, right? Wanting to be Spider Man or something?”). Redbones is always a great way to ease our way back into the Boston we love.
After drinks and dinner, Kelly and I walked down Elm Street and over to Porter Square in the cool summer evening. We ran into a lovely older woman walking her dog.
“You’re out from Colorado? They have all the weed there, right?” she commented as we smiled and nodded. “I don’t see what the big deal is. In the 60’s, marijuana was everywhere.”
She was utterly brilliant. She mentioned that she’s lived in the neighborhood almost her entire life; that it’s getting way too expensive, and the costs are threatening to chase her out. Kelly tried to pet her little dachshund – “Don’t mind him – he’s old and blind and deaf. He barely pays attention to me!” she said. After chatting a bit more about the changes in her neighborhood over the past few years, we said ‘good night’, hopped back onto the T, and back over to Pahk Street and our hotel. Thankfully, Parker’s Bar inside the Omni Parker House (60 School Street) was still open for a night cap. The beer list was limited, so we both settled for some Sam Adams. The Pat’s pre-season game had ended, they lost, but no one really cared. It was pre-season.
by | Sep 9, 2014 | 30 Miles of Cocktails
Williams & Graham
3160 Tejon Street
Denver, CO 80211
http://williamsandgraham.com/
“I think this is the line.”
It was early evening when Kelly and I walked up the large hill of Tejon Street, through the LoHi neighborhood, and towards the small bookstore that stands as the entrance to Williams & Graham. As a couple always looking around for fine cocktails, we have been to Williams & Graham many times. However this was the first time we ever encountered a queue of about ten people, all garishly attired in Hawaiian shirts (the best kind), who stood in front of the bookstore entrance. I generally hate standing in lines for just about anything (damn, my impatience!), but thankfully the wait was not that long. Several new tiki torches flanked the bookstore door to let people know that this was not your standard night at Williams & Graham. No, this was ‘Take Over Night.’ For one evening only, Williams & Graham was now Smuggler’s Cove (of San Francisco.)
Over the last several years, Williams & Graham has become one of our favorite bars in Denver. From the cunningly disguised bookstore entrance, filled with a variety of alcohol-themed books and a framed portrait of Esquire’s booze writer David Wondrich (full disclosure: I did the portrait of Mr Wondrich that hangs in the foyer – an old commission from a past issue of Modern Drunkard Magazine), the swinging bookcase doorway that allows you in the bar proper, to the excellent craft cocktails served; I have always enjoy my time here. Sean Kenyon has made his own small corner of the rapidly gentrifying LoHi neighborhood. Not only is this a great bar, but also an incredible tribute to his father and grandfather (both bartenders).
The interior of Williams & Graham is dimly lit with an impressive bar that reminds you of something out of the Prohibition-era… and that’s the point. Unlike many other speakeasy bars around the country, Sean knows that less is more. This is a place to get great cocktails, not a ‘booze theme park’ where you spend more time looking at the scenery around you then focusing on the glass in front of you.
However this particular night belonged to Smuggler’s Cove, who took over Williams & Graham and brought out the tikis. Kelly and I are both quite familiar with the San Francisco bar. Several years ago, friends of ours in that city lead us through the dark non-descript doorway on Gough Street into the colorful lights and drinks of the Cove. While small (a relator may describe the bar as ‘cozy’) and generally crowded, Smuggler’s Cove has become a must stop for us every visit back to SF (they hate it when you call it that) and also considered (by us, included) to be one of the best tiki bars in the country.
“There are certainly a lot of tikis,” Kelly said as we passed a massive wooden head greeting us as the bookshelf swung open. Over in the corner, a large group from the Fraternal Order of Moai (who I recognized a few from past events) were decked in Hawaiian shirts as well as a few fezzes and set up in one of the booths. Sean K motioned us towards the few seats thankfully vacant at the bar where our buddy, Eric, was already waiting. Kelly and I have mentioned many times about our love of bar seating for getting the feel of a place, so we were thankful to get a seat there, as all the booths were already filled up. Around us, there were even more Hawaiian garbed patrons (as was I), which was fully apt as the bar itself had tikis and leis scattered around it. Even the bartenders came out from San Francisco with the tikis. Smuggler’s Cove’s owner, Martin Cate, came over and placed a garland around Kelly’s neck as I looked over to the most important item: that night’s cocktail list. It was a small menu of about six drinks. Kelly, of course, asked the bartender in a low voice if she could actually get a beer (they happily obliged, passing over a Great Divide Hoss Rye Lager – a favorite). I ordered a ‘Dead Reckoning’, which the menu tells me was created by Martin C in 2009. Eric decided on the more classic ‘Saturn’ (‘Popp’ Galsini, 1967).
Once we had our cocktails, a cheer went up behind us as Vivienne VaVoom swayed out in full tiki dress carrying a volcano bowl toward one of the tables. Martin C came up behind her, ringing a small gong as the drink flamed up. He shook cinnamon over the flame, causing the flames to spark and fly even higher to the crowd’s delight.
“Well, that’s impressive,” Eric said as he finished his drink.
“Wonderful! She looks like Chiquita Banana! You know! With the fruit hat!” Kelly enthused.
“I think you mean ‘Carmen Miranda’, right?” Eric said over his glass.
“You say ‘Miranda’, I say ‘Banana’,” she replied, sagely sipping her beer, and mumbling, “Fruit hat.”
I continued to study the cocktail menu, planning my next avenue of attack.
I did enjoy the ‘Dead Reckoning’, but wanted to get the full scope of the menu. After some time, I decided on the classic ‘Pupule’ (Don the Beachcomber, 1930s… very good.) Eric ordered another ‘Dead Reckoning’ for himself, while Kelly ordered another beer (she is consistent). I keep thinking that Frank R from Modern Drunkard should be here to witness all of this, but when I spoke to him a day or two before letting him know about the event, he told me that he was being a responsible father that night. I decided to reward him for his good diligent work with texted photos of the bar, the tikis, and the cocktails he was missing.
“God Dammit!!! That looks incredible!” replied the text in return a few minutes later. In response, he also started texting me photos of the current cocktail he was enjoying: an Evan Williams and Pepsi (with real limes!) that he was serving up in his kitchen.
“Well… That’s a craft cocktail in some places in Mississippi,” our bartender, Marcovaldo Dionysos (yes… his real name) commented.
While Kelly continued to stick to beer (she has her reasons), we decided to skip over the Volcano Bowl. Eric and I ordered the final two cocktails on the menu that we hadn’t tried as yet: A ‘Tradewinds’ (Jamaican Classic from the 70s) for me and the unpronounceable ‘Lauwiliwilinukunuku’oi’oi (The bartender, Marco’s, custom drink, 2010) for Eric. We got a bit of schadenfreude delight watching people from around the bar try to order that one. It got to the point where people just mentioned the “La La La drink…” while waving their hands.
“My booze has an odd drink to it,” I mention half way through my Tradewinds. The warm fuzzy feeling was settling quite comfortably at the back of my skull.
“So, it has an odd taste?” Kelly laughs. Smirking, I nod in reply. “I think it’s the orange.” Each of my three cocktails were fantastic, but I leaned towards the’ Pupule’ as my favorite. Eric settled on the ‘Dead Reckoning’ as his top cocktail.
“The place is filling up pretty quickly,” Eric mentioned as he looked around. “We may want to think about wrapping this up.”
We nodded in agreement. While it’s a great bar, Williams & Graham is no where near where any of us live, and there’s that hill down Tejon that we have to scale back down. So, we settled up and said our good-byes to Williams & Graham. It was a brief farewell as we will be back again soon.
by | Aug 28, 2014 | 30 Miles of Cocktails
Streets of London Pub
1501 E. Colfax Ave.
Denver, CO 80218
“Fuck you, Phil Collins!”
The gentleman was quite cross, fuming, and had a weird apparent Phil Collins animosity at the end of the bar the night Kelly and I had a couple drinks at one of our neighborhood pubs: Streets of London. Above us, another of the countless repeats of ‘Sharknado’ was playing on some of the several TVs scattered around the bar. I only spared a brief glance, noticing a lot of chainsaws, people running around, and boatload of computer generated carnivorous flying fish. Most of the people around us were drawn into the B Movie Hollywood faux-carnage, trying to ignore the furious Phil Collins Hater as he continued his diatribe against several others at the end of the bar about the merits of the Lionel Richie’s song ‘Say You, Say Me.’
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying that you’re opinions suck!”, bellowed another regular’s retort. Obviously he must have been touched by diabetes-inducing saccharine of Collin’s ‘Another Day in Paradise’ ballad. Kelly and I were located a safe distance further down the bar. I really don’t remember how this particular argument started, or what’s so special about Lionel Richie, or what Phil Collins even had to do with it all. All of this seemed to have stemmed from the ongoing music war playing out on the jukebox. Some of the regulars were apparently in a ‘Yacht Rock’ kind of mood, much to the chagrin to the rest of the other regulars wrapped up in ‘Sharknado.’ A friend of ours was crooning Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ in the corner over an old Hall & Oates song playing from the speakers. It was only 8pm.
“It already sounds like 2AM in here.”, Kelly said from around her Newcastle.
“For Day Drinkers, it is 2AM.”, I replied as I ordered another whiskey and soda from Zhawna, our bartender, who places the pint sized drink in front of me. Yes, that is how they roll here. Outside the window and across the street, a long line of people went down the block towards Franklin Street, all patiently waiting for treats from the new Voodoo Doughnuts that recently opened. The new garishly painted pink building was hard to miss.
“Christ, they are just doughnuts.”, someone close by said to me. “Why do they still have lines after 8 months?”
“I don’t know.”, I replied. I’ve been in this argument before and didn’t want to hear about it anymore. Pleading ignorance was the safest bet.
It was just another night at Streets. Some people hate the place, others love it, you just can’t ignore it.
It was just another night at Streets. Some people hate the place, others love it, you just can’t ignore it. Streets is within stumbling distance of our place and we do enjoy the bar, dropping in every now and then for a change of pace. In the many years we’ve been coming here, we’ve seen a lot of changes: shift changes, staff changes, regular changes, crowd changes (though it always seems to be a core group of punk rockers, skaters, Englishmen, locals, and drunks), and even kitchen changes. That seems like a weird change of phrase, but it’s apt when you watch the pub kitchen move from standard pub grub, to being utterly closed (food then being served from the small breakfast joint sharing the building in the back), to original kitchen becoming a separate pizza joint… and then that being sold to another person as a different pizza joint… in an English pub. However, I do find the smell of pizza in the bar oddly comforting. A reminder of my East Coast roots, perhaps.
Streets of London even got a recent cosmetic renovation inside. Gone are collection of green painted bricks, replaced with a more making faux-finished off white and dark painted bricks, making the bar look more like a classic down-to-earth pub and to also compliment their sister bar, Churchill’s Public House, in the LoHi area.
As the Yacht Rock argument dies down, a new argument starts on the other side of us. A half-lidded woman slurs complaints and abuse at a sober-looking gentleman sipping his whiskey. “Don’t be drunk at people.”, he calmly comments to the open-mouthed confused woman. “Then, people may respect you more.”
His friend shakes his head at the entire scene as he tries to get Zhawna’s attention. “Some people are born drinkers, some have drunkeness thrust upon them.” I overheard as he orders a glass of red wine, a drink that a pub is not really known for. He pulls a pained face after his first sip, adds a few ice cubes to glass, and gunned the whole glass down in one.
“I’m impressed.”, his friend comments.
“I’m disturbed.”, I chime in.
“I’m an alcoholic.”, he grins as he wipes at his mouth. A moment or two pass before his eyes lose some of their focus. “That may have been a mistake.”
Streets. No matter how classy you make it, it’ll always be Streets.
by | Aug 21, 2014 | 30 Miles of Cocktails
Linger
2030 W 30th Ave.
Denver, CO 80211
http://lingerdenver.com/
“Hey Karl and Kelly!! What are you up too?” came a voice from a high balcony in one of the newer apartment buildings as we walked up 16th Street in recently renovated LoHi neighborhood. While still certainly odd to get yelled at while walking up a street, it took us both a moment to recognize our friends waving at us high above.
“Heading to Linger for a drink. Wanna come?”, I yelled back up. They again waved, saying they had plenty of beer at their place. So we continued on, moving further up the hill, past the massive Coney Island-inspired cream can of Little Man Ice Cream, and up to the former funeral home – now restaurant, Linger.
“It certainly is bright.” I said as we came up the staircase and high on the roof deck of Linger in the early evening. This was the part that Kelly wanted to see and the real reason we came here. Though Linger has been open for several years, neither of us have ever been here before, but have heard about the deck and view from many others. Growing up in Denver, Kelly was quite familiar with the large iconic ‘Olinger’ sign always looming over Interstate 25. Once the historic mortuary closed and turned into a restaurant in 2011… which still seems like an odd idea to me… thankfully the iconic sign was kept, though only ‘O’ is no longer lit up at night, leaving it as ‘linger’ (the smaller ‘mortuaries’ is also now lit up as ‘eatuaries.’)
Even before we looked around for the rooftop bar, we quickly realized that the crowd up on the deck was not really our normal crowd. There was a vibe around us of Saturday nights in LoDo, Coors Lights and Margaritas, and club kids having their first drink. We also noticed, after some frantic searching, there there was no bar on the roof deck either. A gutted RV, kitted out with bottles and taps, was sitting in the center and served as a self-service bar. Neat idea, but getting beers from the window of the RV was way to similar to ordering from a food truck.
I walked over and got Kelly a Dry Dock Apricot Blonde Beer and a Hall Farmhouse Red Amber Ale for myself. Once we had our drinks, we moved to the ‘self service’ area underneath the massive Olinger sign. Both of us would have preferred to sit at a bar, but here there was no other option.
“I think we got in here right on time”, I said as I motioning with my beer towards the growing crowd coming up the staircase and looking around confused, searching for either friends or a seat. Kelly didn’t notice as her eyes were closed, enjoying the breeze and cool evening air. I looked over towards the city. As I mentioned, many have told us that the view from Linger’s roof was one of the best in the city. I’m sure that was once the case. Now however, with the growing real estate in the rapidly gentrifying LoHi (stands for Lower Highlands) neighborhood, several new apartment buildings (including one being built right then next to the restaurant) blocked much of what should have been an otherwise brilliant view of Denver. So instead of looking at a partially completed sky rise, I looked down towards at Tejon & 16th Street and the growing queue around the massive milk can building of Little Man Ice Cream.
We were not impressed. The RV was a neat idea, but I missed sitting at a bar. The piped in music was kind of middle-of-the-road salsa dance mix that I found safe and inoffensive. There was also a greasy smell coming off the small kitchen, behind the RV and towards the back of the roof, that reminded me way too much of the Boardwalk and my youth on the Jersey shore. Kelly and I finished our beers and briefly thought about getting another, but decided against it. We saw the historic Olinger sign, checked out the view, and were done. We were a bit dissapointed. No need to come back. Besides, Williams and Graham is right up the street.
However, sitting up on the roof, I really missed the feel of a bar. That is where you really get a good judge of a place.
However, sitting up on the roof, I really missed the feel of a bar. That is where you really get a good judge of a place. As we defended the stairs, I suggested we give Linger another chance and have one more drink at Linger’s actual bar. So, we moved downstairs, through the main dining area, and up a small staircase to the cocktail lounge. I would have called it ‘the bar’, but no, it was a cocktail lounge and I was delighted. Aside from the series of thrown open windows that gave a much better view of the city (in my opinion), the lounge was a dark 70’s inspired bar. There were mirrors, a sort of tacky wallpaper, velvet art, Christmas lights under the bar top that gave a sort of classy, yet seedy kind of vibe. I loved it.
We sat down and Kelly ordered another Apricot Beer, but I wanted a cocktail. It’s easy to pull on a tap, but how about mixing a drink? After a quick scan of the menu, I decided on the ‘French Quarter’ (cognac, rye, green chartreuse, lillet rose, bitters.) However, it was hard to pin down on who was our actual bartender as it seemed there was a rotating collective behind the bar. The several times we had a question about the menu, a different bartender would answer it. So, who was our bartender? Apparently, all of them.
Aside from that, we enjoyed the bar a hell of a lot better than the roof deck. Better drinks, better music, better setting, and a much better view… though there was still that strong wafting smell of marajuana (or ‘Colorado Cigarettes’ as we’ve taken to calling them) that seems to be ever present in Denver nowadays. Also, the mortuary restaurant theme was more present here. I enjoyed that they went a bit classier rather then out of some sad goth’s wet dream. Sure, there were some odd pictures and paintings around the place.. a skull here, a casket shaped tray there… a collection of billiard balls over there (yeah, I didn’t get that one either), but the bar tables were far more subtler as sections of rollers for moving coffins around under glass. I wondered if people even knew what they were.
“What do you think?” Kelly asked. “Should we come back?”
“I don’t know.” I replied. “But it is growing on me.”
