MY PROJECT TO EAT AT EVERY EATING ESTABLISHMENT ON COLFAX, FROM GRANT TO COLORADO BLVD IN GEOGRAPHICAL ORDER, MINUS THE CHAINS.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Pete's with Perry

Let me clear this matter up right away. The name Pete, when talking about Denver restaurants, conjures up one man and one man only. The Pete. Pete Contos, who owns 8 eateries in Denver, 6 of which are on the Eat Colfax stretch. A chain of restaurants perhaps? Well, I believe they all cater to mostly different needs, and they reside in different neighborhoods. In any case, that information can and should all be saved for another blog entry, because this week's Eat Colfax eatery is not owned by Pete Contos. Yes, another Pete eponymously named his diner in Denver. Pete Gasteos as a matter of fact. 

At 514 E. Colfax, situated ever-so-snuggly between La Abeja and Martha's Beauty Salon, Pete's Steak House is a little known gem. When I told my friends what this week's eatery was, they looked at me quizically. Yup it's there, I promise. About the size of a train car, with modular-type, corrugated, gleaming white walls, I can suddenly imagine a time when the first floor of the  building was just one long open space, bazaar-style, vendors scrambling to get their wares and fares set up, erecting cheap walls to keep out the fragrant savory aromas. Okay back to the moment. Perry is waiting for me inside and she's chosen the perfect table. Not that there's a not-so-perfect table, it's so small you can see the entire place without having to move your head much. The kitchen is completely open and right up front by the door, like a beacon of beckoning greasy sizzles to the hungry, morning passersby. There's only a handful of people inside, it's refreshing not to wait an hour for the Saturday morning brunch that seems to be Denver's favorite meal. I order a coffee and it's surprisingly amazing, unexpectedly not-burnt, rich and flavorful (yes I have my stereotypes). Quickly glancing at the menu, it's 50% breakfast and 50% steaks and pork chops. You can get 2 pork chops, 2 eggs, hash browns and toast for 10 bucks. Perry goes for the one chop and egg deal, still a massive amount of food for $7.99. I order the gyro omelette, not really sure what it will look like, but those are two foods I pretty much love, gyros and omelettes. And you know, when in Rome. Or Greece. 

Soft country music gently wafts down from a boom box near the ceiling, there are so many of these walls-that-don't-go-all-the-way-up on Eat Colfax. Family photos and mass-produced landscapes and cheesy, pithy sayings about coffee adorn the walls. It's homey and diner-y and impeccably clean. Pete brings out our breakfast. They say that the more colorful your food is, the healthier it is. Screw those people. Screw those people when it comes to breakfast anyway. 
Perry's plate is several shades of brown, with a dollop of white and yellow in the center that is her over-easy egg. My plate is mostly yellow and brown, the omelette flanked by two pepperoncinis, the hash browns the perfect crispiness-on-the-outside, soft and potato-y on the inside.  A gyro omelette, it turns out, is an omelette with a juicy, flat, length of lamb and the salty goodness that is feta sandwiched by the eggs, with a side of pita and tzatziki (in a plastic ramekin). With the exception of the anemic-looking tomato chunks and not-so-finely diced white onions on top of the omelette, it is the perfect food. I almost wish I had a hangover. Almost. The pita, traditionally called Olga bread --there's no slit in the middle and it's soft and a little spongy, having been basted with olive oil and grilled-- is imbued with the flavors of everything else being cooked on the grill and begs to cradle the egg-lamb-feta. Having the option of eating the pita and tzatziki separately is nice, but I wouldn't mind seeing this dish in true gyro form, a sandwich, a grinder that can be picked up and scarfed down with my hands. That's a suggestion for ya Pete. There are no complaints from Perry's side of the table, and she is a true connoisseur of pork products. Her chop is succulent, even without any sauce that I perhaps expect with a pork chop. 

Post-meal potty break. Wow. Pete's Steak House wins the prize for creepiest bathroom so far. I mean, I didn't see a dead body, but it was damn dark down there so you never know. Allow me to expound: in the back, past the dishwasher, you make a sharp right and are faced with a narrow wooden staircase descending into darkness. Today the staircase was littered with newspapers. It looked a little sketchy, a little. . . "slippy", to quote my favorite British world-adventurer, but I managed to make it down with nary a totter. The ceiling of the basement is low, really low, and it is seriously dark down there, the only light coming from the restaurant above. I make out a white utility sink, a leaky drain, a door. Hmm, should I open the door? Yes. Ah ha. The water closet. It's the size of a phone booth, I practically hit my head on the exposed pipes by the ceiling, and I'm not tall. Well, it's clean, sort-of. I mean it's not filthy. It's just, creepy. There's dark orange sealant unsuccessfully trying to cover all the cracks and holes, and the exposed bulb seems dubiously too dim for the space. It's a fast pee. Washing my hands at the utility sink, I catch the surprised look of the basement's next unsuspecting visitor. I smile and nod, it's completely normal to me at this point, I adapt quickly. 

Perry and I talk about restaurants, hers and mine, mid-range and fine-dining, crazy owners, farm-to-table, mimosas with a 450% mark-up, Denver vs. New York. In walks a local business owner, Perry points him out saying "there's that terrible guy", someone who I've clashed with in the past, but it makes me feel good that he's there anyway, reminds me of how keen this project is and how daunting it would be to do this in New York. I'm definitely starting to feel more at home on Colfax, with all of it's personalities, and the relative anonymity I experienced at the beginning is starting to dissipate, in a good way. 
Pete's Steak House on Urbanspoon

Monday, June 21, 2010

La Abeja es delicioso!

I met up with my good friend Lalo for this week's eatery. He was aptly chosen as my dining companion for his expertise in traditional street-style Mexican food. Lalo knows his cosas when it comes to la comida. I arrive before him and have a minute to check it out. While officially called La Abeja, it has the usual-for-a-taqueria three to five unofficial names/offerings in well-produced and maintained spray paint above the door: Panaderia Y Pastelleria Bakery La Abeja Tacos Tortas Burritos. Really, you can't miss it. While I've lived in Colorado for 13 years, I'm still a pale girl from Michigan at heart, and any time I get the chance to go in somewhere authentically Mexican, I'm always surprised a little bit. It's not just an eatery you see, it's a little Mexican smorgasbord: convenience store, phone card store, candy store, bakery, and of course, the restaurant. Lively and loud Mexican polka music is blasting from the speakers. Right inside the door and immediately to the left is a whole wall rack of Mexican spices. And I thought Whole Foods had some offerings of that variety, hmph! Now I know where to go when I want to make mole and posole

There are a few glass cases with the baked goods, most are similar looking in that white flour, sugar, and cinnamon-sprinkled kind of way, like gigantic snickerdoodles. A couple kinds have more glitter-like sprinkles than a queen at Pride. Lalo walks in while I'm perusing the cases and, as I knew he would, declares "we will get that on our way out". Lalo is a big fan of bread products. The convenience store aspect of the place is true in this way: if you really need toilet paper or laundry detergent or bar soap, you can conveniently get it at La Abeja. It reminds me of a camp ground store, the bare essentials plus some cookies. 


The menu is above the cash register/order counter. Actually they have two menus, one in words and one in pictures, advertising different things. We focus on the words menu, I've seen enough picture menus lately anyway. Different things, new things!, I think. Chilaquiles (safe) and a lengua taco (dangerous). Lalo gets two tacos, carnitas and carne asada. (Believe me, at this point I'm sick of the italics too but I guess I'm going with it). I grab a pineapple Jumex from the case and try to pay, but the counter girl tells us we can pay when we're done. Well how do you like that. How trusting. 


The dining area is in a different room, separate from the store/ordering place. It's spotlessly clean and humming with the sound of an ice machine and a refrigerator. Ceramic roosters line the  tops of the walls, and glittery virgin Marys and other metallic still-lifes reflect the well-lit room and shine down on us. This place is busy, it's lunchtime, and the blend of demographics is reassuring. It's good enough for all denizens of Denver. To be sure, I had heard nothing but raves about La Abeja before coming. The server (and cook!), smiling and full of energy, brings out our dishes, a little surprised that the lengua taco is for me, most likely because the chilaquiles is actually a platter, with the requisite rice and beans. In other words, it's a lot of food. Enough italics, this is Denver, but of course, I will elaborate: Lengua means tongue. Cow tongue specifically. And chilaquiles are fried corn tortillas cut into triangles covered with green chile and cheese. Sounds like nachos maybe? Well nachos it ain't. It's soft and hearty and definitely something to be eaten with a fork. I stab a piece of lengua first. It's a little spongy, lacking the fibrosity of a more commonly eaten cow muscle, but tastes like beef and has a wonderful buttery texture. With a little cilantro, white onion, and salsa verde on top, it is a typical and tasty Mexican taco. The corn tortilla, doubled up of course, has a fluffy consistency and tastes like it was pounded out that morning.

 Lalo is happily impressed with his tacos as well. The carnitas (pork) is a bit salty, but tenderly soft and stringy, like it was just pulled from the pig, and the carne asada (beef) has a delectably savory barbeque/chile powder essence that I have yet to taste in a Denver taqueria. Going back and forth between the dishes, I am amazed to find the chilaquiles stay as hot as when the plate was delivered, as if the cheese and chile are an insulator for the wonderfully messy fried tortillas underneath. The green chile has a wonderful spicy heat that sneaks up on you in the best of ways. This is an amazing dish, something that is also frequently served with eggs in it, ahh, Mexican breakfast. Next time, next time. 


We savor the food, animatedly talking about math dreams and Tucson weather patterns and weddings and quiet, rainy retreats. We pay and leave and stroll down Grant Street, and Lalo keeps coming back to the food: "They tune in a lot to the undercurrents". Now if that doesn't rouse your interest and appetite in La Abeja, usted no atiende.
La Abeja Bakery on Urbanspoon

Monday, June 14, 2010

Roslyn Grill: The Old Queen

Pre-Script:
I want to tell you that Roslyn Grill plays a major role in the birth of Eat Colfax. In fact, I believe I remember the exact day, about a year ago, driving down Colfax back to my abode and thinking, "who goes there?" with a disdainful wince. Why does it have such a reputation, even amongst the unknowing such as myself? The seed was planted. I should go there. And why not? Do they have a sign that says No Well-Groomed Women Under 50? They most certainly do not. It's a free country, and I can go to Roslyn Grill. 


Roslyn Grill! I'm really excited. Nervous? A little. I walk by it a couple times a week at 7:45 in the morning and they are Open For Business. Lager pints half shielded by the crescent of a slumped back and a knobby hand. Hard stares, no talking. At least that's what I see from the outside. 


I do minimal research on the restaurants before I go, mostly just to check if they have a website. To be sure, Roslyn Grill has no website, but they have something far more esteemed: they have an article in the New York Times. Yup. Regrettably, there is a self-imposed ban on me reading the article, at least at this point (I'm a new writer and easily influenced). And no less notable but perhaps more obscure to the general American public, two articles in the Westword, from 1999 and 2007. Again, no read-y for me. S'ok, s'ok, I'm ready to put my imaginative capacity to compose a creative story to the test. (Okay so I skimmed the articles, but that was at least two weeks ago so by now my moderately encumbered short-term memory has long forgotten the details.) And now, the moment we've all been waiting for. . .


I invite Seth, who accompanied me to Emilio's. A man, a tall man at that, a man who is not afraid  of anything and just as excited as myself. Noon, I decide. The morning crowd is a little. . . obvious, and I'm too intimidated for whatever debauchery goes on at night. We're walking on the north side of the street, shooting past it a little to see all the angles, and I know they have a specials board on the west window that I want to check out. We wonder at the monstrosity taking shape at Penn (could it be residential up top?), stroll under the blue truk tunnel, our ears hissing at the sound of the impending construction machinery, only to discover that it's not the new building they're working on at the moment, they're tearing down the double decker McDonalds! Death to chains on Colfax! Seth points out a little too quickly that they're just going to put up another one (no! what the?) because they've caution-taped off the boulder out front with the big M etched in it. What, you mean that's not a gravestone? 

The specials board advertises a bean and chicken burrito or two chili cheese dogs for $4.99. Go "Rockies" at the bottom. While I get a little exasperated when I see misused punctuation, there's something kind of endearing about extraneous quotation marks. Walking in, we see lots of open tables, in fact all the tables are empty. The only patrons are at the bar, 6 dudes, one old lady (someone's old lady?), and Annie the barkeep. We plop down at a centrally located booth, you know I normally like the bar but I'd like to keep my note-taking clandestine. Annie greets us warmly, sans menus, perhaps we look like we just want an afternoon delight. She remarks on the demolition across the street and I realize it's going to be the focal point of her day. After we speak our intentions she hands us menus and happily tells us the specials. I don't know how long Annie has worked here, but it seems like forever to me, and I've only been here 5 minutes. Two Buds to start, and we need a minute for the food. Above the bar hangs a glass menagerie of Budweiser memorabilia that I somehow can't take my eyes from. It reminds me of an era when children pressed their faces against department store windows with expectant yule-tide glee, staring longingly at miniature versions of castles and trains and ponies. And now I'm noticing other bits of Roslyn's charismatic trappings: caricatures from the ages line the walls, stained glass lamps hang nobly from the forest green ceiling, a lovely gold-enameled mirror etched with the Budweiser Clydesdales, the faint scent of a million cigarettes smoked long ago. Annie comes back to take our order, she is all of 80 pounds, 10 of which must be the massive pile of hair swept expertly atop her head and fastened with some kind of gigantic black scrunchie. Her make up has been carefully applied, her shirt crisply pressed, her self-respect is evident and contagious. 


What to order? The specials are unappealing, was I even expecting appeal anyway? I go for the Italian sausage sandwich with fries. Seth tries for the fried chicken but "she's out of it" says Annie. This place appears to be run by women, appropriately. He's waffling, I tell him to get the chicken burrito special. Something Mexican, something Italian, okay so diner food all the way. 


No one in the Roslyn is paying us any mind, which is a surprise, and reassuring. Mostly they stare at the big screen tvs or watch the razing across the street, an occasional utterance escapes someone's lips. An older woman is sitting with a cola at a table by the window, dreamily staring out the window, seemingly waiting, waiting. A burly man with a bright orange sleeveless t-shirt that reads "we install and service hangovers" strolls though the bar, he has an air of handyman. It's almost too mellow in here, am I disappointed? Hardly, but Seth and I vow to return someday during the dark hours now that it already feels familiar. 


Annie sets the table with the thin, white, embossed, grocery store napkins my mom buys. Then comes the food. It looks as you would expect, the fries taking up 75% of the plate, cheese dripping deliciously and crustily from the innards of the sandwich. A plastic ramekin of ketchup. Seth's plate looks a little like something one would heat up in a microwave, albeit larger and absolutely swimming in green chili and cheese. I munch some fries, who's first bite isn't the fries? They are hot and crispy and white, the whitest fries I have ever eaten. So hot, so. . .crunchy, and. . . white, like I'm eating a deep-fried parsnip that's been perfectly shaped like a french fry. Not an iota of seasoning so I proceed to shake the shit out of the salt and pepper. The sandwich looks delicious, sautéed onions and green peppers are oozing out onto the plate, the edges of the plump, oval, golden brown sausage patty peaking out from the sides of the bun. The bun is a slight letdown, soaking up the juices and getting soggy before I finish devouring it. Some say a sandwich is only as good as the bun, but I've always preferred the savory middle parts anyway. The dipping sauce, which in my experience with Italian sausage sandwiches should be a traditional marinara, is most certainly and disappointingly of the Ragu spaghetti sauce variety, with chunks of long ago-canned tomatoes and onions slickly mixed in, oh it's in there alright. Bleh. No bother, the sandwich is so perfectly seasoned and juicy the sauce is unnecessary. Seth asks for extra green chili, "Oh you like that do you? It is really good, she makes it herself," says Annie. I picture a matronly Hispanic lady mixing up vats of it in the back, a true chef de cuisine de Rosyln. The green chili becomes our fry sauce and we happily munch away, completely pleased with the dining experience. 


I hop up a rickety half staircase to the bathroom and am delighted by an oversized stone and tile fireplace, right there across from the stalls. Suddenly my imagination clicks and I can see it now, the Royal Roslyn in her heyday, this would be the anteroom where ladies would giggle and gossip away from the men smoking fat cigars and listening to Old Blue Eyes and shooting pool. The unmistakable quality of classiness that still lingers in the chipped paint of the dark maroon walls, the gold-lined picture frames, and Annie herself, elegantly, pointedly made-up just as she's done her whole working life. Roslyn is like an old queen, long since dethroned but living out her days with dignity none the less, her patrons and employees still loyal supporters. Perhaps that's what they were thinking, watching the McDonald's being torn down, that suddenly their hard-luck lives would be transformed back to the glory days and there would be no shame at spending hours upon hours on the barstools of the Roslyn Grill. Who knows if any of that is true, but such was the sentiment I felt. 


Annie comes back for the financial exchange, sees the tip (a normal one for me and most restaurants I eat at) and thanks us graciously and humbly three times, tells us to come again, she really means it. "Wednesday is liver and onions day, Friday spaghetti and meatballs" she beams, trying to entice us back.  


Why the stigma, Roslyn? It's the way you're perceived and it's easy to blame the neighborhood: the addicts, the dealers, the homeless, the hard-up. And you open your doors and arms wide for whoever dares to enter. But it's not just a demographic of social outcasts that inhabit the jungle, it's also the professionals, the civil servants, the students, the hipsters, all of these urban dwellers that create a beautiful juxtaposition on this stretch of metropolitan main street. I'm not afraid anymore Roslyn, and I'll be the first person to recommend you.
Roslyn Grill  on Urbanspoon

Monday, June 7, 2010

Uptown Brother's Brewery: NKOTB

My first backtrack! I have to admit, it was an exciting part of this project, allowing myself to go back down the avenue and check out something fresh, a frisky newborn neighbor venturesome enough to be a resident of Colfax. And a brewery no less. This place, I knew, would produce a story. 
Enter two beer nerds. We are discriminating experts of the hops/barley/malt/yeast/water liquid pentagram and we are thirsty. I know, this is supposed to be about food, and I'll get there. But damn, with 16 taps and 50 bottle options, this ain't your average eatery. We plop down at the corner of the bar, absolutely the best seats in any house, and the man who makes the night greets us and hands us the simple 8 and a half by 11, just-printed-in-the-office beer list. Unfortunately, their beers aren't ready yet (these things take time!), but their selection of other ambrosial libations left nothing to desire. 
Enter the beertender. I didn't coin that term but I'm damn sure gonna use it. Because let me tell you, there is a difference. A beaming face and booming voice in the richest panhandle-Texan drawl clearly saw in us two hops-loving kindred spirits. We peruse the taps, tempting, but I've had them all before, well almost. He gives me a taster or two (it is a brewery after all, it's all about the tasters). The bottle list is unavoidably and unabashedly where it's at. I scan the list and look for the untasted (there's more than a few) and settle on a Wells Bombadier. Well, they're out of that, or it hasn't been delivered yet, they've only been open for a week, distributors not paying attention and whatnot. Fair enough. The next mysterious name on the list is Krusovice Cerne, a Schwarzbier from Prague, est. 1891, yes I'll have that. Beertender man expresses he hasn't tried it yet so
 I offer him a taster, how cool! "A little draggin' on the back end" he intones. This is an aspect of the service industry of which I long for more, the tender and tendee sharing a passion and curiosity for the product being peddled. This is what makes me return to a place, it's so much more than the food or drink, it's the engagement. 

  Ah, time to lay a food layer on top of the beer. The food menu is large, I mean literally it takes two hands to hold it and it's only 1 page, front and back. Southern food, soul food. I'm with a foodie (and I'm paying) so I declare open season, whatever you want! Let's try it! My eyes rest on fried pickle spears or thunder thighs (and those would be different from wings how?) but we settle on fried green tomatoes: cornmeal crusted, smoked gouda, pan fried spicy pecans, crumbled bleu cheese, baby field greens, chipotle mayonnaise, green tomato chow chow. Well! Waiting for this appetizer I look around, it's certainly not empty, with a decent mixed-crowd. I see dreads, dykes, old dudes, industry types, not a tie to be seen. Just my kind of place. Oh, and there also happens to be 17 televisions. I know what you're thinking, that I would have turned my nose up at first entrance, but to be honest, when I have something as distracting as unique imported beer and damn fine conversation with a full-blooded Texan entertainer behind the bar, the tvs aren't so bad. They add. . .light. The tv closest to me was on the NASA channel, did you know there was such a thing? It showed 6 smiling astronauts or possibly cosmonauts all packed closely together to fit inside the screen, passing along a tiny microphone and no doubt professing their love for their families and their countries (I couldn't actually hear it). While all short-haired I could see it sticking up as if gelled and their jowly middle-aged cheeks and chins were clearly enjoying the effects of anti-gravity. Oh the life. 

The fried green tomatoes arrive. Beautiful! 
But. . .so often fried food just tastes like everything else they throw in the fryer, in this case, popcorn shrimp. And so it was. So much for the enticing additives. We nibble and it's time for more ambiance analysis. They haven't really changed the place a bit, haven't sunk a dime into the decor. It's still a red room, with a backbar giving off a neon watermelon glow that's reminiscent of Lo-Do. There's a side room off the bar, apart from the main area, that's as poorly used now as it's ever been. Seven four-tops and three tvs and the electronic jukebox in that dunce-cap corner of a room.  If I had been seated there I would expect some kind of compensation, honestly. Pool tables, people! Come for the beers, stay for the billiards and the beertender belting out Justin Moore. And the plethora of tvs. There's an upstairs loft sort of area that for now houses more unused four-tops but will soon be home to their two 5-barrel tanks. It's a small operation it seems, the owner is a retired logger with a knack for home-brewing. Logger? Oh no, hahaha, that would be "law-yer", I'm still learning Texan. Off to the bathroom, camera in tow. It's bigger than it needs to be, cavernous really, which is actually how I would describe the restaurant space as a whole. But here's the zinger:

Perfection has it's price, and it turns out that price is free tampons. Back to the bar, time for more beer. I get a Schneider Aventinus, Christopher a Moylands Hopsicle. Beertender, okay his name is Kale, says about my beer: "ma wife and I, we pour that in champagne glasses and drink it on the patio!" Laughter ensues. I was actually just bemoaning the fact they don't have proper snifters for their imports. If I'd wanted a pint glass I'd have ordered a Great Divide. But hey, it's Denver, it's a new bar, and really, doesn't it all just taste the same no matter the glassware? Not so says Reidel, but that's for another blog. The Aventinus is a wheat doppelbock and is the best beer I've had in months. It's complex and dark and soft and rich and the slight bitterness at the end just encourages more sips. 
The dinner hour is upon us, let's delve into this menu. So many choices! We definitely want to branch out from burgers, they serve one of my favorite styles of food after all. Some tempting options include a pimento cheese sandwich on brioche, a "12 bite" hot dog wrapped in bacon, a pulled pork shoulder sandwich, chicken mac 'n cheese, jambalaya. I order the chicken pot pie (I find pie crust goes well with a wheat beer) but Kale informs me they're out. Strike 2. I settle on the pulled pork sandwich with a side of mashed potatoes and coleslaw, and Christopher gets the shrimp and grits, sautéed kale with apple wood smoked bacon, and mac 'n cheese! Nummy! If I meditate on that list I can practically taste it in my mouth. Kale warns us it'll probably take 45 minutes (!). "It's just a huge hoopla is what it is", he explains about the kitchen. Ahh, the endless sibling rivalry between front and back of house. While we wait, a couple comes in and sits at the bar next to us. 
Them: We haven't been here since it's changed! (from Red Room)
Kale: You haven't?! Well do y'all shoot Jäger? 
What a talented and multi-faceted bartender, I think to myself. He can tell at first glance that we are the beer-drinking types, and they the Jäger-shooting types. The food comes out (it was more like an appropriate 20 minutes, but thanks for the warning Kale). It looks amazing, much like the appetizer, but again, after a sampling of everything, I can tell the cooks do not hail from the deep south. My pulled pork sandwich, with bbq sauce only on the side, is DRY, and it's not merely from lack of being drenched in sauce. Same for the coleslaw, which isn't really coleslaw but just chopped up green cabbage and green onion. No other color, no red cabbage or orange carrot and definitely not mayo-moist. The mashed Yukons are deeply golden, almost yammy, but taste like garlicky salted paste. Christopher has similar complaints about his meal, but I will say the presentation of the shrimp-on-grits was stunning. The strangest component was the kale, which was about 90% white beans and 10% kale. Starchy beans were not a welcome addition. 
Thankfully we’d had delicious wet beers to saturate our arid food.  At this point the topic has turned to the Renaissance Festival, and Kale declares “the couth level is negative!” Wow. Something else I’ve never done, attend that bastion of anachronistic hedonism complete with giant turkey legs.  He offers one last sweet morsel of hospitality, a free shot for us. Jäger? Nooo, but how about that bottle of Buffalo Trace we’ve both been eyeing? Oh sure! Two shots neat in rocks glasses to cap off the night, hot I might add.  As if bourbon didn’t burn my throat enough, these shots have been stewing in the bottle for a week now, atop a shelf that looks real purdy all lit up like that but you have to be careful when you light a backbar. Strike 3? Nah, I'm drunk enough not to care too much.  Oh the quirks of a new business, any business really. It’s okay, I’ll definitely be back.


                                  2 hot shots. 


P.S. Can someone explain to me the inanity of requiring a birth date before entering a brewery's website?