Well dear readers, I have to be honest with you, I'm in a slump. It seems I somewhat inadvertently skipped not one, but two eateries, due to my own lack of diligence and research. But perhaps something in me wanted to skip ahead, geographically, temporally, to neighborhoods more frequented and. . .friendly? Truly, this stretch of Colfax, from Pearl to Marion and perhaps a few blocks beyond, is just hot, nasty asphalt and cement and exhaust, no trees for respite from the July sun or the stretch of chains, fast-food restaurants all. This is a strip you walk through, not to. But one of my original intentions for this project was to not shun the neighborhoods --because of preconceived notions-- but to embrace them, discover their secrets, or at least discover what the particular eatery brought to Colfax at that location, and conversely, how an eatery's particular location effected it. That first stretch of 15-or-so restaurants fit nicely into my plan, made the project easy to explain and define, even to myself. But Colfax, all 26 miles of it, isn't merely about package deals. The random strip-mall stretches and lonely bus stops and billboards and busted-up sidewalks and seemingly arbitrariness of it all is bogging me down. Where is the soul when it's not obvious? Oh yeah, in the eateries. The hodgepodge of Colfax does have a common thread: the need to serve and be served something to eat. Even Her Bar, which seems like a rather incidental eatery (hence my previous neglect of it), has chosen to offer more than libations. Sometimes it doesn't have to be about the neighborhood, sometimes it's just what's inside that counts. And Her Bar, being an obvious destination location, is definitely in that camp. So tonight, I'm going to find out why lesbians would also choose to eat at their favorite watering hole.
So I knew they’d constructed a patio, a serious plus for any bar, especially in the evening when it’s actually tolerable to be outside. It seems this added square footage also coincided with Her Bar’s acquiring of an Executive Chef (that’s what it says on the menu), someone named Cajun. When I read this I laughed to myself: I had checked the website to confirm the food rumor, had merely skimmed the content (not because I’m that inattentive but because the font was so hard to read I literally could only skim it for readable words), saw the word “cajun” and assumed I would be in for some spicy seafood and later on, heartburn. But no. At least no to the spicy seafood. The menu at Her Bar kind of looks like something a tweenager would present to her parents, proudly, if she were making dinner for them in a mock-restaurant fashion. You can feel the care, the thought, but you surely can’t see it. This would be quaint, acceptable, if I truly was being made dinner by a twelve year old (hey, maybe I was) but this is, ostensibly, an eatery. A sampling of items from the menu: “a selection of worldly cheese” (Kristin: they must be well-traveled!); “rings of fire onion rings, with choice of dipping sauce”; “Veg-HER” (raw veggies with sauce choice, not entirely sure about the pun); burger sliders; buffalo chicken sliders. My favorite part is at the bottom of the menu, a section called “After Dinner Drinks”, which includes a Tuaca lemon drop martini and a jalapeno margarita. The sweetest touch is at the very bottom, with the requisite comments about alerting the staff to food allergies and a gratutity of 20% or more for parties 6 or larger. It just seems so, restaurant-like, it’s really trying, and yet. . .
It’s really just a step up from somebody’s back yard. We sit on the patio, after having our bags searched and my favorite water bottle confiscated (it’s a club license thing I assume, and I forgot how serious a butch bouncer can be). The patio is a big wooden deck with a narow wooden bar running the length of it, a smattering of bar stools, and 3 gigantic, round, plastic tables. There’s a free mini-basketball game, colorful and tacky triangles of fabric strung overhead (shade?) and then the bar itself: a portable wooden structure that I’m pretty sure I saw at Home Depot last week, a little metro rack behind it with the booze. It’s casual out here, to say the least, but I like it, I like it a lot. It is so utterly lacking in pretention that I’m a little shocked at what I’ve grown used to in my adult eating-and-drinking life. The service, at first, is a little difficult to assess. We sit at one of the round tables, see the lovely bartender flitting about, flirting with the bouncer, smiling at us but not really serving us. We go to the bar to figure it out, plus it’s high time I get some alcohol in me. I was pleasantly surprised by their one non-corporate beer option, Alaskan Amber. I was convinced I’d have to settle for shwag-piss. And two shots of tequila, Kristin declares. Alright, how about Cuervo, we don’t want to seem too high-falutent, with our microbrews and all. The bartendress pulls out two –are you ready for this?—plastic ramekins to pour the tequila in. Yes! The first shot has a little extra protein in it, and the second and third as well. I mean, it’s an outdoor bar after all. I’m totally undisturbed, I would go so far as to drink it if it were a high quality tequila, but I know that’s uncouth, even at the lesbian bar. The bartender is a little embarassed and offers us a different (better) tequila for the same price. Sold. We take our plastic ramekins and bottles and menus back to the table.
There are three women with very large drums on the patio, each one beating to their own rhythm, albeit quietly. Kristin asks if I’d rather be inside. No honey, it’s nice out, but I know how much pain you’re in right now. If it gets worse, we’ll move. There are fliers strewn about the table, one of them declaring tonight “Tribal Night”. Aha. Hopefully we’ll get opinions formulated, food in our stomachs, and notes diligently taken before they go into a trance. The bartender comes over to take our orders. It’s really a toss up, that is to say, it really doesn’t matter what I order, I know this already, so I go for spicy, my original intention: buffalo chicken sliders. Kristin is feeling healthier so she gets the Veg-HER and watching her say it I had to stifle a laugh. Aparently the sauce choices are bleu cheese and ranch. But of course. The food seems like it takes forever to come out, considering we’re getting the equivalent of crudite and chicken strips, but no matter. We’re on our way to drunk and if people watching is your sport, then Her Bar is an event of Olympic proportions. Finally the paper plates are delivered, mine piled high with waffle cut french fries and three little buns hiding the poulet underneath. Mmm, waffle fries! I’m 99% sure they are those of the Alexis brand one can find in one’s grocer’s freezer, but cooked in a deep fryer with a sprinkling of salt they are heavenly. What ever happen to waffle fries? Are they out of vogue? Okay Her Bar you get points for bringing me back to a time when I surely wouldn’t be caught dead in a dyke bar. Oh how I’ve grown. Kristin’s plate looks like something Amy Sedaris would be really proud of: baby carrots, broccoli, celery, green bell peppers, and button mushrooms, all raw and kinda sweaty and. . .do people really eat raw mushrooms like that? The bowl of ranch has a parsley garnish sprinkled on top. Again, I’m coming back to, to, my seventh grade best friend’s parents’ wet bar in their musty, dark basement. The sounds of the mini basketball affirm my daydream. So the waffle fries are great, the veggies are veggies, and my sliders, you ask? Two chicken nuggets, drenched in Frank’s Red Hot, bleu cheese sauce drizzled on the bun. It’s a chicken nugget sandwich. The phrase executive chef pops in my head again and while I would love to expound on the myriad ways this is an entirely ridiculous notion at a place like Her Bar, this blog is not meant to be a forum for me to judge my fellow queer women. Y’all can talk to me in person about that.
So why would a lesbian choose to eat at Her Bar? Because she’s hungry, and probably drunk, and also, well, undiscerning. There I said it. There’s a time and a place to eat crudite and chicken nuggets, and I really don’t mind paying for it either. Humans are very accomodating, accepting, and adaptable, for how else would we have the ability to create a culture or have relationships? The rules of restaurants change, what’s acceptable to a diner changes, depending on where you’re eating. This seems obvious but it’s something to think about. Why else would we eat at Her Bar? Different eateries have different definitions of “service” and “good food”, and Her Bar is one of those places that just barely slides by because quite frankly, the clientele doesn’t give a shit. But no one’s really paying attention, except for that femme-y girl taking notes over there. . .