11.03.09»COLFAX MARTINIS: A LITTLE DIRTY

I drink for a living. Drinking is my job. My affection for all things Tap and Coaster compels me to spend a significant amount of time in watering-holes, happily ass-warming the furniture. And over time I’ve learned a few things about cocktails—specifically what I like and what, not to put to fine a point on it, I wouldn’t wish on an enemy.

Lately, what I like is martinis. And in my never-humble opinion there is one—and only one—recipe for the things, which is this: gin, a dainty splash of dry vermouth, an even daintier splash of olive juice, and three olives. Period. Exit stage left.

So, armed with my recipe, and with my heart awash in the Milk of Human Kindness, I embarked on a six-bar, six-martini ramble along Colfax.

6:20 p.m.
The Satellite Bar
308 E. Colfax Ave.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $8.50

Sweet weeping Jesus…Trio on the juke. “Da, Da, Da.” Pop minimalism run amok. Repetitive to a degree that would make Philip Glass beg for just five fucking minutes of Mozart.

Come to rest on a stool at the less crowded end of the bar. There are eight, maybe ten, people in the place. Five of ‘em in a group at the other end; regulars, I’m guessing. Bartender saunters down my way. I nod hello, ask for a martini like the one described above, and for perhaps three full seconds he does a praiseworthy imitation of an unplugged clock. And when a discernable emotion finally bivouacs on his face it’s one of grim, resigned, irritation, which momentarily hints at his firm belief that the world is, just as he’s always maintained, chock-full of douchebags just like me. Then, to my inner amusement, he drops a fat punctuation mark on his delicate pantomime with: “Don’t have any martini glasses.”

“No worries,” I say. “You can serve it in a bunch a Dixie cups for all I care.”

And off he goes, back toward his oasis of regulars, where he starts groping about for martini fixins and grumbling at his pals. It quickly becomes evident that he’s bitching about me, the discomfiture brought on by my hemorrhoidal presence, causing his cronies to toss sideways stink-eyes my way.

More time than seems reasonable ticks by. I’ve made plenty of martinis over the years and the process isn’t exactly solving differential equations. My drink eventually docks at my elbow. It’s in a pint glass. On the rocks. Bartender answers my “thanks, man” with an atavistic little grunt and bee-lines it back to his people.

The martini is…well…OK, if we ignore the sullying ice cubes, it’s pretty much perfectly average. Everything I asked that it contain is there, more or less in their correct proportions. But the truth of the matter is this: it lacks panache. It’s the libationary equivalent of masturbating with a tea cozy. You get the job done, but it’s not exactly the Adrenaline Thrill-Ride of the Summer.

I knock it back in about four swallows and ask the guy to settle me out.

“Just one?” he asks, though why he’d want me to order a second is unclear.

I explain my night’s mission and—should’ve seen it coming—he gets friendly in a hurry. Writing an article, huh? Cool. You do that for a living? Cool. That martini tasted right? Cool. Sure you wouldn’t like another? Cool. Wanna fuck my sister?

My brows knit when I eyeball the total on the handwritten bill. $8.50. After tip, I’m about to part company with eleven bucks for that single little Eeyore of a cocktail.

Back out on Colfax I tell myself not to fret over this inauspicious start.

6:51 p.m.
Pete’s Satire Lounge
1962 E. Colfax Ave.
Tanqueray martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $6

I know at once that I’m in good hands when, upon claiming an empty stool, I am greeted by a bartender who isn’t half my age—a rarity in this part of town. She has that classic barkeep demeanor that informs patrons right up front that she is not in the business of suffering fools and that you will be treated in a manner consistent with how you treat her. I offer her a quick “Howdy,” and rattle off my drink request. Completely unfazed (she has, after all, probably mixed about ten gazillion of the things), all she wants to know is my gin preference (“Tanqueray is dandy, thanks.”), and she’s off.

She goes about her business with confidence and, better yet, unhurried speed, and is back with my martini in less than three minutes. I give it a solid B. It’s almost an A, but there’s a jot too much olive juice in it. Still, a B ain’t bad. Gonna take my time with this one. Maybe dab a little behind each ear. You know, for a goof.

Someone, bless his or her melody-starved heart, feeds some green to the juke and the resulting tune takes me a little by surprise. That high, cool trumpet can only be Miles Davis. How cool is this? It’s not any bar (especially on Colfax) you luck into some classic jazz. And if there is a better aural compliment to a martini, I can’t imagine what it might be.

Before I know it the last of the drink is on its way south. Like all true professionals, the bartender arrives just as I’m returning the empty glass to the oak, asks if I’m ready for another. I decline, quickly sketch out the reason why, and am pleased to see that she couldn’t possibly give less of a shit. “Six dollars,” she says.

I hand over twelve and hit the bricks.

Interlude #1
Colfax is crawling with clowns. I mean clowns. Face paint, fake noses, the whole shebang, except they’re dressed in black. What is this? Fellini in town?

Like most normal healthy folks, I fucking hate clowns. Not only are they six different kinds of annoying, they give me the screaming willies. Some comedian, I forget who, said that the reason clowns perform in hospitals is because the kids can’t run away.

Ah. OK. Now I see. God, how stupid am I? Insane Clown Posse is at the Fillmore tonight. The people done up as clowns aren’t really clowns at all, but fans of insane clowns. And call me uninformed, but I didn’t think there were this many mouth-breathers in all of Denver.

Reminds me of a joke, though. These two cannibals are eating a clown, and one says to the other: “Hey, does this taste funny to you?”

But anyway…

7:28 p.m.
Streets of London Pub
1502 E. Colfax Ave.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, price unknown

I’ve been ass-warming a stool at Streets off and on for the last seven or eight years (except for a six-month hiatus during which I was 86ed for reasons best not detailed in a public forum), so I’m pretty sure what I’m going to get before my tuchus even gets cozy with the stool. Place isn’t very crowded (Capitol Hill is still getting corn-holed by the Bush economy), and there is only one other guy at the bar. He’s a squirrelly little dude, hunkered low over a pint of Guinness, eyes fixed on the tan foam, like the beer is talking to him. My brain barks “Danger! Danger!” and I turn away from the guy’s hoppy meditations, thinking that he looks exactly like the sort of twitchy doofus who will, sooner or later, sit down beside me and begin babbling about aliens, and how the moon landing was faked, and wanna show me fuzzy pictures of the Bigfoot that canoodled him in Oregon.

Turns out one of my favorite bartenders is staffing the opposite side. I give her the short version of my evening’s six sojourns, order the drink, then sit back and watch her go to town on it. Like her counterpart at Pete’s, she works with an economy of motion and a self-assured élan.

Holy Hannah…This martini is as close to perfect as I could possibly want. Chilled glass, stirred, not shaken (James Bond is a snooty twat who ordered a watery drink—pay him no heed), and the gin, vermouth and juice amuse my taste buds each according to its precise measure. It goes down like ice water, hits my stomach and blossoms into a warm liquid flower. Wow.

Third part of the mission accomplished—with juniper-tinged gusto.

8:07 p.m.
The Irish Snug
1201 E. Colfax. Ave.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $7

Ah, yes. Yet another Colfax drinkery that has, in the past, seen fit to un-request the pleasure of my company. Again, we need not discuss the particulars, except to say that while I was asked never to return, the event itself unfolded some time ago and I don’t think anyone will remember me. Probably. We’ll hope. They were a tad miffed.

Of the bars I’ve called on so far this evening, this one is by far the jumpinest. Loud music from the sound system (Talking Heads); louder voices from the customers (more talking heads). Most of the tables are at capacity and there’s only one empty stool at the bar. The snugs themselves appear to be, well, in full snuggle.

I plant myself on the available stool, and receive almost immediate attention from one of what appears to be an entire squadron of bartenders, easily identified by their matching outfits—a lamentable fact of Snug Life, I guess. It takes the lass a few minutes to knock the thing together, but the weeds are pretty deep, so it ain’t no thang. She coasters the brim-full funnel of Dutch goodness in front of me, asks if I need anything else or if I want to look at a menu. I require neither, but she’s cute as a frisky kitten and I want her to hang for a few, so I ask her name and tell her about my martini quest. She’s interested enough to ask a couple of questions (and make sure I spell her name right), but not nearly interested enough to, oh, say, drag me by the ankles into a snug.

But I have to say, the martini is pretty darn good. Not Streets quality, but near enough to be enjoyable. Chick did a good job. I’d like to thank her personally but I either scared her off or she’s on break and some other bartender takes my ten bucks; seven for the cocktail and a gratuity of three.

8:22 p.m.
Kinga’s Lounge
1509 Marion St.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $8

I’m feeling the effects of four martinis as I sidle through Kinga’s front entrance. My retinas momentarily recoil in pain and shock, and try to leap out the back of my skull as they take both barrels of the bar’s aggressively ivory and pomegranate color palette. I don’t mean to imply that it’s ugly. Not at all. I find it quite lovely. It’s just that when you transition from the relative darkness of the street into this astonishingly well-lit interior your senses require a few deep calming breaths before they are able to resume their regular programming.

Some of the problem, however, I know is due to the alcohol currently using my body for a mosh pit. Four martinis is nothing, but two other factors are at work here. First, the martinis represent only a portion of the booze I’ve tossed back today. Truth be told, I came staggering out a the blocks about three o’clock this afternoon with a pitcher of tasty Bloody Marys, followed by a couple of pints of PBR and three shots of chilled Maker’s. Then, just before setting out on my night’s quest, I decanted a bottle of Malbec into my circulatory system, just cuz I was feeling daffy. And the Second important feature of my current state is that martinis get you drunk faster. It’s true. Actual scientists have conducted actual scientific studies into how fast and how grossly hooch effects us, and the data hints tantalizingly that drinking martinis, for a number of as-yet-unconfirmed reasons, is the mixed-drink equivalent of bass fishing with Semtex.

So, yeah, I’m feeling a bit like a Weeble right now.

I figure it’s time for some stabilizing eats, and Kinga’s is a splendid place to strap on the old nosebag.

Another stool at another bar, this one as far to one end as can be. Bartenders (there are three) seem to ignore me for a while, but that might be because I’m lurking in the shadows. When one finally shows, I order the drink and a plate of sausages and potatoes. The martini is a long time coming, but appears to be a fairly standard example of the species, a notion quickly dispelled by my first healthy swig. Sure, all the ingredients are there, but she was way too heavy-handed with both the vermouth and the olive sap.

My food surfaces after a time, and it’s at least three totally separate kinds of yummy. When it’s gone I motion for my check. The whole plate of food: eight dollars. The martini: eight dollars. The better deal: the food.

Interlude #2
I’m out on the street letting my eyes switch from Kinga’sLand to ColfaxLand. Phone rings. It’s an old friend from Texas. She’s been out and about and has had more than her fair share of vino, it would appear. We’re both blithering on about our various misdeeds when, from behind me, comes a short, sharp squeal of tires, a sort of complicated whump and the sound of metal scraping asphalt.

I turn around to find a small white Honda hatchback parked sideways in the middle of Marion on top of a bicycle, and a man, sitting on his ass a foot or two away, trying to get to his feet.

“Gotta go!” I shout into the phone. “Car vs. bike!”

Kneel down beside the guy, looking for blood. Doesn’t seem to be any about. Then I remember how on like every episode of E.R. anything from a gunshot wound to a hangnail came with a side order of internal bleeding, and I tell the dude to take it easy. He says he’s okalie-dokalie and starts again for a vertical look at life. Then he burps, releasing a 100-proof cloud of pure Kentucky bourbon. No wonder he’s pretty much damage-free. Dude’s drunker than a boiled owl.

Driver’s side door of the Honda opens and dispenses a dirty blond in her middle twenties. She’s pale and clutches at her throat with one hand. “Is he OK?”

“I think he’s fine.”

“I am fine. No problems. Square as a fucking nail.”

Don’t have a clue what that means, but I help the guy to his feet anyway, and we wrestle his bike free of the Honda’s undercarriage. He tried to get in the saddle, but his equilibrium is all sideways and he topples onto the hood of the car.

“Let’s just get out of the street,” I advise, pulling the guy toward the curb in front of Kinga’s. He comes compliantly, wheeling his ride alongside. The driver is still lingering by her car. I give her a shrug. I have the guy look at me (right, like I can differentiate between sour mash and concussion), but his death doesn’t appear imminent or anything, and I ask quietly if he wants me to call an ambulance—just in case—or maybe the cops—which I fervently hope he declines to do.

“Dude, I’m great. Fucking awesome. Right as a railroad.” He waves at the girl. “No worries, eh, Babe? No harm no…whatever.”

“I am SO sorry,” she says, or enthuses, more like.

“Accidents,” the guy asserts, “are like rain. They just come down.”

This fellow is a regular font of misremembered lore. Like a badly translated fortune cookie.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” the girl asks.

“One hundred and three point five percent.” He throws a thumbs-up her way, then pauses. “Damn, you’re pretty good lookin’,” he says. “What’s your name?”

She starts to answer, stops, closes her mouth, and an already weird situation is now both weird and awkward. Dude points at Kinga’s. “I’m going in for a drink. Come with me.” The girl glances into her car, where, I notice for the first time, a second girl is riding shotgun, then, inexplicably, she looks at me, as if I’m somehow the mediator here.

“Come on,” the guy says again, closer to a demand this time.

“I’m supposed to meet—” she begins.

“Come ON.” The guy practically shouting. “You almost killed me, bitch. Let me buy you a fucking drink!”

I face the girl, who is edging backward toward her car. “Drive away,” I say, calmly, and she nods and slides behind the wheel, slamming the door. The motor comes to life, and a moment later she has vanished up Marion. The guy watches her go.

“Huh,” he mutters, and looks at me. “What a bitch, right?”

“Uh, yeah, brother,” I answer. “Full-bore.”

He grunts something under his breath, mounts his bike, and weaves off down Colfax, on the sidewalk, heading east.

9:09 p.m.
Tooey’s Off Colfax
1512 Marion St.
Gin martini, up, a little dirty, olives, $7

It takes all of thirty seconds to get from Kinga’s to Tooey’s, as their doors are separated by perhaps one hundred feet. Tooey’s has been open almost exactly a year, and has already carved a niche for itself as a neighborhood joint worthy of the Dean’s List.

For a whole slew of reasons, many new bar owners are fucked from the get-go. Or, more accurately, they fuck themselves from the get-go. The folks who opened Tooey’s, however, seem to be largely unfucked and unfuckable. In other words, they have a clue. They know what they want their place to be, but aren’t so rigid they plug their ears to the desires of their clientele. My only real beef with the place is that there aren’t nearly enough places to sit, but have been informed by others that my opinion is stupid and I should just shut the hell up about it already.

Lady Luck is with me, and my usual stool is vacant. I nod to a few of the regulars, get my butt nice and situated. There’s a DJ going full-tilt-boogie, scratchin’ and beatin’ his way around some classic soul tunes, and a handful of folks are showing off their best tipsy moves in the open space in front of his turntables. Lots of people around the bar, either waiting for drinks or just shootin’ the ever-popular shit with their pals.

Lady Luck is not with me, it seems, vis-à-vis mixologists. She has gone off to blow, as the song says, on some other guy’s dice. Most of the Tooey’s bartenders are seasoned pros, but there is one who always gives me a bit of a pause, as I’m never certain what I’m going to get if I reach too far past a pint and a shot. She’s a great girl, and usually performs excellently, but doubt still niggles at the back of my mind. But I go ahead and order my martini, niggler be damned, and cast a curious eye on its preparation.

Well, what do you know? Lady Luck may have gone off to blow on some other guy, but she’s a multi-tasker and has kept an eye (or, her breath, I guess) on little ol’ me.

The martini is absolutely outstanding. Best of the evening, hands down. Grinning a satisfied grin, I dive into the thing like a homing gopher. And when it’s done, I ask for another just like it. And when that one’s gone, I get another. And then a fourth. And then…

And then. Things get a little blurry. But even so, I am infused with the feeling of a job well done.

My credit card receipt indicates that those fine martinis cost seven bucks apiece. Oh, the humanity.

Cheers.