Art Becomes Life Becomes Art

Returning to a familiar place after being away for a long time is a bit like an out of body experience. There's a feeling of deja vu, that everything you are seeing seems right, feels right and more or less fits that map of the world you've made in your head, but there are holes in your memory that you struggle to fill in - you've forgotten this place or the name of that street, and some things you expect to be there are not.  

I've been away for awhile, and as I've been attempting to fill in the gaps and give the City of Dives landscape a fresh coat of paint in my mind, it has become clear that as time has passed the landscape has changed. This is true in the world of Dives, despite the fact that sometimes it seems to be a place where time can be trusted to stand still. 

Charlie's Silver Fox, an absolute anchor of that bit of gray area of town north of the interstate near Commerce City, is no more. Where locals will go for a beer and burrito (one of Denver's finest burritos at that) at 9 in the morning is unknown. 

Feeling Blue

The Mozart Lounge has gone the way of it's namesake and died too early a death, only to be replaced by the thoroughly unremarkable Aqua Lounge. With what shall we remember Mozart now? I hope the ancient DJ spun the Requiem before closing the place down.

Similarly, Denver Dives has not successfully navigated the sands of time, and has itself begun to emulate its very subject matter, becoming a rundown remnant of a once semi-respectable blog. Upon checking in recently, I noticed that some of the pictures on the blog were no longer showing up. The remnants of what were once pictures are there, however the pictures themselves are not. Instead there are empty frames, like broken windows. Apparently Google had taken it upon itself to delete them for unknown reasons, maybe just to see if anyone was paying attention (it's not likely anyone was). Google can do that, because they run the internet. 

Character

Further proof that Denver Dives has found itself located on the shadowy fringes of Blog-land is the simple fact that it has not been updated since 2012. Like the bathroom in the Hangar Bar or the wall-to-wall vinyl at the Club 404 Lounge, clearly Denver Dives has fallen into disrepair. I'd like to think that all the artfully broken windows and dusty old 'vintage' content give the place some character, however we all know that the letting things fall into disrepair = character rationalisation doesn't hold much water, but like many a disreputable dive bar owner before me, I don't care. You want real pictures and fancy up-to-date information, head on down the street to Zomato!

Love them while you can, friends, because they won't be here forever. Until next time...   

Lion's Lair

Colfax.  It's embedded in the Denver psyche as a relic of its past as a watering hole on the way west, a destination for trouble, the dirty bits.  Like a junky in a halfway house, though, it's pulling itself up and dusting off the 70's.  You can now go there to find a juxtaposition of trendy hipster joints and coffee houses down the block from used car lots, dirt cheap taco stands, and purveyors of all things green and leafy.  And a juxtaposition of a street is a perfect spot for a place like the Lion's Lair.   

It is tough to pin the Lion's Lair down, as from entry you're receiving conflicting signals.  Cover charge is $5.  By sheer principle a dive shouldn't charge a cover, so you're left a bit salty.  Then, of course, as this is the Lion's Lair, you're awarded with some live music for your 5 hard-earned which takes away the sting a bit.  The Atomic Americans proceed to take the stage, which is cozily jammed up in the front corner of the smallish velvet covered room (complete with Velvet Elvis; solid) that is the Lair, and they're led by a guy with a keytar.  A frickin keytar?  I fought the urge to ask for my cover charge back and ordered a beverage.  

Every Girl's Dream: A Keytar Devo Doll

After that the 180s kept coming:  Beer options covered Old Style cans all the way through to Fat Tire bottles.  A bright shiny ATM sat in the corner looking respectable, respectable until you noticed that it is from 'Metropolitan Trust', or some such obviously made up bank.  Pictures of the Lion ranged from one sultry looking porn kitty to the ferocious version that adorned the hard rockin t-shirt that I scored for $10.  And the bartender's attempt at getting me to take my shirt off in order to try on the house t-shirt ('What? I can't hear you with your shirt on!') left me feeling scared and turned on at the same time. 

Hopefully you get the picture.  The Lion's Lair is well situated on Colfax, the battle of pleasant seediness versus gentrification that is going on before our eyes, as it'll cover whatever you're in for: a cheap can of anything cold, a craft brew, or five bucks worth of live music.  And if you're in for the music, don't be dismayed if the band's sporting a keytar - the one I saw kicked ass (even though the rest of the band was only average).

You can disturb the Lion's Lair at 2022 East Colfax.

Dreaming of Dives

Ever wonder what 4 years of writing about dives looks like?  It looks like a cloud of neon graffiti, shining brightly through blackness of a seldom travelled back street, somewhere off Colfax.

The Lakewood Grill

Some dives are so altogether confused and dismal that they simply throw the kitchen sink at you in the hopes of getting something right.  Such is the case with one little west Colfax beauty, The Lakewood Grill, and its dizzying array of amenities that include a couple of shabby (no doubt) apartments.  To follow is my buddy and dive-kick Matt's investigation.


The combination of the vintage neon sign and Colfax Avenue location drew me in like a mosquito to a bug zapper. Upon closer inspection additional signs advertising karaoke and happy hours (plural) lets you know that this is a place that proudly serves PBR and Rolling Rock.

More than one?  Why not?

Lakewood Grill has the dubious honor of holding the oldest liquor license in Lakewood (1952), so this place has some history. There is something nostalgic about having a drink at a place that cut its teeth when Johnny Cash was releasing his first album “Johnny Cash and His Hot and Blue Guitar”.


Since its start in the 1950’s the grill added a “Sports Annex” to the building which, despite sounding like it might hold a regional NCAA final four match, or a nice squash court at the very least, is only home to a couple obligatory pool tables and a pinball machine. The menu boasts breakfast anytime and the breakfast burrito I had for dinner was tasty and a good value.

If they're going to serve
breakfast anytime, you may as
well have breakfast anytime.

On my way out my interest was piqued by the three upstairs Lakewood Grill apartments. Are these for the bar staff or raffled off to loyal patrons? One is left to wonder. So next time you are on West Colfax and need a beer, breakfast, apartment or just want to practice the Japanese art of karaoke stop by the Lakewood Grill.

The Lakewood Grill's one stop shopping can be found at 8100 West Colfax Avenue in... Lakewood. 

Win Stuff! No One Did

In my world, free stuff is fantastic.  Unfortunately last month a big pile of really nice free stuff went the way of lost socks and Nigerian millions, as the free tickets I had to the tasty food and drink event put on by 5280 magazine went unclaimed.  For my next contest, I am setting the bar higher, and aiming to actually give something away to the winner.


Thank you to Dr. Faustus and liz for the entries, but next time leave me a way to contact you!

Win Stuff! The First Ever Denver Dives Reader Dive-Off

So I've been offered two tickets to 5280 Dines, an event intended to celebrate the recent publication of 5280's annual 25 Best Restaurants issue.  It looks to be quite fancy - free fancy food, a few drinks (or several), and maybe even be a chance to cuddle with some of Denver's favorite wannabe cheflebrities.  Maybe it's because of my heavy rep in the world of dives that I don't want to sully, maybe it's the fact that I am currently on assignment outside of the country, insert whatever excuse you want here, I cannot attend.  So I figured it was time for another dive-off!  And this time it will be  a very special dive-off, one driven by you, fair reader, and one with prizes.  The rules will be real simple.  Whoever leaves the best comment about their favorite or least favorite (and why!) dive, most dangerous place in Denver, or story about that time your sandwich came with pubes, will win the pair of tickets.  Just make sure to get your comment in by noon on Monday, as the event is on Wednesday night at 6 pm, and that it is about Denver.


Dive away!

The Mozart Lounge

Ahhh, Mozart.  Is there a more well known classical composer in the world than Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?  With the possible exception of that guy Beethoven or Charlie Brown's buddy Schroeder, probably not.  Just saying the name Mozart induces seductive thoughts back to my days spent wandering the streets of Vienna and Salzburg, places where you can almost hear classical music floating through the streets and imagine the residents waltzing during their lunch hour.  Being in Austria makes it easy to buy into the fairy tale, and our man Wolfgang is a big part of the fairy tale.  Mozart is the epitome of the boy prodigy, of classical music, and of.... the dive bar.  

'Sacrebleu!'

'Preposterous!' you might be saying.  'How dare you compare a legend in music, a titan amongst composers, to The Mozart Lounge'.  Fear not, good readers, for although the towering grandeur of Europe's concert halls, the wig-clad crowds of nobility, and the majesty of Mozart's magical hymns seem to be 250 years and unlimited amounts of class away from a shady lounge sitting just off Colfax and populated by local yokels, by the end of this dive libretto you'll agree (or you won't, more probably) that the relations are there, and that the Mozart Lounge is as prolific amongst Denver's dives as Don Giovanni was with the ladies.  We'll be looking at the Mozarts through the lens of their greatest hits, so roll out your picnic blanket, grab a bottle of cheap wine and a pair of powerful glasses, and get ready for the Overture.

Symphony #1, aptly named because it was Mozart's first symphony, was written by our man at the age of 8 while in London. (I'm pretty sure that when I was 8 the best thing I had going for me was that I could run faster than the girls on the playground.  Alas, my youth was apparently wasted, but that's why one has kids, no?  Both of mine are learning their flats and sharps starting tomorrow).  Mozart the boy prodigy and his art were ageless, as was the maestro of music at the Lounge the night we were in house.  The white guy spinning R&B tunes for those wanting to get down on the dance floor was easily pushing 70, and easily the coolest guy in the place.  Music is a large part of the experience at The Lounge, which is very apropo.


The Magic Flute is one of Mozart's most lasting operatic pieces, and to this day is being reproduced all over the world.  It's about a handsome dude named Tamino who, in the course of running from a scary snake, ends up getting tangled up in a strange quest to find a girl named Pamina because he's been told that she's sexy and available.  It further involves the Queen of the Night and her entourage, a guy named Papageno, who at one point has a padlock keeping his mouth shut, and a slew of magical musical instruments.  The Magic Flute is lovely, but at the same time fairly confusing, which is also happens to be a good description of the beer service situation at The Lounge.  Beer typically comes in a container too big to be a mug, but too small to be a pitcher.  It is a stein almost, only plastic, and it leaves one with the question, do I drink straight out of this, or do I pour into another glass, and would anyone here give a damn either way?  As I said, lovely problem to have, yet a bit curious when it is first presented.  (Hint:  just drink it) 


The Requiem Mass in D Minor, arguably Mozart's greatest work, was unfinished at the time of his passing, oddly fitting and slightly ironic for a piece dedicated to death.  It's ominous and dark, a crescendo leading your decent into the depths, which is similar to the feeling one could get when watching the televisions hanging over the bar at The Lounge.  Not the one showing the Rockies getting stomped again, as that should be accompanied by something very different than a death symphony, more so something akin to 'I Don't Care Anymore' by Phil Collins (back when Phil Collins was semi-respectable).  I am referring to the other tv, where you can watch live security video of your car in the parking lot getting jacked - now that calls for something dark playing in the background.

Mozart died at the age of 35 after being ill with an unknown malady for several months.  It was said that during his illness, some of his moments of greatest solace where when learning of the successes of his last projects like The Magic Flute.  Perhaps wherever he is now, Mozart gets satisfaction from the continued reverence of his works.  While The Mozart Lounge may not be the part of his legacy that Wolfgang's most proud of, I hope at the very least someone up there has made for him a t-shirt emblazoned with 'I wrote over 600 of the greatest classical works ever, and all I've got to show for it is a frickin dive bar'.  Wolfgang my friend, you'll be happy to know that it is a good one.  


The Mozart Lounge is located at 1417 Krameria Street, just off Colfax.  You cannot miss the sign - it's a classic.

Sonsabitches don't realize I've got LoJack

The Dive Manifesto

Recently I had the unfortunate opportunity to drive across Nebraska with my family.  No disrespect to Nebraska, of course.  Between the country and western on the radio we heard an advertisement for a local bar that proudly listed a $3.50 beer bong as one of its Wednesday night specials.  My wife turned to me and said 'Wow, that place sounds like quite the dive'.  Initially I agreed.  What kind of self respecting awesome establishment outside of Daytona Beach offers up beer bongs?  After pondering this for a bit, though, and I-80 in Nebraska is kind enough to offer lots of opportunity to ponder (State of Nebraska Motto Idea:  Nebraska: Land of Too Much Time on Your Hands), I changed my mind.  Does the sale of beer bongs alone make a place a dive?  What really does constitute a dive?

According to Merriam-Webster's dictionary, a dive is a 'shabby or disreputable establishment (as a bar or nightclub)'.  That leaves quite a lot up to interpretation, and doesn't quite scratch the surface of what can be a complicated categorization.  I've had many a time when someone said to me, 'This place is a pretty good dive', only to have me not agree due to some disqualifying factor.

To follow is a completely unscientific (to be fair, a scientific study of dives would be missing the point completely) review of what many long nights on the backstreets of Denver have taught me about dives, which will hopefully shed some light on a dark topic.  This will be split up into three acts:  Act I - Some things I know to be true; Act II - Some clues to look for; and Act III - The vast gray areas.  Here we go!

Act I.  Some things I know to be true:
1.  Dives are not limited to drinking establishments.  Sorry Merri, it's just not so.  As I have portrayed in my blog, you can find equally diveish environs at a restaurant, or anywhere else (fleabags, no doubt) for that matter.
2.  Serving Pabst Blue Ribbon is not a requirement.  Several sites or blogs online will have you believe that having PBR makes an establishment's case for being a dive.  PBR being the poster beer for Fro-Dives all over this great land disqualifies it completely from having anything to do with real dives.
C.  Just as you cannot open a factory to crank out classic cars or worn out leather sofas that suck you in to their broken-in comfort, a dive cannot be created.  Dives are like luxury goods - the story and the pedigree matters.  Have you heard of Dive on Fifteenth?  Of course you haven't - it was a brand spanking new 'dive' that closed after about 3 months of troubled and confused life.  Serving PBR in a can and providing a foosball table dost not a dive bar make.
4.  If it's got 'dive' in the name, it's not.
5.  If it has won some sort of award for being a great dive, it's probably not.  Real dives don't want awards, much less win them.  Though The PS Lounge is an exception that helps prove the rule.

Dive food doesn't have to be dodgy.  But it should find its way onto yellowing photograph menus.

Act II.  Some things to look for as clues.  Each not enough to make a place a dive on its own, but each certainly helps:
-No credit!  Cash only!
-Trough urinals.
-Bullshit on tv.
-Crappy wood paneling.
-That one odd dude, sitting by himself, getting smashed.
-A wall menu consisting of photographs of the food that someone's uncle took in 1985.  Asian restaurants are the real pioneers in this area.

Act III.  The gray area:
-Bad food.  Pure opinion.  While I may think that the steaks at Elways suck, that doesn't make the place a dive.  Crown Burger is a little dive of a hamburger joint, and it serves up a tasty burger with delicious, yet mysterious, special sauce.
-Dancing.
-Good music/jukebox. 
-A little filth.
-Unfriendly:  Could be.  Wolf's Motor Inn was a fairly ominous joint.  Definitely doesn't have to be.  See Mr. A's, Denver's Friendliest Lounge.
-Cheap.
-Hipsters.  Hipsters deserve their own discussion, so I won't give a detailed analysis of why they suck and why they are cool.  Just be on the lookout, and don't jump to conclusions.

So what's a dive?  In the end, there isn't really a scorecard you can tally up to qualify a place as a dive or not.  Maybe that's why the term gets bandied about so frivolously as it does.  Hopefully, however, this piece will help give things a little perspective.  Perhaps you can just put dives down as places you go when you want something different;  a different feel, a different time, a different crowd... you name it.

Anything I missed?  Discuss.

The Best Dive Bar in Denver, According to Someone Else

What does it mean to be the best dive bar?  Does that mean it didn't suck as bad as it could have?  Or maybe that it is so seedy that the bums are looking uncomfortable?  Its like saying 'yeah, that was the best hernia I ever got'.  Even though I was a bit confused, I did take a moment to read the recent online article from Westword, proclaiming the Denver's best dive bar in 2011 to be The Kentucky Inn.  I'd love to be able to lambast Westword about their choice, but have to admit that the Kentucky Inn is not one that I've had the pleasure of enjoying.


It must be dive bar season at Westword, because they followed up with another article about the Five Best Dive Bars in Denver (actually 4 plus the Kentucky; I guess just naming the best one wasn't enough), and this post that attempted to digest the reader comments Westword received from people arguing about why the Westword picks were junk, and what constitutes a dive in the first place.  I am not 100% sure why I am regurgitating all of Westword's work, maybe I am just lazy and feel like posting other peoples crap instead of my own.  Actually I do have a point, which goes back to the Westword comment board: To start a discussion about the age-old question that needs to be answered before anyone can put their claim on knowing what's best:  What is a dive?  Just a joint that could use a good cleaning?  A place in a rough neighborhood?  Is it limited to bars?  And what does PBR have to do with it?  All these questions and more will be answered in my next post - The Dive Manifesto.  Stay tuned. 

Club 404 Lounge

Club 404 Restaurant and Lounge has been shuffling Denver south siders through its doors on South Broadway for ages.  It was SOBO before there was a SOBO.  The sign outside is one of those classic roadside antiquities that you might find in a museum somewhere or in a sign graveyard in the desert outside Las Vegas.  It acts as a perfect dive bar marker:  decrepit enough to make casuals move on by to the fancy Hornets and such down the street, but showing enough dated class to give an inkling that it might be worthwhile stopping.


I am not sure why, but walking into the 404 I felt like I was stepping on board a 1970’s pleasure cruise.  There was entertainment on one side of the boat in the form of some comedian, and I am sure there was a shag-covered keyboard over there somewhere as well; T-bones were on special in the restaurant for the blue hairs, the bar was filled with patrons you could easily characterize as scallywags, and to get to the bathroom you had to walk through the galley.  Bartenders served up on the cheap from behind the sexy vinyl covered bar (And not only the bar is covered in vinyl, the entire ceiling is covered in vinyl.  I imagine that in one of the back rooms they have a massive stash of Liquid Leather, just to keep the place together) that is backed by a glorious ancient wooden back bar that has a patina coming from many a hard voyage.  It provides the perfect spot to kick off your topsiders and get a drink with an umbrella.  Of course if you do show up in topsiders and start ordering Piña Coladas, your fellow patrons may choose to pick a fight with you, as they did when I was there (luckily they were arguing with each other and not with me, since even though I may be able to swear like a sailor I cannot fight like one), so keep your wits about you and be ready to disembark at the next port of call if necessary.


The Club 404 Lounge sets sail daily from 404 South Broadway.

The Sports Station Redux

My relationship with dives is kind of like the relationship I have with my kids.  Having that first breakfast burrito at Charlie's Silver Fox is not entirely unlike the joy of watching my boy ride his bike for the first time.  Sometimes they both can be a source of happy surprises (like getting a free beer at Mr. A's).  Sometimes they give you indigestion (a $1.10 scoop from Little Panda, with aplomb), or worse, just plain make you sick.  Each also can disappoint: this week The Sports Station made me feel like I just found poop on the bathroom floor.  I have visited The Station before, and found it to be an enjoyable stop.  It was a nice mix of worthless barroom banter, crap on tv, and an amenable owner who is more than happy to sit at the bar with you and blow that evening's take on drinks for himself.  So you can imagine my chagrin upon hearing that there was a shooting there recently.  Here's what a semi-reputable news source had to say earlier this week.


This just goes to show that you don't need to hop a plane for some exotic locale or find a lonely stretch of trail up in the mountains in the search for adventure.  Just head down to your local dive and watch what happens.  

Bar Bar

One of the best dive bars in Denver is happy enough without you.  It can be found surrounded by parking lots on a desolate spit of no mans land, in an area bungled by Broadway shooting straight southward across the jacked up diagonal grid of downtown Denver's streets.  It's not exactly right around the corner from anything, or super convenient to anyone.  The sign hanging over the door simply says 'Bar', giving away nothing and giving you no reason to assume that it is anything out of the ordinary.  You have to want to go to Bar Bar.  And one night we did, and we were not disappointed.

I stole this picture from Westword.

The Carioca Cafe, as Bar Bar is known to the tax collector, accosts you (probably literally, on some nights) with reasons to not bother and move on.  First and foremost is the clientele.  I would put them a step down from the welcome wagon or a friendly neighbor bearing cookies.  You might find, as we did, a gentleman wandering around on the sidewalk, and sometimes in the street, outside the bar between drinks.  His surly looks did not really scream 'welcome!'.

Bar Bar goes one step further to discourage one from spoiling its dive bar riches - it kicks you right out on to the street, as happened to the fellow sitting next to us at the bar.  He must not have appreciated the effort made by Bar Bar to keep the place cool by strategically placing dangerous looking box fans around the room.  Or perhaps he got greedy and tried to grab get an extra cigarette out of the coffee cup where Bar Bar had them on offer 3 for a dollar.  A very nice amenity and fairly priced, by the way, and I don't even smoke.  The poor guy could have tried to pay with a credit card as well, which is disallowed.  A handwritten sign attempted to make it obvious that cash is king at Bar Bar, but the sign obviously failed.  Whatever it was that got him booted (probably the fact that he had a hard time staying upright in his stool and was yelling in the direction of the barman) I felt for the guy.  We were enjoying the hell out of Bar Bar.  Its general disrepair and pictures of people we didn't know that covered every square inch of the dingy walls were somehow comfortable and familiar, and the three beers and three beers only on tap (Bud Light, Bud Heavy, and PBR, in case you were wondering) spare you the trouble of decisions, making it easy to get into a zone and spend some time pondering.  Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got, know what I mean?  Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.  Bar Bar isn't the place where everybody knows your name, though, it's the place where nobody knows your name, no one cares, and sometimes that's a good thing.

On the way back to our car, I noticed that there was graffiti on the side of the building, adjacent to the parking lot.  It was nothing too elaborate, only one word actually: 'Sloshed', which I thought summed up Bar Bar pretty well.

Bar Bar is located at 2060 Champa.  Go find it.

Denver Snubbed: Playboy Proves It's Not Even Worth It For the Articles

And now, a very special Denver Dives editorial report.

No one likes being snubbed.  And no one likes one of their beloved getting snubbed.  So you can imagine my salt when The City of Dives got a finger in the eye recently.  Playboy just came out with its Guide to America's Greatest Bars, which included a list of their 15 all-time favorite dive bars.  Denver, with its well chronicled, well seasoned, and well respected (if having a large variety of dives can be called respectable) received a grand total of zero bars on the list.  Perhaps we can just blame Playboy - I see this sloppy bit of journalism as just another sign that Playboy is falling on hard times. 

Here's the list, for those who care:

1.  The Saint, New Orleans
2. Mean-Eyed Cat, Austin
3. Subway Inn, New York
4. Lee Harvey’s, Dallas
5. Specs, San Francisco
6. Jasper’s, Lompoc, California
7. Snake and Jake’s Christmas Club Lounge, New Orleans
8. Ted’s Hideaway, South Beach
9. Lucky’s Lounge, Boston
10. Cal’s, Chicago
11. The Big Hunt, Washington, D.C.
12. Kirby’s Beer Store, Wichita
13. Springwater Supper Club, Nashville
14. Ernestine and Hazel’s, Memphis
15. Milano’s, New York

I will grant you that I personally have never had the pleasure to sleaze my way into any of the places on Playboy's list.  I'll also grant that there are many great dives outside of Denver.  In fact, one of my personal all-time favorites is a place called The Wheel Bar in Estes Park, of all godforsaken places.  However, Denver has the quality and quantity to deserve a token mention on the list.  Maybe I'll make up my own list of all-time favorites at some point, sans naked chicks.  Though that might get me a few more readers....

If anyone that has a history with any of the 15 joints that made Playboy's list, and would like to sound off on their quality versus some of Denver's hometown favorites, please do so.  Regardless, I'll bet that none of them has an airplane made of beer cans....

Taco Dive-Off Part 2: Los Trompitos

I loved the Choose Your Own Adventure books when I was a kid.  What better way to keep a bored kid from Iowa engaged than to give him a book that allowed navigating choices like A) Dive into the toilet, or B) Escape out the door to avoid catching something from the flies buzzing around the stool.  Yes, I did once read a Choose Your Own Adventure book that gave the option of jumping into a toilet.  With this in mind, I'd like to present you with the following, a mini-Choose Your Own Adventure, dive-style.  Choose wisely, though, or you might end up in the vicinity of a toilet yourself:

You're heading east down Montview Blvd. and you're hungry, desperately hungry, and starting to get feisty.  Something small and quick will do, delicious would be nice, but at this point you're willing to settle.  You are unfamiliar with the area and aren't sure what to do.  You can:

A) Quickly pull into the corner gas station in search of a rolling hot dog.

B) Continue east on Montview, in the hopes that you'll soon run into a fast food crap merchant.

C) Head south toward the safety and plentiful food choices of Colfax, with the risk of becoming thoroughly salty along the way and blindly driving your car into a pole.

D) Venture inside the adjacent orange and white building, the one with the crazily dancing carrots on the sign that is questionably barred up like a prison, because you think there is a sign in the window saying something about tacos.

Hopefully your dive-senses were tingling when you read choice D, and didn't get thrown off with the option of going to Colfax - that's usually a good choice.  My dive senses were definitely tingling upon going to Los Trompitos, the lucky establishment that I picked to take on El Taco de Mexico in the first ever dive-off. 

There wasn't a soul in Los Trompitos on my maiden voyage in, other than the person lazily working the counter and one sitting around the kitchen that was jammed up into one corner of the building.  Both were pretty interested in the Univision that was jamming on the TV attached to one of the walls.   I stepped up to the counter, a granite one, no less, something I found extremely unnecessary in a place with bars on all the windows and doors, and perused the menu and its handy pictures.  I went with a trio of tacos - one Bistec (a special recipe!), one Al Pastor, and one Carnitas - similar to my order at El Taco de Mexico to keep things fair.   

While waiting for the food to arrive, I perused what appeared to be a salsa bar sitting under the TV. The spread was pretty lacking, and only included a red salsa, a green one, onions, cilantro, and some dried out looking limes.  Not nearly as extensive as some salsa bars I'd seen, but a nice touch nonetheless.  The tacos came out wicked fast.  The steak one was unremarkable, special recipe or not, and was made doubly so with the addition of the useless red salsa.  Al Pastor was pretty much made up of dry little chunks of meat, that wasn't interesting, though I managed to save it somewhat with a massive slathering of the decent green salsa.  Finally, the Taco de Carnitas, which was absolutely the standout at El Taco de Mexico.  Los Trompitos version, one that lacked juice, flavor, and most everything else, fell well short of the bar.  

I sat for a bit in the brightly colored dining area, trying to make sense of the blaring from the TV before wandering out, disappointed.  This dive-off goes resoundingly to El Taco de Mexico, a very nice blend of interesting crowd, an atmosphere propagated by the taco ladies that will keep you guessing, 100% washable ambiance that sets a dive standard, and a spectacular carnitas taco to boot.  Los Trompitos, despite all the promise of its dancing carrots, bars, and 99 cent tacos, was bland overall, and dulled the tingle of my dive senses to the point of considering a rolling hot dog across the street.

Los Trompitos is located at 9755 Montview in Aurora.  Unless you are interested in green salsa tacos, go somewhere else.

Taco-Off! El Taco de Mexico vs. Los Trompitos

I've been away for a bit.  Of course there has been time spent on some of the more mundane and painful aspects of life, a couple heroic garage sales to be exact.  Garage sales, especially ones like ours that featured vast boxes of random junk selling for pennies, a guy on a bike hauling away every last item in the Free box (including a grill) and all sorts of miscellany strewn across the front lawn (I was selling a car as well, but couldn’t be bothered to put it out in the yard on blocks for the sale), can’t help but be a bit divey, so at least we had that going for us.  I have also put in extensive hours pondering the collective wisdom of Ricky from the Trailer Park Boys, and trying to figure out how I could apply his unique handle of the English language to writing about dives.  It seems like it would be a good fit, but for now I am sticking to my Grade 10 book learning and brain thinkin stuff, which probably makes for better prose.  I have also been working on taking my dive examination show on the road, but more on that at a later date.  That said, what better way to jump back into things than a dive-off?  Even better still, one bound to be a Denver epic, a taco-off.

One might think that picking the competitors would be extremely tough in the case of tacos, as Denver has more dive tacos than you can shake a dirty mop at.  Rather than agonizing over the decision, I took the easy way out.  For the first competitor, I had someone tell me where to go.  I typically get little or no feedback to my blog posts, which is probably a good thing.  One of the few times I did, though, the lovely reader mentioned El Taco de Mexico, and since it was a joint I had not had the opportunity to check out, I figured that it was a shoe in for contender #1.  Number 2, getting whipped into a froth in the stables as we speak, would be a place from my neighborhood that I’d driven past before called Los Trompitos.  Picked at total random, basically.  Let’s start by getting dirty at El Taco.

After seeing the wall menu running the length of the restaurant, you would agree that El Taco de Mexico to could very well call itself A Whole Bunch of Stuff de Mexico.  From breakfast burritos to posole to gumballs, you can get it at El Taco.  Fortunately we aren't talking about information overload like the hundred plus items at the Breakfast King (winner of the last dive-off), and fortunately I had already narrowed down my focus to what the sign outside the restaurant told me I should be eating: tacos.  I ordered a three taco variety mixer, comprised of one cabeza, one al pastor, and one carnitas. The unsmiling waitress took my cash money (cash only!), a pretty steep $1.70 each, and went back to ignoring me.  She couldn’t even crack a smile when some extremely blanco guy came in and asked for ‘mas tacos’.

Don't be intimidated by the Wall O' Menu

While one of the surly ladies in black hacked up my tacos with a mean looking cleaver, I checked out the place.  The dining area was small, encompassing only a handful of booths, especially when considering the enormous modern stainless steel clad kitchen.  What caught my eye was the large copper cauldron bubbling away on one of the burners, a sight that left me slightly moist in anticipation of the carnitas, which are traditionally cooked in a cauldron of boiling oil.  The walls were plastered with all sorts of local dining awards and such from years past.  Really, though, I don’t care if someone voted El Taco de Mexico the best taco in the city back in 2007.  Three years ago?  There's got to be some prevailing rule of thumb on how long one should be able to display awards.  I suppose if I ever won a plaque, though, (I am pretty sure that one is coming for Dad of the Year soon) I’d display it until the end of time as well.  Heck, I still have my Royal Palm Beach Recreational Soccer league champion trophy from 2001 displayed on the mantle.  But still, unimpressed.  More impressive was the walls themselves.  While the kitchen was decked out head to toe in stainless, the dining area, bathrooms, pretty much everywhere else was covered in FRP.  Fiber Reinforced Plastic is the white stuff you put on the walls when you want to be able hose down the entire place in lieu of actually cleaning.  It's especially handy for when people spontaneously fire food at the wall or in case of vomit.  That's got dive written all over it.

After working El Taco over, and taking in the general salty vibe, I came to a realization.  El Taco isn’t about us...  it’s about them.  The ladies.  The ladies run the show at El Taco, and you are granted taco goodness at their behest.  Quiet gruffness forcing even the squarest gringos to try and order in Spanish (when they speak perfectly good english)?  You are there for their amusement.  Gigantic sparkling kitchen while the customers sit in decor usually reserved for truck stop bathrooms?  You should appreciate what you have.  I decided to sit patiently, looking straight ahead, and wait for my tacos.

 Be intimidated by a lady in black wielding a cleaver

El cabeza came first.  One word for the cabeza taco:  greasy.  The Al Pastor taco was stained red with spices and tasted strongly of chili powder.  It was slightly spicy, but not overpowering.  Decent enough.  Last was the carnitas.  The juices from the pork had soaked and softened the double corn tortilla to the point of chewy deliciousness, but not past the breaking point.  The taste was phenomenal, rich and salty and wonderful.  The included salsa added a touch of smokiness that was nice, but unnecessary, as I found out when I ordered a second with no accouterments.  I left immediately after the second serving of carnitas, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to myself by uttering a 'holy shit, that's a good taco' out loud.  Maybe the ladies would have appreciated it, but I didn't want to risk it.  I wanted them to allow me to come back.  But first, I had a date with Los Trompitos...

Glory.

El Taco de Mexico is located at 714 Sante Fe Drive, down near... well, it's not really near anything of interest.  There is a bus stop on the corner and you can get your tires inspected across the street.

Fleabag of the Week: Motel 9

Before I-70 came steaming through Denver in the 60's, Colfax was the main east-west thoroughfare through town, and as such many ancient road side motels can be found along the route.  I find these relics of Colfax's past life to be extremely interesting, with their unique neon signs that - when working - light up the blackness of Colfax, and with names like the Sand and Sage and Circle-K, the motels of Colfax have got charm beyond the fact that most have deteriorated to the point where they have qualified for inclusion on a blog about Denver's dives.  They provide a glimpse at what Denver and Colfax once were, and probably never will be again.  To commemorate these bastions of Colfax ambiance, I present a new segment of the Denver Dives blog that will run from time to time that I am calling Fleabag of the Week. It'll be more of a photo montage, to the best of my limited photographic ability, than the usual dive chronicles, but will definitely include bits of useless snarky commentary.                      
First edition: Motel 9.

I always go for a motel room with the mirco and frig included.

The Russian style N is key.

Hourly?

Maybe they should try something like 'Motel 9: We're better by 3 than Motel 6'

Lots of signage at the Motel 9.  Someone want to run by there at 10 pm tonight to check if the gate is closed?

The area between the back of the motel and the fence has been designated a drugs free zone.

Convenience is, being able to throw stuff that you don't want outside the door.

Hangar Bar

Several years back, I was on a European vacation that included 12 hours in Paris.  We attempted to go to the Louvre, but the line to get in was too long so we waffled and moved on to score a croissant filled with horse meat.  Like most people, we were going to the Louvre for one reason, other than to be able to say that we'd been to the Louvre:  to see Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa.  Sure, the Louvre has heaps of other stuff, and surely some fabulous art by one of the other Ninja Turtles, but I challenge you to name something you are jazzed up to go see at the Louvre.  It's just a fact that there are places that you go to for one thing and one thing only.  The Hangar Bar is one of those places.

Despite the marketing, you don't go to the Hangar Bar looking to score.

Neither do you go to the Hangar Bar for the music on Saturday nights, though you probably could.  Hangar Bar regularly has live blues and no cover on Saturday nights, and in my experience the music is pretty solid and brings out a decent crowd.

You also don't go to the Hangar Bar for the great food.  They do have food, but it is the type of fare that doesn't become remotely interesting until about 12:30 a.m. after a few cans of whatever.  Think back to stuff you might eat while sitting around your dorm room drinking Mad Dog 20/20 and watching Jeopardy (those were better days, simpler times, weren't they?).  Bag of chips?  You bet.  Meat stick?  A taste sensation.  Hot dog warmed up in the micro on white bread?  I'll take two, with mustard please.

You go to The Hangar Bar strictly for the decor, and one single piece of decor to be specific: The Beer Can Bomber.  You heard me right.  The Beer Can Bomber, an airplane made of beer cans.  

And not just any beer cans.  It's a veritable wrecking crew, an all star lineup of low grade beers represented, in the original vintage cans.  You've got those beers that are still hanging around like Blatz, Schmidt, PBR, and Hamm's, and other older hall of fame options like Rainier, Special Export, and Schafer.  

The aerodynamic aluminum pull tabbed beauty hangs over the bar as if it were coming in for a landing on top of one of the pool tables.  It dominates the landscape such that regardless of anything else that is going on in the bar, my eyes never stray very far from the lightly swaying beer cans, always making possible a comment along the lines of 'Holy crap, is that a can of Billy Beer?'     

Maybe someday I'll make it back to the City of Lights and gaze into the eyes of the Mona Lisa.  Until then, I'll make due with the City of Dives and its own artistic treasures like airplanes made of beer cans.  The best part?  I won't have to stand in line.

The Hangar Bar is located at 8001 E. Colfax, and has a website which lists its specials.  If you can't get to the Louvre any time soon either, settle for the Beer Can Bomber... you'll be happy you did.

This one is like Where's Waldo, only fun and it involves beer instead of a dude in a red shirt.

Hop'n Gator? I'll bet it's fantastic with a steamin bowl of gumbo.

Everyone is welcome at this club.

Little Panda Chinese Food

 

There is something not right about food by the scoop.  Food by the pound like you’d get at some salad bar joints doesn’t bother me, but food by the scoop is odd.  I feed my dog a couple scoops of food each day and she doesn’t seem to mind it, so maybe I shouldn’t either.  On the other hand, I once caught her getting after one of my son’s pooped up diapers, so using her as an example might be the wrong choice.  Whatever your opinion of food by the scoop, be ready for it and some other interesting bits if you are willing to venture into the Little Panda. 

The restaurant itself has a lot of character, mainly because it has no character.   The most defining characteristic is the $1 scoop sign outside featuring the namesake little panda looking happy enough despite being exploited in the name of a greasy restaurant with lousy food.  

Poor sucker.


A coat of paint would help out on the outside, but would do nothing to draw attention away from the drive through window that is currently boarded up.  Inside, crappy wood paneling (a dive staple) adorns the non-descript interior that is little more than the buffet of food and a bunch of tables.  There wasn’t even a menu with questionable pictures of food on it, which was a big let down.  I did notice two security cameras, one pointing at the food, that were ensuring the security of who knows what.  Maybe ensuring you didn’t plate an extra $1 scoop when the scoop lady wasn’t looking?  The window next to my table had what appeared to be a bullet hole and some greasy hand/face prints – always a nice touch and something to ponder while choking down some fried rice.  And as for the bathrooms, don't be fooled by the three containers of bleach (sitting on top of a pile of miscellaneous restaurant related debris) in the dark hallway leading up to them.  Hold it if possible.

From what I could tell, the Little Panda is a two-person operation:  one guy in the kitchen schlepping the food, and the scoop lady tending the buffet and taking your cash.  The buffet contained all of the Chinese classics we Americans know and love - sweet and sour stuff, egg rolls, beef and broccoli, fried rice, etc. – and some we don’t – ie. the ominous looking whole fried fishes.  I am not sure how you'd manage a scoop of whole fried fish anyways.  I decided on the fried rice, sesame chicken, and some beef and broccoli.  Total price for a debilitatingly large container of food = $3.57.

Let’s consider the scoop pricing arrangement for a second.  While at first glance the sign along the road draws you in with the $1 scoops, a sign on the door told a different tale: ‘Due to the rising cost of water, heat, gas, electricity, food, and cleaning products, food will now be priced at $1.10 a scoop’ (ok, I added the bit about the cleaning products).  Greed knows no boundaries, apparently.  My three-course extravaganza ran $3.57, so in actuality we are talking about $1.19 per scoop.  Stay with me.  Watching the scoop lady running the line, quite efficiently I might add, I noted that with each food selection I received three scoops, for a total of nine.  This brings the per scoop price to somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 cents each.  What does all this mean?  Absolutely nothing, other than the fact that this is some cheap shit.  

And apparently cheap food is a draw of intercontinental proportions.  At 2:30 in the afternoon on a Monday, Little Panda enthusiasts were lined up to the door awaiting their scoops of joy.  Those in line were a pretty extraordinary cross section of society: young, old, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, hip-hoppers playing loud music on their cell phones, and dudes dressed all in black and sporting exciting tattoos.  A smorgasbord at the smorgasbord, if you will.  I challenge Colt & Gray to bring this kind of crowd in with their pomp and circumstance.  Hopefully they weren’t all getting the beef and broccoli, though.  The broccoli was fine, actually surprisingly well cooked, but the beef was mysterious.  I don’t think it was actually beef, but I did not venture to ask.  The fried rice was lifeless.  It was certainly cooked rice, but aside from the pea and carrot mixture the chef threw in there it could just have easily been greasy plain white.  Even my mundane glass of water had to be set aside due to the fact that it was shimmering like an oil slick.  The sesame chicken, however, saved my $3.57 from being a complete loss.  It was true to cheap Chinese food form, one of those chewy breaded little morsels of meat covered in glistening sauce that tastes just about right, and what you would expect - a bit gingery, a little garlicky, and just a kiss of the MSG.  Not too shabby at all.

The Little Panda is lousy on almost all counts, a dive of epic proportions that serves epic portions.  Take it for what it's worth though.  If you're in the mood for heaps of low-grade Chinese food for uber-cheap, with some interesting people watching thrown in, this place is for you.  Just don't touch anything. 

The Little Panda Express is located at 523 Havana in Aurora.  You wouldn't know it flying by on Havana, but the Panda doesn't lie about the scoop pricing.