SMUGS: RIP

It has come to my attention that in my two month absence of reality, one of my favorite shitty bars has closed. Smugs was a very special place for me. It was divey in the way that it was cheap and looked terribly decorated. But not divey-cool-divey, so I never had to fight B.O ridden Derelict looking hipsters for a good seat at the bar, or the bartenders attention for that matter. Sigh. Beers were cheap, and you could hear the buzz of busy Evans traffic racing by. I imagine the owner of Smugs having their dreams shattered when they realized they were not making any money and had to close; as my dreams too have died. No more $1.50 Bud lights and open pool table. No more people at the Evans & Downing bus stop peering in like curious children while we finish another pitcher and round of $3 shots. I only wish I could have done more; drank more to keep this carpeted and painted brick interior bar up and running. But alas, I was the only one there usually, and it's time to let go. Goodbye Smugs, may you find peace and live forever in our dizzy heads.

Karma: NUM NUM NUM

“What’s XO sauce?”

“XO, as in hugs and kisses, you know?”

“Oh, ok.”

So he ordered the Scallops with Hugs and Kisses and it was delicious. We were drawn into Karma on 22 South Broadway by the promise of $1 hot sake, and by godzilla, we dreamed it and it delivered. My entire meal of hot sake, pineapple wontons and sesame chicken with brown rice cost a grand total of ten dollars. I didn’t know that kind of happy hour existed on Broadway anymore. All this time we have been tricked into the Hornet for half ass teensie tapas and overpriced domestic beers ($3.50 Coors Light, really??), with the blessed Karma just down the street, sitting silently, and waiting for me. 

And for you.

Unlike most Asian inspired restaurants in Denver, there were things on the Karma menu that I had never seen before, served side by side with some adorable quirky accessories. I adored the sweating tin cups that the water is served in. Upon ordering a cocktail, I was pleasantly surprised to have it delivered to my table in a Hello Kitty glass with blinking ice cubes. The only problem is that now I can’t drink cocktails any other way. 

People came and went quickly like bees in a hive to pick up to go orders, but not a lot of people came and sat to eat. That made a quiet and mellow atmosphere to contemplate whether to use the provided chopsticks or western silver utensils to consume my noodles. I hope for Karma’s sake next time I go it will be busier, but for my dollar sake’s sake, my table better be open.

Saigon Palace: Noodle Bowl Wonderland

An ancient Vietnamese server brings out a round of tea and distributes small white porcelain glasses to a table of old ladies chirping like a tree of birds. They begin to sing a modest tune of “Happy Birthday” to one of their senior friends, a woman who looks like her name is Maude.  The whole restaurant joins in without getting boisterous, and my friend and I toast our ice cold Singha beers, which have been poured into vintage Denver Bronco beer mugs. “May you have a thousand more,” someone says, and the women laugh. It seems that we all have found some subtle joy at my new favorite Vietnamese restaurant, Saigon Palace.

A good amount my time is spent along the Broadway corridor; from Downtown Denver all the way to Littleton. I drive or ride my bike near and far, back and forth like a lazy shuttle run (oh you remember those torturous elementary class gymnasium runs from line to line to line). There is a distinct boundary that hipsters and foodies don’t cross on the Broadway strip, and that is likely near Flossy McGrews and Performance Cycle at Evans. Duty calls me past these known hipster haunts, for a higher purpose; my job. And no, I’m not a door to door Evangelist, so you can stop calling me Elder London; though coincidentally I am wearing a black suit and tie with a bike helmet on as we speak.  In my travels yonder south of Evans, there have been quite a few wonderful discoveries, my favorite being  Saigon Palace. Located on the corner of South Broadway and West Hampden across from a space ship looking bank that was likely envisioned in the 70’s. I promise that Saigon Palace is not some sort of front, unlike that African Tulip Shop down the way with grayed out windows and no one ever seen going in or out but always says “Open.” Saigon Palace serves a host of regular senior citizens from the residence nearby and Swedish Hospital medical staff across the way.  I noticed the server recognize several patrons and even ask if they were to have their “regular” entrees in broken English. My Sautéed Shrimp Rice Noodle bowl arrives in a timely manner and my friend and I cease to speak for the next fifteen minutes as we slip into a food fantasy land.

The bowl is my playground. The rice noodles caress my tired skin as I dive in. My egg roll crunches playfully and I play hide and go seek with the vegetables; layered lettuce, carrots, and bean sprouts mix with peanuts and spicey sautéed shrimp and fish sauce. My bowl is finished with a slurp. I have time to reflect and finish my cold beer. My friend says, “May you have a thousand more.”

Saigon Palace
3495 S. Broadway
Englewood, CO 80111

Cookies!!! No don't.

Goddamn Daylight Savings. I have no idea what time it is, due to the fact that the sun went down hours ago. It feels like 9pm, but looks like rush hour on Broadway and Cedar outside the front window of the Bardo Coffee Shop. Should I be getting ready for bed right now? I am yawning at the prospect and influence of this early darkness, plus I had another nightmare last night. As a kid I used to have this same type of dream,  where various appliances were demon possessed and coming after me (thanks Matthew 8:28-33, for inspiring my 2nd grade class to make a video re-enactment of this scene with paper machet pigs and tormenting me through the rest of my life). This time it was an old boom box playing a distorted version of Kermit the Frog singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” I ran towards it before it could get to me and started to destroy it, banging it on the wall, yelling “HA! HA! HA!”, and then a comforting voice pulled me out of it. “Are you having a nightmare?”

Like a child I was frightened, but soon comforted. Why I was particularly afraid of the boom box (too much exposure to pop music), I don’t know, but I didn’t sleep much afterwards anyways.

My eyes are heavy and watering as the car lights outside distract me over the blank white page open on my laptop. Steady cursor blinks, and mocks me.  Flashing red lights reflect aggressively off the windows. Looking around the shop, I realize that I have been caught staring, with several other patrons, to see what the commotion was.

MAN AT COUNTER: She looks really upset.

PATRON: She’s crying! Poor dear; fucking cops.

MAN AT COUNTER: I think I will bring her a cookie. What do you think: chocolate or sugar?

PATRON: That cop looks mean.

MAN AT COUNTER: I will try both!

Off he went right out the front door, cold night air rushing in towards us gawkers. He approached the woman’s window and she selected the chocolate cookie. He walked back in, satisfied. The cop followed, dissatisfied.

“Don’t you ever approach people that I've pulled over, you hear me?”

MAN AT COUNTER: Yes sir; thanks.

Out marched the bulldog of a man, with his navy blue uniform and utility belt. We all looked at the cookie man anxiously for his post-scolding response.

MAN AT COUNTER: Thanks for the reprimand, but you can blow me. You never come when I call for help anyways.

Turns out there was a number of times Bardo’s employees called the police for help with a variety of things; unruly bums, attempted theft, escaped convicts, etc; and they never showed. As he ranted on to the other patrons, I turned up my headphones, no longer interested in the spectacle but in complete agreement with his act of rebellion, and enjoyed my last few sips of coffee.  I sipped my mocha delicately, which I was hoping would never end. The chocolate was carefully mixed and espresso perfectly brewed in my ceramic in-house mug. I considered prolonging my work here, and partaking in one of many delicious looking pastries from City Bakery, but alas, all good mochas must come to an end. As I packed up my things, I noticed the man had stepped off his soap box.

But there were more flashing lights, and he had a cookie in hand.

Chris Anderson Has Really Big Hands: coffee @ Starbucks on 6th

The Starbucks on 6th and Broadway is the busiest SBUX in the state of Colorado. Another testament to the SBUX marketing and placement genius (or monopoly), the store is located at the nexuus of the city, in between all the news stations and the traffic from 1-25 and Broadway into Downtown Denver. I have never been there when there is not a line, never-and the limited chairs and patio should have a sign-up sheet for a waiting list.

Despite the famed barista snobbery, I have never once had bad customer service at this particular location. The cashiers and baristas are slammed but cran out that low quality espresso like they are in Texas pumping for black gold. They are a fine-tuned machine catering to the fake elite of Denver while still making time to say hello and act like they give a crap about you while being splattered with hot water and smelling like milk. I give them mad props for great service, timing and skill.

*DISCLAIMER: I must explain here that I am not a huge fan of corporate coffee. I hate seeing people pay premium price for subpar product. But I also believe that SBUX is a gateway drug, leading consumers to create a coffee habit and then realize that they want more and better and hey, what's that indie shop there on the corner? Anyways, I still find myself at SBUX with people who don't know where else to go in Denver, and who are afraid to navigate the rest of the city to find a place to meet. But sometimes, Avee and I will randomly hit up this SBUX out of cafffine desperation on our way out of town to the lesser known parts of suburbia. END NOTE.*

It is on such occassion that Avee and I find ourself standing in line behind a REALLY TALL GUY wearing bedazzled jeans and a button-up shirt with printed wings on the back. The buzz of the shop was the usual organized chaos, but we knew that we were having a brush with local celebrity. Chris Anderson (Denver Center/Power forward, aka our beloved tatooed mohawk-wearing Birdman) did not have to order, the barista knew what he wanted and most likey didn't charge him. It was game day, so we didn't really want to ruin his vibe, but Avee had to meet him. She tapped him on the shouler, or um, mid-back and said, "Excuse me Chris, I'm a big fan. Can I shake your hand?" Birdman turns around, looks down and smiles and says of course. A venti (20oz) is a huge drink, but it looks tiny in the hands of a man who dribbles balls for a living. Anyways, of course Avee wasn't done. "Oh uh, one more thing, sir." He turns back around. "What's your drink?" He smiles. "Triple caramel macchiatto." The barista smiles. "Have a great day!" And he smiles back.

After he left we asked the barista if he comes there often. "Yeah," she nods, unphased. "He's cool," she says, as she continues to stir a drink and put whip cream on another. Her customer service unwavering, she turns back to the drink and places it up on the counter for the next customer. "Have a great day!" She smiles to the customer. Just another day with the Denver-elite, or not.

-Elly Mint