Our crawlers find themselves less about town and more about the townies.
8:30 p.m., The Hon Bar
Our Hampden Crawl began at the Hon Bar which -- given the sedate atmosphere -- turned out to be a good thing. Somehow I think the martinet bartender would have frowned on my crew of 20 drunkards rolling in at midnight. The Hon Bar offers a warm atmosphere with soft lighting and a jukebox selection that my friend Laura approves of -- "Ooh, the Cars." There was no chance to play any selection, though, as a folk singer was about to perform. And we thought it couldn't get any more serene.
Needless to say, serene wasn't what we were after. We headed for the door but were unable to escape without being hit on by Antonio, a man who sported a sweater vest and congratulated Caroline on her vodka tonic. Apparently Antonio was so excited for her, it inspired him to utter the mystifying, "Good for you." He proceeded to have a long, ambling and entirely one-sided conversation about vodka. But I liked him; he was determined to talk to us despite our obvious lack of interest, and that takes pluck. Having had only one cranberry and vodka myself, I was ready to move, but not as much as Kim who called the Hon Bar "nappy time." The only thing Caroline didn't like about the Hon Bar was our new friend. Alas, poor Antonio.
9:30 p.m., Golden West
Golden West, renowned for good food and abysmal service was our next stop. After I had my first expensive ($8), but delicious Trolley Car, we were joined by two German nannies, a couple from Virginia, my friend Susan, and the pack of six or so men she brought -- all friends who agreed to accompany us on the adventure. The Germans didn't seem to like that the more intoxicated I became, the less interested I was in remembering anyone's name. I simply referred to them as "the Germans."
Golden West was less soporific than the Hon Bar, but I was getting the general impression that Hampden on a Saturday night is more low-key than most Charm City bar hoods. My roommate Caroline aptly observed, "It's like we're in our living room, but someone's actually cooking in the kitchen."
After a few more drinks, I felt so damned good I picked up a round, which turned out to be an expensive endeavor ($50). Fortunately I decided to do this before the second wave of people arrived. But, man, Germans can put 'em back. One drawback to Golden West is that you can't talk on your cell, so Kim and I pretended to carry on fascinating conversations with house plants to avoid persecution. You can't smoke in Golden West, either, which is nice ... sometimes. But, damn, I wanted a ciggie then, so I prodded everyone out the door on the premise that we had so little time.
10:30 p.m., Zissimos Bar
I had my reservations about Zissimos -- after all, it is a townie joint. We rolled 20 deep, so I wasn't too scared, but all my fears turned out to be baseless. The locals were friendly if not a little awe-struck at the interruption of their nightly ritual. One regular even asked Susan, "What's going on? Is there a girl convention in town?" He must've missed the 12 or so guys with us. We were joined by four more people, and I spun myself dizzy trying to talk to everyone.
At Zissimos, they card you at the door -- maybe it's because the beer is so cheap (a pitcher of Yuengling for $6). A sign above the bar advertises that the Saturday happy hour lasts from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m.; a happy hour that creates a lot of toothless smiles.
I tried to blend in by having a Coor's Light, but what a mistake that turned out to be. Mental note: a quart of vodka and rum do not mix well with Coor's Light. The bartender Jenny was sweet and called us "hon" in a way more authentic than the way they do it at Cafe Hon. The Real John Waters' Baltimore, finally.
11:30 p.m., Frazier's on the Avenue
Frazier's is half townie/half hipster, as evidenced by the metal playing overhead and the furiously occupied pool table. Everyone seemed pretty happy at this point, except George. George had developed an unrequited attraction to Kim, some drama ensued, Kim's ass was grabbed and George was chastised for being "completely inappropriate."
Also, this theory of mine was tested at Frazier's, and held up well. The theory is that every time I see someone with more tattoos than I think I've ever seen on one person, my boyfriend is inevitably old friends with him. After Clint caught up with What's His Face, we moved on to our final destination: Holy Frijoles.
12:15 a.m., Holy Frijoles
Somehow we'd managed to pick up three more people on the way across the street. (Lauren's doing, I suspect.) By the time we got there, I was so anxious to order the much-coveted Mango Margarita that I accidentally tried to pay for it with my Petsmart card. The bartender explained that they didn't take Petsmart, and I was justifiably offended, "What kind of a bar is this, anyway?" Eventually I was forced to pony up $8 on a non-pet-supplies-related credit card. By this point I'd begun referring to my favorite drink as Margot Mangarita, whom I've never met but suspect to be a very lovely lady. After that, they didn't let me have any more for some reason.
Holy Frijoles is usually a great place to go for good, affordable Mexican food. But, they wanted to kick everyone out at 12:45 a.m., which isn't even last call in Utah. C'mon guys, what gives? I just brought 20 plastered people in; don't you want to make some money (no, I don't mean pet dollars)? They generously allowed us to stay until 1:45 a.m., when we all split up and headed home to crash. Except me, who went home and ate tiny microwave pizzas, awaking the next day to a foggy head and memories of mangaritas.
8:30 p.m., The Hon Bar
Needless to say, serene wasn't what we were after. We headed for the door but were unable to escape without being hit on by Antonio, a man who sported a sweater vest and congratulated Caroline on her vodka tonic. Apparently Antonio was so excited for her, it inspired him to utter the mystifying, "Good for you." He proceeded to have a long, ambling and entirely one-sided conversation about vodka. But I liked him; he was determined to talk to us despite our obvious lack of interest, and that takes pluck. Having had only one cranberry and vodka myself, I was ready to move, but not as much as Kim who called the Hon Bar "nappy time." The only thing Caroline didn't like about the Hon Bar was our new friend. Alas, poor Antonio.
9:30 p.m., Golden West
Golden West, renowned for good food and abysmal service was our next stop. After I had my first expensive ($8), but delicious Trolley Car, we were joined by two German nannies, a couple from Virginia, my friend Susan, and the pack of six or so men she brought -- all friends who agreed to accompany us on the adventure. The Germans didn't seem to like that the more intoxicated I became, the less interested I was in remembering anyone's name. I simply referred to them as "the Germans."
Golden West was less soporific than the Hon Bar, but I was getting the general impression that Hampden on a Saturday night is more low-key than most Charm City bar hoods. My roommate Caroline aptly observed, "It's like we're in our living room, but someone's actually cooking in the kitchen."
After a few more drinks, I felt so damned good I picked up a round, which turned out to be an expensive endeavor ($50). Fortunately I decided to do this before the second wave of people arrived. But, man, Germans can put 'em back. One drawback to Golden West is that you can't talk on your cell, so Kim and I pretended to carry on fascinating conversations with house plants to avoid persecution. You can't smoke in Golden West, either, which is nice ... sometimes. But, damn, I wanted a ciggie then, so I prodded everyone out the door on the premise that we had so little time.
10:30 p.m., Zissimos Bar
I had my reservations about Zissimos -- after all, it is a townie joint. We rolled 20 deep, so I wasn't too scared, but all my fears turned out to be baseless. The locals were friendly if not a little awe-struck at the interruption of their nightly ritual. One regular even asked Susan, "What's going on? Is there a girl convention in town?" He must've missed the 12 or so guys with us. We were joined by four more people, and I spun myself dizzy trying to talk to everyone.
At Zissimos, they card you at the door -- maybe it's because the beer is so cheap (a pitcher of Yuengling for $6). A sign above the bar advertises that the Saturday happy hour lasts from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m.; a happy hour that creates a lot of toothless smiles.
I tried to blend in by having a Coor's Light, but what a mistake that turned out to be. Mental note: a quart of vodka and rum do not mix well with Coor's Light. The bartender Jenny was sweet and called us "hon" in a way more authentic than the way they do it at Cafe Hon. The Real John Waters' Baltimore, finally.
11:30 p.m., Frazier's on the Avenue
Frazier's is half townie/half hipster, as evidenced by the metal playing overhead and the furiously occupied pool table. Everyone seemed pretty happy at this point, except George. George had developed an unrequited attraction to Kim, some drama ensued, Kim's ass was grabbed and George was chastised for being "completely inappropriate."
Also, this theory of mine was tested at Frazier's, and held up well. The theory is that every time I see someone with more tattoos than I think I've ever seen on one person, my boyfriend is inevitably old friends with him. After Clint caught up with What's His Face, we moved on to our final destination: Holy Frijoles.
12:15 a.m., Holy Frijoles
Somehow we'd managed to pick up three more people on the way across the street. (Lauren's doing, I suspect.) By the time we got there, I was so anxious to order the much-coveted Mango Margarita that I accidentally tried to pay for it with my Petsmart card. The bartender explained that they didn't take Petsmart, and I was justifiably offended, "What kind of a bar is this, anyway?" Eventually I was forced to pony up $8 on a non-pet-supplies-related credit card. By this point I'd begun referring to my favorite drink as Margot Mangarita, whom I've never met but suspect to be a very lovely lady. After that, they didn't let me have any more for some reason.
Holy Frijoles is usually a great place to go for good, affordable Mexican food. But, they wanted to kick everyone out at 12:45 a.m., which isn't even last call in Utah. C'mon guys, what gives? I just brought 20 plastered people in; don't you want to make some money (no, I don't mean pet dollars)? They generously allowed us to stay until 1:45 a.m., when we all split up and headed home to crash. Except me, who went home and ate tiny microwave pizzas, awaking the next day to a foggy head and memories of mangaritas.
