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Film Short - The Debt

I liked this movie, but it is not as good as Munich. Still love Helen Mirren, though! What a classy lady and a great actress!

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/09/07/film-shorts-ii-124/

The Debt (R) This thriller tells parallel stories, one about three Israeli Mossad agents (Jessica Chastain, Marton Csokas, and Sam Worthington) failing to kill a fugitive Nazi (Jesper Christensen) in 1966, the other about the same agents (Helen Mirren, Tom Wilkinson, and Ciarán Hinds) having to live with the consequences of covering up their failure. Director John Madden comes up with some exciting sequences like an escape in a stolen ambulance and a gynecological exam performed by the prospective victim on the female agent. Yet the chemistry among the younger actors isn’t up to scratch, and the love triangle among the agents isn’t enough to carry this thriller by itself. Much as it would like to be, this movie is no Munich. Also with Romi Aboulafia and Brigitte Kren. — Steve Steward

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Randi’s 2 to 2

Still don’t know what bars are owned by this family. But they are what I think of when I think of West Fort Worth

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/09/21/randis-2-to-2-a-redux/

So back in June, I happened upon a bar on Hwy. 377 called Last Call, adjoining a defunct bar called J-Z’s R&B. At the time, I guessed that a bar advertising rhythm and blues would be responsible for the cheesy Stevie Ray Vaughan mural that covered one of the outside walls, but when I drove past Last Call last Sunday, I noticed Stevie’s guitar-soloing o-face had been painted over; with what I couldn’t tell, because it was already dark outside, and I was more interested in a different adornment: The bar once again sported an open sign. J-Z’s R&B recently reopened as Randi’s 2 to 2.

Now granted, J-Z’s R&B had already shuttered its doors by the time I ran into it, so I don’t know what its original incarnation was like. Apparently, Randi’s has made some cosmetic improvements and adjusted the prices — being Sunday, it was happy hour all day. The $2 domestics and wells had drawn a small crowd to the bar stools, whether old customers coming back or new ones drawn by the low prices, I couldn’t tell. Overall, Randi’s 2 to 2 (because it’s open from 2 to 2, get it?) is a comfortable dive with a couple of pool tables, some dartboards, and, throughout the week, live music: Blues bands play on Fridays and Saturdays, while Wednesdays feature an open jam similar to the ones at Keys Lounge and the Poop Deck. The back bar’s mirrors and wood give way to a red brick facade (one of the recent cosmetic renovations) as the counter ends and the tables begin. Two walls bear mirrors covered in graffiti, and before my date and I left, Sherrie the bartender handed us a yellow paint-pen to make our marks.

I didn’t exactly wander around looking for the choicest spot on the mirrors to tag, but I did notice there wasn’t a whole lot of real estate. Sherrie told me the bar opened on Aug. 17, and if the graffiti was any indication, Randi’s has enjoyed considerable popularity in its first month. I walked out in a glow of balmy optimism. You can argue that “balmy optimism” is a nice way of saying I had gotten into some whiskey, but I contend that my case of the warm buzzies was inspired at least as much by entrepreneurial triumph as it was Jack Daniels. That the SRV mural has disappeared too was an added bonus. –– Steve Steward

King of …

Yeah, yeah, I know. Around these parts, ripping on Stevie Ray Vaughan is tantamount to sacrilege (see also: ripping on Dimebag), but I’m entitled to my opinion. I think Stevie is the second-corniest blues player in the history of the idiom, second only to Jonny Lang. I’ll concede that “Pride and Joy” isn’t the worst tune in the world, but that’s only because “Rack ’em Up” exists. I mean, don’t get me wrong — the guy was a good player, but there is nothing in his oeuvre that would ever make me want to pick up a guitar.

Still, I grit my teeth and bear it, because I like dives, and escaping SRV in these kinds of bars is just about impossible — fact of the matter is, the dude left an impact, as evidenced by the blooze hammerers at every weeknight blues jam ever. I guess what dismays me about the man’s legacy is that every person who has learned SRV’s licks more or less note for note is probably capable of a whole lot more, yet most of these dudes (and some chicks) remain mired in the same tired paeans to a player (R.I.P.) who’s got nothing on Tony Iommi. This is why I’m on the hunt for Fort Worth’s best blues jam, one where the musos transcend hokey bar-band tropes and shoot for greatness. If you have a suggestion, e-mail [email protected] and tell me who, where, and when. –– S.S.

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And here’s a Slayer reference

You can tell I was fighting the blues in this one.

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/09/14/division-intervention/

You might say I’ve been feeling the funk a little, and not the kind that comes out of Parliament’s Mothership. More specifically, it’s a summertime blues spawned from a host of disappointments led by the dreadful weather. See, I love summer, but the record-setting heat has made this season a total drag. I knew better than to trust that the cooler temps from last week were here to stay, but still, when the mercury crept toward triple digits on Monday, it kind of put me in one of those moods.

Academically, I like the irony of how the sun can totally scorch a sunny disposition, but in real life, I think it totally sucks. I took my low-level malaise on the road, looking for a change of scenery, which is why I ended up on Division Street. I guess I just wanted to be in unfamiliar surroundings populated by people I didn’t know to mull over my troubles, so I got on Lancaster Avenue and wandered east. I skipped The Ozzie Rabbit Lodge. I passed the Sunshine Bar, then Caves. I’d been to Pearl’s before, and when I saw all the cars in front of the Golden Nugget, I kept on going.

I eventually landed at Milo’s. The last time I’d been there was in the fall of 2007. I think it had recently opened, and I’d had high hopes. Several musician friends and I had come from a studio in Dallas, and we wanted to get drunk and congratulate ourselves. As I recall, there were a lot of bros with sideways Hurley hats manhandling young women in Girls Gone Wild t-shirts. Or at least one, anyway. This was the sort of crowd that stuffed the jukebox with bands like New Found Glory and Brand New, purveyors of a genre of music that I like to refer to as The Story of the Yellowcard or Taking Back Thursday. (Do all of these bands go out of their ways to try to sound alike?) So my buds and I sat there talking smack on pop-emo bands, autotuning, and bros in sideways Hurley hats. I’m sure somebody noticed our less-than-enthusiastic attitudes (and anti-emo-punk look), because we got shitty service.

Since then, Milo’s has changed hands a couple times, though I wouldn’t actually say it has been reborn. When I slid into a barstool on Monday, I looked around for new stuff. Hmm. Everything seemed pretty much the same. The place is mostly dark, the bar counter illuminated by blue lights hanging overhead in funnel-shaped shades. Opposite the bar is a lounge area with a couple of pool tables, fenced off by a wooden rail and accented by some acrylic paintings. Beyond the pool tables is a pair of plush red couches bracketing a huge flat-screen TV. Beyond the counter, the place fades into a gloom of tables and comfortable chairs on casters. It looked like there was a stage at the end of room, and given that one of the owners is a music fan who used to be involved with the Hurricane Grill on Lower Greenville in Dallas, I suspect that there is probably occasional live music. Milo’s web site advertises DJs, but it’s under construction, and I couldn’t determine when any music was actually happening.

The night’s special included $2 wells and domestic drafts, so I ordered a whiskey and water. The bartender, a cute brunette named Jocelyn, asked about the book I’d brought with me. “It’s from a series about important albums called 33 1/3,” I said. “This one’s about Reign in Blood by Slayer.”

In a movie, her eyes would’ve lit up and she would’ve said, “Fuckin’ Slayer!!!,” and then we would’ve talked about how badass “Altar of Sacrifice” is. This being real life and all, she smiled and said something like, “Oh, that’s cool.” While it would’ve been awesome and remarkable to have hung out with a hot Slayer fan, she scored points by remembering my name after running my card.

The crowd that trickled in was small; Division’s dives tend to attract regulars who are either blue-collar and middle-aged or twentysomething punks and hipsters, mixed with a lot of service-industry types. The people who bellied up to the bar at Milo’s seemed to fall in the latter two categories. I didn’t see any crooked hats, and the worst song I heard was the only Chili Peppers song I like. Overall, I’d say Milo’s has a good vibe and good bartenders –– the guy who eventually took over from Jocelyn was pretty attentive too. I finished the Slayer book and another whiskey and water and hit the road, checking the forecast on my smartphone as I walked out. Tuesday was supposed to reach 104. Hell Awaits, I thought. –– Steve Steward

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Ha, I remember this night

Last Call columns always help jog my memory. Almost always, anyway.

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/09/08/high-way-to-hell/

On Saturday night, it finally happened. For the first time in recorded history, I wasn’t the highest person at a Whataburger. That title belonged to the guy at the Hemphill Street location who was so baked he could have doubled for an Entenmann’s truck. I discovered him about 8:30 p.m., when I’d popped in for some pre-party grease to sop up the bottle of Seagram’s that I’d brought along for later. His Real Highness asked if I’d been to The Where House, and when I said yes, he got really excited. “Oh man,” he said. “You get to hear ZZ Top?”

Indeed, I had, having just watched reggae-ish newcomers The Neptune Locals perform “Tush” (I think) as part of their set during the inaugural Fort Worth Rock Assembly. The FWRA, organized by Tony Diaz (Goodwin, The Missile Men, The Good Show), was a three-night stand during which North Texas bands slotted a third of their sets for covers of classic-rock bands, picked earlier this summer in a “draft.” Without getting too hyperbolic, if you stayed at home with “friends” or “relatives,” you missed out on a lot of good times, including Pablo & The Hemphill 7 nailing Thin Lizzy, RTB2 slaying an entire set of pre-’70 Stones tunes, and The Me-Thinks killing everyone with a tastefully loud and weirdly uplifting rendition of Floyd’s “Fearless.” The highlight for me –– and for a lot of other folks, evidently –– occurred on Saturday, when Toadies’ frontman Vaden Todd Lewis joined Here Holy Spain on vocals for AC/DC’s “Whole Lotta Rosie.” The room was packed with people holding up iPhones and video cameras, which I argue is this century’s answer to the encore-baiting cigarette lighters in Bon Jovi videos. Frankly, it was awesome. I’m not sure who stayed home, because the place was slammed all three nights. Better still, the bands all had fun. It may have been a little frustrating to take time away from working on new material to worry about a T-Rex solo for a month or whatever, but every participant I talked to had a blast and can’t wait to do it again next year.

Anyway, getting back to The Highest Guy to Ever Get Comfortable in a Whataburger Booth, he started grilling me about a band that I assumed was The Neptune Locals. He wanted to know if they were still playing. I replied that they had just finished. “What’re they doing now?” he said, his eyes widening as far as the THC would let them.

“I dunno,” I said. “Watching the next band, I guess.”

“What?!” he gasped. “Do you think they’ll sign an autograph?”

That’s when I caught up to his speed. This dude, stoned out of his mind, dressed in his work clothes, and apparently on his way to work, was under the impression that the real ZZ Top had shown up, played a 45-minute set of their hits (semi-reggaefied, mind you!), and then sat around watching a bunch of young North Texas bands. I didn’t want to ruin his night.

“Yeah, maybe they will,” I said. “They seem like pretty cool dudes.” –– Steve Steward

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Here’s another Iron Maiden joke

Last Call columns -- my own personal vehicle for jokes about Iron Maiden. Hey! Barcadia opened this particular week!

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/08/31/gobble-gobble-at-finns/

8.31.11

Like Iron Maiden and Mila Kunis, there are lots of good things to say about sandwiches, but they’re not always the best fit for every situation. Maiden tends to bomb at parties with chicks, Kunis was miscast in Book of Eli, and, in my opinion, no amount of bacon can make a turkey sandwich a good companion to getting drunk. Or so I thought prior to getting one at Finn MacCool’s.

Last year I mentioned that Finn’s was adding sandwiches; it’s taken a while, but I finally bellied up a couple Friday nights ago and ordered one. These days, I try to be responsible and get some food in my stomach before I get to boozing, but on that particular evening, I’d had little more than some old Ritz crackers before I ambled into the friendly Hospital District joint. Luckily, Finn’s was still serving food. (The kitchen closes around 11 p.m.) I ordered a Bud, a shot of Jack, and, as I quickly discovered, a rather badass turkey sandwich.

Now granted, in the time between ordering and eating, I had a couple more shots, so if I’m confusing this sandwich with something else, I apologize. My notes are pretty illegible, but I think the sammy came piled with bacon and slathered in chipotle mayo. If you pardon the pun, my beef with mixing turkey sandwiches and drankin’ stems from my immeasurable fear of nausea — I often get a little nauseated from eating deli turkey, anyway, but trying to use sliced super-bird to sop up the alcohol in my stomach just makes things worse.

Not so at Finn’s, however. For whatever reason (the bacon maybe?), Finn’s turkey sandwich totally hit the spot, and when I hit a figurative (and, apparently, literal) wall five hours later, all I did was fall asleep on the couch rather than beside the toilet. Having test-driven Finn MacCool’s turkey sandwich, I give it top marks. And it’s probably even better when you’re, you know, sober. ––Steve Steward

The Nitty Gritty Gravel Road

I think most people know the relationship between opinions and assholes, so I feel comfortable mentioning that I just can’t get into Rahr’s Gravel Road. My opinion is not popular: Every time I mention it, people say I’m crazy. Seems like everyone but me digs the brew. Personally, I think it tastes like a headache — I get that it’s supposed to be strong, but it’s a little too bitter for my palate. If I had to recommend recent Rahr & Sons Brewing Company brews, I would happily crow about the Fort Worth brewery’s Summertime Wheat, Texas Red, and, of course, Iron Thistle. In fact, Iron Thistle is just about the only thing I look forward to in January. Still, if you like German altbiers, give Gravel Road a try. I’ve noticed that it’s flowing out of taps all over town.

In other beer news, Eastside punker mainstay Ozzie Rabbit Lounge has Full Sail’s new Session Lager, made from a pre-Prohibition recipe and packaged in a pre-Prohibition bottle. And while I’m at it, the last time I was there, Ozzie’s had just added Buried Hatchet, the stout from Houston’s Conroe’s Southern Star that I sampled at Wired Willy’s a few weeks ago. While I’m not a fan of a lot of other things that come from Greater Houston (humidity, mosquitoes, people who think Houston is awesome), Southern Star makes some pretty tasty brews, and I’m all for supporting independent upstarts, even if they come from places I mostly hate. –– S.S.

Barcadia Opening

I think it’s bullshit when a bar advertises arcade games when they really just have a busted Big Buck Hunter and dusty Silver Strike Bowling. To me, “arcade” means Galaga, Joust, and the only lady to make a red bow foxy, Ms. Pac-Man. You can imagine, then, my anticipation for Barcadia, coming to 816 Matisse St. in So7 near Love Shack So7. Boasting skee-ball, giant Jenga, and presumably the best arcade cabinets from yesteryear, Barcadia is holding a soft opening on Thursday at 4 p.m. Skip the Laundromat this week and take your quarters to So7. –– S.S.

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Shout out to door guys

Another Last Call from the time when I was only subsisting on freelance and occasional door shifts at a bar.

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/08/24/the-door-guys-of-perception/

his cheapskate waiter-hating person I know gave me crap for using this space as a soapbox for the service industry, a crime to which I proudly plead guilty. But I also use it to stump for the rights of professional drunks, potheads, and bands I really like (which would make for a pretty uninteresting Venn diagram), not to mention promoting local businesses trying to get people in the door.

“I’m a customer,” he recently sniffed. “You should just write recommendations.” I told him he should go read Yelp. Sure, I’ll review a place if it provides narrative thrust, but I’m way more interested in the culture of Clubland. To me, every element of a bar, from the vibe and the energy produced by light and sound to the various psychic frequencies emanating from cross-counter relations, is salient to the universal drinking experience. If I remember it the next morning, each night out is an episode in a show about drinking, one that’s been airing in my brain since that long-past first pull off a Goldschläger bottle, which also means that every person in a bar is a character.

Of course, I’m really an advocate for the characters who pour your drinks, make your food, and clean up your messes, but for all my ranting about shitty tippers and birthday princesses, I don’t think I’ve ever written about door guys in any depth. It’s not like they’re unsung heroes or anything, but they are often integral to a smooth operation and usually make a bar a better place. Provided a door guy (or chick, if you’re at Lola’s or The Basement Bar) is diligent, he is the first line of defense against minors. Door people are also given the unenviable task of being the presence that calms belligerence, the usher at the end of the night, and the person stuck with unplugging the toilet. While bartenders whisk around making money hand over fist (in theory, anyway) and having a good time, door guys are left with sentry duty, ready to dispense buzz-killing justice when needed. Being a door guy can be a boring, irritating, potentially gorge-raising job, and it usually doesn’t pay very much.

My time in the service industry started with a door-guy job 10 years ago. I met a lot of people, from a certain local rock band riding the high from a dubiously successful reality show victory to the biggest, stupidest louts on TCU’s 2001 offensive line and every coked-up frat brah and pill-droopy sorostitute in between. I wiped barf off the bar counter and tried to exterminate fruit flies, and when I got promoted to bartender, I couldn’t get behind the counter fast enough.

Forgetting door guys in the milieu of Clubland is mea culpa, but I think it happened because I haven’t had to sweat it on the proverbial stool in such a long time — I guess I needed a reminder, which came while filling in a few shifts for one of the Flying Saucer’s regular dudes.

Given that my door security experience is limited to the TCU area, I looked for differences between working the door in Under21-land and in the comparatively older-skewing market downtown. It’s a lot of the same hassles, though most of the age-restriction problems seem to stem from young women who mysteriously left their IDs somewhere. If there’s a downtown stereotype, I’d say it’s bald, muscle-bound whiners who balk at paying a cover. There’s also their older, loose-skinned counterpart. Neither type gives a shit about paying bands. At least at the Saucer, where you have a staggering array of beers, these dudes invariable go for Miller Lite. One curious trait: When the beefy bald baby gets to be a certain age, he seems to think it’s OK to pat the door guy on the shoulder. By the time happy hour finished recently, I’d gotten so many unwanted pats on the back I thought I’d won something in the Special Olympics.

Still, it’s an easy job, and I didn’t really mind — for every beetle-browed complaint about a $3 cover charge, I got 10 more grins, good-natured jokes, and people happy to pay for the privilege of spending money. So thanks to those of you who are nice to the guy checking IDs — but no touching. We really appreciate it. The band’ll probably go on around 10. –– Steve Steward

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I wrote a song about nights like this one

This is when I was starting to feel the squeeze of underemployment.

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/08/17/cowtown-bar-a-grill-bust-a-move/

If there’s one thing that aptly captures the fenced-in ennui of a Monday, it’s getting stuck at a left-turn light that never turns green. I made this connection when the light at the Camp Bowie/377 traffic circle cycled through a second time without sending me on my way. I was trying to get to Cowtown Bar & Grill, and I’d already made two U-turns on Alta Mere before I figured out you can get into the parking lot only if you’re headed west on Camp Bowie. The stoplights ran their course, skipping me again. Fuck it, I thought, as my car scooted through the intersection and onto Camp Bowie. A pair of headlights pulled behind me, as three blocks of opportunities for illegal left turns opened on my left. At this time of night, every car creeping on your back is a cop. At least that’s the rule I live by. My tailgater swung around me as I pulled into another left-hand turn lane. He drove a banged-up Ford Focus.

Finally, I made it, flinging open the Cowtown door as Oleander’s butt-rock power ballad “Why I’m Here” pounded out of the internet juke and into my skull. I’d been trying to remember what this place was like the last time I’d been, but all I recalled  was that I’d gotten kind of lit someplace else and bummed a ride to this bar, where I bugged the waitress with pot-addled questions about one of the appetizers that had a funny name that I don’t remember. That time, the lights were so bright you probably could have raised a hydroponic farmer’s market in there, but tonight, apart from Oleander, Cowtown Bar & Grill was pretty cool.

For one thing, the lights were pleasantly dim; paradoxically, I noticed a lot more details. The bar had changed ownership over Memorial Day weekend, but I don’t think the transfer altered a whole lot superficially. The joint is still centered on a roomy rectangular bar surfaced with gray tile, with rows of condiments placed within easy reach. Under the new ownership, the grill part of the joint offers wraps and salads (for “hippies, treehuggers, and housewives,” according to the menu) and “hearty eats,” including burgers such as the Happy Fat Kid, a half-pounder topped with cream cheese and jalapeños. Around the perimeter of the bar counter, columns covered with concrete “rock” support cocktail table sections at opposite ends of the room, each bathed in the light of neon beer signs. When I tended bar at Lola’s this summer, I’d heard that Cowtown was throwing its hat in the music-venue ring, and to that end, the joint has a stage fronted by a hardwood dance floor bordered by a wooden rails and barstools. Whoever designed this bar had a keen eye for balance.

In my peripheral vision to the left, however, swayed a guy who had neither keen eye nor balance, holding up the bar with what I guessed was a double gin and tonic — the galaxy of limes suspended in the glass suggested he’d had a few refills. Behind him, a raucous game of pool ended up with some buddies wrestling — I missed the playful scrap, because I was watching some show about tattoos on a TV above the far side of the bar. When I heard a crash followed by a lot of owws, I looked over to see some guy being helped up from the floor and missing a shoe. All of his friends were laughing, so I guess it was a regular thing.

The owner, a guy named Eric Coslik, was sitting at the bar, and he told me about Cowtown’s live entertainment. Six days a week, Cowtown has solo acts; Thursdays, happy hour is jukebox only, but he told me it turns into a pretty big party. Most other days feature different singer-songwriter types between the happy-hour shift and the rest of the night, and Wednesdays are for karaoke from 9 p.m. ’til midnight, after which a DJ takes over to finish the night. Sunday nights feature an open jam hosted by a Keys Lounge regular, guitarist Michael Lee Clemmer.

As I looked around, the vibe did remind me a little of the Keys, probably because of the wood paneling near the bathrooms and the faux-stone accents. All in all, Cowtown Bar & Grill is a cozy place to get a cheap drink but still roomy enough to judo-flip your bro onto the floor without damaging other people or furniture. Ashley the bartender was friendly and affable, and I found myself gradually digging her jukebox picks, which ran from REO Speedwagon to “Like a G6.” The clock was creeping up on 1:15; I’d had only a couple Bud Light drafts (at a paltry $1.50 each), but I called it quits, got into my ride, and rounded the traffic circle to Southwest Boulevard. As I passed the Vickery exit, two sets of headlights pulled into my rearview mirror, eventually growing into a pair of police cruisers. They blew past me and on into Tuesday morning. I didn’t hit another red light until I got to Hulen. –– Steve Steward

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Wired Willy’s Keeps it Classy

That’s the title of this one from August of 2011.

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/08/10/wired-willys-keeps-it-classy/

Listen, I get why people like The Pour House. If you’re looking to get a really noisy, flashy drunk on, the PH is pretty much the place to be. If pressed to describe the West 7th bar/restaurant in one word, I’d use “volume,” in part because the place’s regular cover bands are as loud as they are tight and also because the joint is usually wall to wall with elbows and shaking asses. The last time I went there, I couldn’t tell if “My Sharona” was coming from the band onstage or satellite radio, because the cover was that spot-on. Say what you want about cover bands. The Pour House seems to get the best. When the band took a break, the sonic overflow from PH’s adjacent hip-hop club, The Garage, immediately filled the musical void. I didn’t even bother going over there, because it was so packed you could probably call it a scrum, though instead of scrapping over a rugby ball, the mass of humanity was just digging Wiz Khalifa.

The Pour House also has a velvet rope, so you know, there’s that appeal.

But across the street, facing Carroll Street, near the alley running next to 7th Haven’s back patio, is a quiet, stylish lounge whose quiet class is pretty much the antithesis of The Pour House’s bump and grind. Wired Willy’s, so named because of its free internet, is setting the standard for what I think a 21st-century lounge should be.

Here’s what I mean. If you follow this column, you probably know that my favorite bars are dimly lit enclaves furnished in dark wood and yellow light fixtures, oftentimes floored with indoor/outdoor carpet and run by bartenders who have been there since the doors opened in the ’70s. Admittedly, a lot of these places are dumps, but others have maintained a sort of elegant classicism, like when you see a woman in her 60s and think, “Man, she must have been crazy hot back in the day.” Bars like A Great Notion and the Oui Lounge fall into this category. Though it’s not even a month old, Wired Willy’s carries that vibe: If it sticks around long enough, it will age gracefully.

I wrote about Wired Willy’s back in June, when I ran into owner Randal Wilcox having a drink at the nearby Shamrock Tavern. We talked beer, the neighborhood, and what kind of bar he was starting. Now that the doors are finally open, I’d say it’s kind of like an upscale, rustic wine bar. The room is dim without being dank — the predominant color is gray in varying shades, with walls accented by dovetailed old boards purchased from a supplier in Waco that specializes in wood reclaimed from demolished buildings. While Wired Willy’s has a wine menu (composed exclusively of Texas blends like Llano and Messina Hof), beer is the main focus. Better still, of the 20 brews on tap, half are from Texas.

Over a couple hours of shooting the shit with Bo, the happy hour bartender, I sampled Franconia’s Dunkel and Rahr Summertime Wheat, and I mellowed under the weight of two Southern Star Bury the Hatchet Stouts. Bo told me that Jester King, the heavy metal-loving craft brewers from Austin, will soon be represented — whether the bar will get Wytchmaker or Black Metal Imperial Stout, he couldn’t say, but Willy’s will be one of only three bars in the area lucky enough to sell these heavy, flavorful beers. If you love beer but tire of the Flying Saucer’s throngs, Wired Willy’s is where you want to go. And the most expensive draft is Rogue Dead Guy: only $4.50 a pint. This information floored me. Randal said, “Well, I want people to have good beer, but I don’t want to break anyone’s bank.”

In addition to the Texas beers and wines, the liquor selection assembled by the bartenders is getting heavy on Lone Star-centric booze. Right now, that means Tito’s and Dripping Springs vodka; Jeremiah Weed sweet tea vodka will likely be removed to make room for Deep Eddy. Wired Willy’s also has two dartboards, wisely hung from a wall entirely made of cork, in case you’re seeing double and/or feeling dangerous.

I hope Wired Willy’s catches on. It’s a great addition to the ’hood and a welcome respite from the clamor across the street. I’m all for partying, but sometimes I need my drinks with more class than flash. — Steve Steward

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Kinda wanna go to Bikini’s rn!

Shameful but true. This is actually about Overtime Sports Bar

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/07/20/no-overtime-for-bikinis/

Here’s the thing: I love dive bars and all, but every so often, one’ll give me a case of the willies strong enough to make me turn tail and head for some place presumably safer. I like to call it my stabby sense, and the other night, after driving to a shady part of town and parking in front of a couple shady-looking joints about which I knew absolutely nothing, I was at stab alert level orange. That’s why I put the car back in gear and went to Overtime Bar & Grill instead. I’d been wanting to do a column on bikini contests anyway, because you can find one somewhere in town just about every night of the week. Overtime’s contest falls on Mondays, so after I bailed on Jack the Ripper’s Puncture Trauma Tavern, I found myself heading north on Beach Street toward Loop 820. Right past the yellow resignation of a Waffle House sign sat a veritable fortress banded in purple neon so bright you can probably see it from Mars.

I was pleasantly surprised to find the parking lot mostly full; curiously, even though there were a lot of people inside, the place didn’t look crowded. Maybe it was the lofty ceiling — there’s no second floor, but Overtime looks to be at least two stories. High above your line of vision is a row of gigantic flat screens, alternating between sports and music videos. Drafts were on special ($2), so I parked it at the bar (a handsome semi-circle of polished granite ringing a large, round wooden shelf full of booze), ordered a Bud, and watched a Jay-Z video involving flaming basketballs and graffiti stencils. Jay-Z gave way to “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” I looked around the room for bikini models.

While there were a couple women who would’ve qualified as entrants, I didn’t want to stare, especially since they looked like they were there with boyfriends. I started to wonder if the bikini contest was still on, but then around 11:30 p.m., I saw two young ladies pass by carrying duffel bags. The women disappeared into a room by the bar, emerging a little bit later with very little on. A barback squeezed between the pair to return some rocks glasses. He didn’t bat an eye, even though he was short enough for his eyes to be at chest level.

Eventually, five lovelies lined up at the end of the room on a short stage while another lass (still in a dress) emceed. She was a pro, but I couldn’t really hear the rules or what the prize was. Not that it mattered — it’s not like I was watching The Price Is Right. As you might imagine, a bikini contest entails calling out a contestant, playing a rap/rap-rock song for her to do that booty-clapping thing to, and then calling upon the crowd to “give it up!” for so and so. The contest took all of 20 minutes, including a break.

When I initially rolled up, I had assumed everyone was there to watch the show, but the applause was a little tepid. At least until “Whitney” took the stage — I’m guessing she’s the reigning champ, because the crowd went comparatively wild for her. The rest of the contestants wasted no time in getting back into their dresses. I was three or four beers deep by then, so I figured I’d call it a night. Since it was busy, the bartender took a little while to sign me out, giving me more time to ogle the scenery.

The T&A notwithstanding, Overtime is a pretty classy joint, certainly for a sports bar. I got a little weary of nonstop hip-hop, but overall the place has a great vibe, friendly service, and good prices. While you’re probably more apt to see a wider variety of sports at the Fox & Hound, I got the feeling that finding a table to watch a game is easier at Overtime than at a lot of other places. And if Monday Night Football ends up airing this season, you’ll get some pretty good eye candy with the game. And all without getting stabbed. –– Steve Steward

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This one has a dumb title

“Water: Lighter than Booze?”

Like, wut? anyway: https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/07/06/water-lighter-than-booze/

My parents live about 90 miles east of the San Francisco Bay Area, and so their summer weather experience is slightly different than that of folks around here. I say “slightly” because Lodi still gets hot as balls. The main difference between summer temps in the Central Valley and in North Texas are the nights: There, a phenomenon called the Delta Breeze blows the torpor out of the air when the sun goes down, and the mercury slides into the 70s. I don’t need to tell you what happens here, because at 11 p.m., you’re still ducking inside to dry out your armpits in the air conditioning. If you’re drying your pits in a bar, you’re probably drinking water too. As a bartender, I’ve never bothered to tally the number of waters I serve during the summer, but it’s obvious that drinkers tend to hydrate more right now than they do, say, in November. That’s great. Healthy. Maybe lifesaving even. But what I’d like to know is why water drinkers almost never tip.

I’ll admit that bartenders’ gripes about gratuities make up the bulk of a very tired service-industry trope, but here’s the thing: When you drop a single in our jar, what you’re really paying for is our time. Since you’ve probably just screwed your face into a scowl and vowed never to tip us greedy bartenders again, let me explain a little. Bartenders are essentially salespeople. Most of us don’t make much more than what you (the drinker) leave on our countertops, which really means that a tip is like a commission. And when you come up to the bar wanting a glass of ice water, not only are we not making a sale, we’re not making a commission either, which kind of turns pouring your glass of water into an unprofitable use of our time.

Yeah, yeah. I know that makes me sound like a dick, but think of it this way: Generally speaking, it’s good etiquette to tip a buck per drink — I charitably amend this to a dollar per trip to the bar (provided you’re not ordering 10 things on that single trip). I use the same motions in making an ice water as I do in mixing a Jack and Coke. People generally tip on the latter but not the former, which makes absolutely zero sense to me — you’d think that the item you get for free would elicit a buck rather than the one that costs $5. Maybe it’s just me.

At any rate, I took note of this scandal a couple of years ago when I was working a shift during a vaguely Christian band’s set, because nobody ordered booze. I still made a shitload of drinks and, as a result, more or less worked for free. After awhile, I started charging for Cokes, even though that made me feel like a heel. But I had to do something. More recently, I dealt with a musician whose band went on in the 11 p.m. slot. He didn’t want to drink any beer before he played, but he did drink an awful lot of water. Not surprisingly, for the seven or eight visits he made to the bar prior to playing his set, he left me nothing other than a promise to order a beer when he was done. He didn’t tip on that beer, either, despite the discount he got for playing a show. I didn’t really care at that point, because his promise to buy a beer after getting something for nothing indicated to me that he knew exactly what he was doing: being a cheapskate.

Of course, I’m a cheapskate, too, as evidenced by a recent trip to Rick’s Cabaret (see “Raining at Rick’s,” Jun. 29, 2011), where I didn’t get a lap dance. Thing is, I informed every “entertainer” who came by my table that I wasn’t packing any big bills, and the lasses were more than happy to beat the carpet for greener wallets. For all of the curvaceous clouds of dust that remained, I was glad not to be a non-tipping time-burning burden.

I don’t expect everyone in the bar to hit the bottle like Boris Yeltsin — and Mormons, recovering alcoholics, and other teetotalers are as welcome as anyone else. I just wish the water drinkers extended to us bartenders the same courtesy that we get from the drunks. –– Steve Steward

Oscar’s Ollie Room

I popped into Oscar’s Pub the other night right before close, and while there’s a $10 minimum on credit card tabs, it goes a long way on Sundays and Mondays, when the bar has happy-hour prices all day. I had a Sierra Nevada and two shots of Jack for a grand total of $11. (Normal price would have been $15.) I asked the barkeep, an affable dude named Chuck, about the Ollie Room, advertised on the front door. He led me to the basement, home to a very cool little bar/wine cellar. If you get in touch with the owner, you can book the Ollie Room for private events, and on the last Wednesday of every month, there’s a group that screens war movies. (Last month’s feature was Full Metal Jacket.) This Saturday, you can get Bulleit-riddled (or fire other similarly less-lethal shots) in the Ollie Room during the opening of an art show put on by the local collective Piranha Bear. Admission is free, and children are welcome –– the Ollie Room is smoke-free. Piranha Bear also is covering the first $100 worth of drinks. Tips, a-hem, are not included. –– S.S.

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Here’s one about a strip club

6.29.11

Man these really are the journal of my life.

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/06/29/raining-at-ricks/

Back in April, I went the wrong way on Alta Mere and ended up at Showgirl Cabaret. That was the first time I’d been to a strip club in probably five years, and after blowing through $60 in about as many minutes, I remembered why not. Walking out the door, I resolved to stick to bars where women take their tops off only when drunk rather than when some dude in a rayon dress shirt is clutching a wad of dollar bills. But then my friend came into town bearing an expense account. “I got us a VIP booth at Rick’s,” he said, meaning, of course, Rick’s Cabaret. Throwing money away in a bomb shelter like Showgirl is one thing, but Rick’s is a whole ’nother level of profligacy. My brain quickly cycled through the various quick-cash scenarios I’d have to come up with to have a good time there. When I’d mentally pawned some amps, sold my DVD collection, and got up early on the coming Monday morning to get a spot in the line at the plasma clinic, I tried to beg off. “Dude,” I pled. “I’m broke. I’m gonna sit this one out.”

He wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s on me,” he emphasized. “You won’t have to pay for anything.”

I winced and acquiesced.

A couple hours later, he and I and a bunch of friends headed down the freeway.

We filled up Rick’s foyer while my buddy haggled with someone I assumed was the floor manager. If had to guess, he probably started out as a bouncer, based on his frame. He herded us into a line to get our IDs checked, which was a little bit like getting corralled by the Incredible Hulk –– if the Hulk were Jersey Shorange instead of green and shopped at Men’s Wearhouse. He boomed that because we had so many people in our VIP booth, we had to have bottle service. This was a first for me; I think bottle service is kind of slimy if you’re anyone besides Jay-Z, who doesn’t bat an eye when dropping seven bills on three bottles of liquor. I grimace buying a 30 pack of ’Stones.

Granted, it wasn’t my money, so I followed Orange Hulk up the stairs to the VIP area. Our spot was a darkened alcove ringed by a U-shaped couch. In the middle was a table with cocktail service set up around one of our overpriced bottles of Jack, accompanied by some melted ice, a carafe of cola, and another one of Sprite — I drank the whiskey neat. And then we sat. For a while. When a stripper finally appeared, nobody really answered her enthusiasm — I had the sinking feeling that we were expected to make it rain, so I got up and headed back down to the main room, where my cash would go further. But before I left, a different dancer had cast her sales magic on and whisked away a member of our party into the mysterious environs of a private room, a.k.a. $300-an-hour-land. It was sort of like watching those shadow demons drag the bad guy to hell in Ghost, except with more nudity and presumably far less screaming.

The cavernous, gel-lit expanse of the main room is more my speed, anyway — I’m much more keen on cold beer than warm whiskey, and it’s easier to enjoy myself when nobody is waiting for me to flash a handful of Benjamins and disappear for 60 minutes. Some guys joined me in my retreat to the cozy confines of the main stage, and by the time a few of us found a table, it was a little after 1 a.m. The club stays open until 4, but at 2 a.m., they bring out the complimentary buffet. As much as I am a sucker for legs, it’s the eggs that always hook me, because at Rick’s, eggs are free –– as are the delicious stacks of bacon, sausage, potatoes, and biscuits with gravy. Yeah, I’m a cheapskate, but it’s not like I didn’t spend my fair share. I threw some singles around, most of which landed under the waistband wrapping the hips of a dancer named Marley. Having dropped another $14 on a couple of beers, I kind of wished I’d gone earlier — Rick’s happy hour lasts until 8 p.m., after which domestics and wells jump up two bucks to $5.75 per. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” pumped out of the PA. I got a plateful of potatoes and put my last two bucks in the tip jar. All in all, pretty fun, I guess. And I’m glad I didn’t wear my rayon shirt. –– Steve Steward

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I think this column is pretty good

Or I remember thinking that, anyway. Good joke about Steven Tyler in here. Originally published 6.9.11

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/06/09/whose-generation/

I read somewhere that Elmore Leonard goes to diners just to listen to people talk, and that’s the main reason why I don’t feel bad about passively eavesdropping whenever I go to bars. Of course it doesn’t hurt that I’m easily distracted, and tuning out ambient voices just isn’t something I have ever been good at. What makes listening to people in bars fascinating to me are the sonic coincidences that complement whatever a person is saying at a given moment — if you’re thinking in narrative terms, the sounds you hear in the bar often turn out to be diegetic, crucial to the story of your evening. For example, last Wednesday, I hit up the Bulldog Saloon to hang out with a friend who was tending bar. She had two regulars holding down the fort, one of whom had loaded the juke with Springsteen. The guy started going on about how he’d seen the Boss about a million times in the ’70s and ’80s, rolling out factoids and trivia that sent my gaze drifting to the TV in the corner. A closed-captioned Leno was interviewing Parks and Recreations’ Aubrey Plaza. Leno and Aubrey cracked each other up in exuberant silence. I think I like Leno like this; I don’t know if he’s any funnier with the audio off, but his mugging and shifting provide a visual backdrop similar in effect to a tank full of hungry goldfish — momentarily captivating but easy to ignore.

On the edge of my hearing, the dude started to compare the old way of buying Springsteen tickets (which involved waiting in line at a department store) versus modern event lotteries. His lecture made me wish I could afford to buy Justin Bieber tickets and scalp them to middle-aged women in Southlake. I tuned back in as he was wrapping up. “It was easier back then,” he said.

As if on cue, “Born to Run” segued into “My Generation.” The Who’s famous jingle drove home the sad, coincidental relevance of this guy’s trip down Memory Lane (and “Thunder Road”) and my own inability to follow. It was one of those ineffable moments that everyone has in which living is simultaneously exultant and depressing. I wondered what bar I’d be in 20 years from now, talking about how things used to be. Above me, Leno soundlessly introduced his next guest, an old lady with horrible highlights and a frighteningly botoxed face, draped in what Joan Collins would’ve worn if there’d been an episode of Dynasty set in Middle Earth. I ordered another drink. The dude nodded up to the TV. “Saw Aerosmith a bunch of times, too,” he said. That’s when I realized the person on TV was Steven Tyler. I resolved that when I’m old, I’m just gonna be old. –– Steve Steward

Wired Willy’s

Speaking of eavesdropping, I overheard a dude at the Shamrock talking about a new lounge he was opening. I waited for a lull in his convo with some women at the end of the bar and started hounding him. Turns out that Wired Willy’s is set to open this month in the spot between Poag Mahone’s and 7th Haven on Carroll. I asked the owner, a retiree from the Santa Fe Railroad named Randal Wilcox, what the hook of his new bar was. He said that there’ll be 20 beers on tap, half of which will be from Texas — he rattled off the names of Rahr, Real, Franconia, and, of course, Shiner, but hopefully we’ll get to see some of Austin-based Jester King’s heavy brews.

“The other thing we’re doing is kind of risky,” he said, “We’re going to be a no-smoking bar.” I assured him that his clean-air standards should be a hit, given that every time I’ve been in The Usual lately, the crowd has been pretty thick despite the absence of a yellow nicotine haze. If you’ve been clamoring for another bar that won’t leave you smelling like an ashtray, drop some coin at Wired Willy’s when it opens — and prove to the rest of the bar owners in Fort Worth that you can keep an establishment’s doors open without polluting its air. –– S.S.

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This is about Dave “Tiki Dave” Mayer

I didn’t get his Leon Russell joke, but when I did it made Lost even more interesting to me. 5.18.11 https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/05/18/the-usual-master-of-time-and-space/

If you’ve been to The Chat Room or The Usual, you’re likely familiar with Dave Mayer — he’s the guy with the longish hair, mustache, and aloha shirts who probably remembers your name and drink (especially if you tip well or order interesting libations). Among Fairmount-area lushes, he’s acquired the nickname “Captain Dave” on account of a skipper’s hat he used to wear a lot, so I was a little amused when I got an e-mail from a PR flack pitching a profile of “Tiki” Dave Mayer.

It turned out that Dave recently won the first round of the DonQ Rum/U.S. Bartenders’ Guild’s Ultimate Mix-Off Challenge, held at Cedars Social Club in Dallas. Since his entry was a throwback to the days of Esquivel and Don the Beachcomber, among many other many-splendored, legendary seaside haunts, he now has a new moniker, at least on the other side of the Trinity. I’m not one for foisting new handles on people who already have perfectly functional given names, but at least “Tiki” Dave makes sense — and besides, if you ever hear someone in Fort Worth asking for “Tiki” Dave, you can peg them as being from Dallas.

Cross-county profiling aside, I just call him Dave, and I caught up with him at The Usual last Thursday, the day before he left for New York City to compete in the UMOC. He had a row of liquors at the ready, including a bottle of Campari bitters. I was a little puzzled by this, since tiki drinks are usually more cloying than three seasons of Full House. “I found out Campari goes well with pineapple juice, and I started getting a lot of ideas,” Dave said. “Campari’s red, so it adds a lot of color, but it’s also bitters, which makes an interesting contrast to all that sweet.”

Dave’s competitive beverage, a jet-fueled libation called a Back to the Island, a.k.a. The Master of Space and Time (Lost, anyone?), combines three rums (DonQ’s Crystal and Gold plus Smith & Cross Jamaica) with Campari, pineapple juice, Dave’s Mix (a house-made blend of allspice dram, Pernod, and cinnamon-infused honey syrup), and a dash of Fee Brothers Whiskey Barrel-Aged Bitters. Dave whipped everything into a jigger, dumped it all into the shaker, and then put a bunch of ice cubes into a cloth bag and beat the shit out of it with a mallet. He poured the crushed ice into a hurricane glass, emptied the shaker over the ice, and topped it all off with a splash of soda, creating a reddish beverage that settled into three layers, garnished with a mint sprig and a flag made from a Marasca cherry wrapped in an orange peel.

As casual as he is, Dave is incredibly fast, and I had to work to keep up with what he was doing. He also pours with a surgeon’s precision and a swashbuckler’s panache, so it’s easy to see why he took his show to Gotham last weekend. The Back to the Island he made me was a refreshing blend of flavors — the pineapple and rums were the main event, but the bitters and cinnamon added a little bite to let me know this was way more than some sickly sweet Waikiki poolside punch. While it wasn’t the winning concoction at the DonQ challenge, the Back to the Island should be on your list of drinks to dive into this summer. –– Steve Steward

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Boy did I used to drink a lot!

Side note: I’m gonna be in a bar for most of the next 13 hours or so. I do not intend to be drunk all day, but I am not gonna rule it out. https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/05/11/a-streetcar-named-perspire/

About 9 a.m. last Tuesday, I popped out of a dead sleep with the nagging suspicion that I was already late for something really important. I couldn’t think of what it was, so I shut my eyes again, but then I heard this huge freaking fly doing laps around my bedroom, and I got out of bed and put on pants. I picked up my keys, hooked them to my belt loop, and then had a total aw-fuck moment.

I’d left my car downtown.

As I wrestled my roommate’s bike out the front door, it occurred to me how useful a streetcar service would be at this very moment. I thought back to city councilmember Jungus Jordan’s puzzling quote about how he wasn’t sure “we should change the culture of Fort Worth from what we are now to what we are with streetcars.” He’s probably right. Streetcar culture evidently caters to people who get hammered and abandon their vehicles. Or at least one person anyway. He drives the beat-down little Scion you might’ve seen in front of TheFlying Saucer Tuesday morning.

As I biked to my scrappy ride, I pieced together the night. I started out with a couple of whiskeys at Tiff & Andi’s by TCU. It’d been a while since I’d been there, so long, in fact, that I couldn’t recall what was new other than the jukebox. I also don’t remember the bar top having old photos and ticket stubs lacquered into it. For me, ticket stubs are little windows into personal histories –– and someone’s personal history includes Heart, Ratt, and Cinderella, all on the same bill. I thought about staying since the Monday night special was $2 wells, but then someone played a Coldplay song. I paid my tab and went to nearby Fuzzy’s.

Fuzzy’s was only supposed to be a stop on my way downtown, but I saw The Moon’s door-guy, Ryan Skinner, out on the nearby patio, so I got my tacos to go and headed over. Skinner told me The Moon had a new special: a Schlitz and a shot of Beam for $5. I told him how Schlitz gave me the worst headache I’ve ever experienced, but he said that Schlitz changed its formula and that I had to try one, claiming that it’s even better than PBR.

I gave it several tests. After an hour, I determined that Schlitz probably does taste better than PBR. I dwelled on this until about 1 a.m., when I split for downtown.

For no particular reason, I parked in front of the Saucer, thinking I’d go to the Scat Jazz Lounge, but the place turned out to be closed. Rounding the corner onto Houston Street, I was blasted by the beaming neon of the Ojos Locos sign, but that place was closed, too. I ended up getting trashed at Durty Murphy’s.

Durty Murphy’s was actually kind of busy, but maybe I thought that because I was drunk and it’s kind of a small bar. Either way, it seemed to be a service-industry oasis, if the convos I overheard and barely remember were any indication. My friend Katy called me. She was at work at the Saucer and saw my car. Someone played a double shot of The Cranberries on the juke, but they’re not enough to make me get up and leave; Katy came in during the guitar break in “Linger,” and we stayed until close. She gave me a lift home, since I was too tipsy to drive. I think we made some jokes about life in 1994, and we might have bemoaned Fort Worth’s half-hearted commitment to bike lanes. Or maybe that’s a thought I had the next morning, gritting my teeth as I pedaled downtown. –– Steve Steward

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I remember this one

This column was written pretty last minute. Most of them were. 5.4.11 https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/05/04/fair-and-balanced-at-trinity-tavern/

Late in the afternoon a few days ago, I went looking for a place to have a beer and a sandwich. The obvious choice would’ve been Finn MacCool’s, but they stop serving food at 2 p.m., and I take serious issue with people who drop into restaurants right before the kitchen is shut down. I learned of this place near Euless called Trinity Tavern, so I said a prayer for light traffic and headed to the Mid-Cities.

Located next to a Double Dave’s in a mixed-use development near the CentrePort/DFW Airport railway station, Trinity Tavern is a handsome watering hole of dark, rustic wood and flagstone walls, with a spacious, if modestly appointed, back-bar and a kitchen serving light apps and hearty sandwiches. I guess “modestly appointed” isn’t totally accurate, because the joint has all the booze you could ever need (including every flavor of Three Olives vodka) and two frozen-drink machines. My only gripe is that for such a big bar (the counter looks like it seats at least 25), there were only five draft beers. In all fairness, I’ve been going to the Flying Saucer a lot lately, and anything fewer than 5,000 taps is a little disappointing. No big deal, though. I was just a little bummed that my choices were mostly beers I didn’t want. I’m sorry. I just don’t get excited about Stella or Kurs Laht.

Anyway, I got a Bud Light and a roast beef sandwich, featuring Boar’s Head meat and cheddar, plus a scoop of creamy twice-baked potato salad. Affixed to the wall above the bar were three flat-screen TVs: The two on the ends were showing sports; the one in the middle had Fox News.

Now I despise Fox News. I won’t get into the specifics, because if you hate Fox News, we’re probably on the same page; if you don’t, well, you must be my hedge fund manager, in which case, “Hi!” But suffice it to say, that network involves waaaaaaay too much shouting for me. But at Trinity Tavern, the sound was off, and when you can’t hear Fox News’ branded vitriol, Rupert Murdoch’s little soapbox isn’t so bad — for one thing, the ticker is marginally informative. Scanning it, I learned that Congress is thinking about pulling $1.5 billion in aid to Pakistan if we discover that the Pakistani government knew about Osama Bin Laden’s palatial hiding place and didn’t tell us. Then this bald, soul patch-sporting, middle-aged business guy sat down two seats over. After his second Macallan 12, he struck up a conversation with me.

According to this guy, teachers have it really good right now, gas is only $2 a gallon in Mexico (I didn’t bother to point out that it’s sold per liter there), and Obama got Osama because the president “is not doing much of anything, anyway.” This last bit was framed with everyone’s favorite cringe-inducing clause, “I’m not racist, but …” The pretty blonde bartender and I exchanged winces.

He kept at it, but I paid my tab and left. I don’t know if Trinity Tavern has regulars, but I hope that guy isn’t one, as I’d like to go back there for another sandwich and form my own half-baked opinions in peace and quiet. –– Steve Steward

Trough. Mmm. Good.

The food-truck trend keeps a’ rollin’. The latest late-night purveyor of greasy booze-sponging grub is a mobile joint called simply and appropriately the Trough, serving up hamburgers and hot dogs right by The Durty Crow, furthering expanding West 7th‘s eating options, probably in direct proportion to our collective guts. –– S.S.

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A Chili’s mention

I have written a lot about Chili’s. 4.27.11

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/04/27/flair-lives-wooo/

I could say a lot of things about my time working at Chili’s, but I did like the way the company organized its bar. For the most part, the layout maximizes efficiency, essential for those times when the flow of a busy night is held up by a bunch of children’s frozen drinks. Of course, there also was plenty about the Chili’s bartending experience that lent itself to ridicule; in particular, the training manual’s section on “flair.” In chain resto-speak, “flair” has different meanings depending on the company. Most folks’ understanding of flair has to do with the decorative crap worn by the Chotchkies waiters in Office Space, so I should probably be specific. At Chili’s, the word refers to the sort of bartending jagoffery made famous in Cocktail, like juggling bottles, spinning martini shakers, and executing other nonsense that might make a leathery middle-aged woman drinking margaritas at 11 a.m. want to sleep with you (or at least upgrade to the rib-eye). Not surprisingly, I didn’t master any of it.

I didn’t bother practicing because I thought flair was inherently dumb, and trying to excel at Chili’s suggested I was OK with abetting a soul-sucking corporation in the name of fake fun. At least that’s what I told myself. The fact is I knew I’d just never have the chops.  See, secretly, I’d love to be able to yank a bottle from the well, flip it into a 540-degree spin, and await the appreciative rain of control-top panties. But I’m a klutz — sometimes it takes me three tries to pop the cap off a bottle, and the one-handed, two-bottle pour usually means your drink will have inversely proportioned ingredients. Hope you like your Long Islands with extra gin. I hated on flair because I sucked at it, which is ridiculous motivation for contempt. If all people hated things they sucked at, no fat guy would ever watch basketball.

Regardless, watching bartending flair is actually pretty awesome, even if you’re not a divorcee ashing a Misty 100 next to a well-done sirloin. For example, on Friday night, I rolled into Poag Mahone’s in between the end of the Pinkish Black show at Lola’s and the beginning of the Quaker City Night Hawks’ gig at The Moon. Waiting to order some beers, I saw co-owner Will Wells behind Poag’s bar, lining up a row of drafts and stacking their rims with shots of amaretto. He lit some 151 with a lighter, took a swig, dipped his fingers in the flames, and then blew a fireball across the bar. With a tap of his finger, the shots knocked over like dominoes, dumping the flames in the beers, thereby crowning a round of Flaming Dr Peppers.

I don’t remember if the Chili’s Star BarManual had instructions for Flaming Dr Peppers, and if it does, it probably doesn’t mention Will’s Dhalsim-esque style points. But I must admit now that if I find myself at a Chili’s cramming boneless buffalo wings in my face, I hope I see a bartender do something cool. –– Steve Steward

Happy Cat’s

I live in the neighborhood, so I’m partial to new businesses opening on the South Side, particularly the kind that trade in alcohol. If you live over there, you’re likely anticipating Bill Smith’s Live Oak Music Hall and Lounge and the Zio Carlo Brewpub. It’s gonna be awhile longer, so why not cool your heels with a happy hour cocktail on Cat City Grill’s refurbished patio? Cat City’s happy hour features $2 domestics and $3 drafts and wells, and the patio has the right amount of sun and shade. And if you’re tired of places that don’t serve booze in slushy form, Cat City offers a drink called Frozen Panther Punch, combining raspberry rum, lemonade, and lime into a kind of easy-drinking, grownup slurpy that, if drunk by a pool, just about guarantees you’ll get sunburn. So, uh, good thing Cat City doesn’t have a pool. Yet. –– S.S.

[thisdudewalksintoabar]

Some half-baked weed jokes

Sheesh. A recurring theme with these columns is “hey, do you know that I smoke a lot of weed?” which is sort of embarrassing. But boy do I love smoking weed!

https://www.fwweekly.com/2011/04/20/ac2500-to-420/

The marquee outside of the bar dubbed it the best biker bar in Texas. I have no clue as to whether that’s even close to the truth. I don’t even really like motorcycles, so why would I go to a biker bar?

In the case of the 2500 Club (2500 E. Belknap St., 817-834-8963), I’d been bored and cruising around Haltom City after eating at Clown Burger, and 2500’s marquee just sort of caught my eye. You could also blame it on the hand-painted flames on the outside wall, I guess, or, more likely, my growing penchant for day-drinking. Whatever the reason, I found myself walking into the tiny dive’s open door for a post-lunch beer, curious as to what backed up such a ballsy claim. An old man at the bar finished a sentence with “sumbitch” before taking a swig of Natural Light. The beer was in a can that was in a coozie, and when I ordered a Budweiser, the bartender gave me a coozie, too. Then she went back to shooting pool with a regular. Apparently, rec-room vibe is a best-biker-bar criterion.

I sat there nursing my beer and soaking up my surroundings, trying to keep my trains of thought on track. Apart from the pool table, there was a digital juke and a newish cabaret game playing the Erotic Photo Hunt demo, and the PG-13 babes on the screen reminded me that I hadn’t been to The Smoke Pit in almost 10 years. The last time I’d been there, the servers wore bikinis, and since the Belknap barbecue joint’s recent Weekly ads featured photos of buxom, barely dressed babes, I figured the uniform directive still stood. Thinking about Weekly ads made me think about The Gas Pipe, which in turn made me remember the date, which, for the purposes of continuity, was the day before 4/20.

Took me long enough, didn’t it! Well, regardless, if you’re reading this column when it’s brand new, then you’re reading it on the other holiday that happens in April, the one that doesn’t involve cartoon bunnies delivering baskets of colorful eggs –– unless you’re high as nuts. Or shroomin’ anyway.

Personally, I don’t think marijuana really needs a holiday (neither do corndogs, donuts, or talking like a pirate), but I like the fact that 4/20 gives us pothead morlocks a chance to remind the surface-dwellers that tons of perfectly nice and mostly respectable people smoke weed and that it’s really no big deal. When not promoted with dopey protest signs held by dopier whitey-dreads, 4/20 is a wink-wink/nudge-nudge advertisement for people to lighten up. Case in point: The 2500 Club is holding a 4/20 party, featuring a person named Rod from some band called Pull My Finger. You’re supposed to bring your favorite munchies. And at The Flying Saucer (111 E. 4th St., downtown, 817-336-7470), if you get there at 7 p.m., you can score the bar’s annual “420” pint glass. Last year’s had The Dude on it.

As for the 2500 Club’s claim, I don’t know if it’s the best at anything, but it’s good at making you want to have a good time. Even if you don’t like motorcycles. –– Steve Steward

West Berry Street Block Party

Here’s the thing: I missed most of this, because it was on Saturday and I was bartending at Lola’s (which had its own party going, celebrating the birthdays of owner Brian Forella and local muso Luke Wade). I got to Berry around 9:30 p.m. and worked the door at The Moon. By that point, the bulk of the bands had already played. The street was still pretty busy, though, and I was pleasantly surprised with the number of wristbands I saw. As far as I could tell, the event was promoted heavily at TCU, and I was skeptical that the average TCU kid would pay $20 to see a bunch of bands that he or she could care less about. (“What time does Vampire Weekend go on, brah?!”) But little Joey TCU Guy and little Sally TCU Girl did pay, and from everyone I talked to (guitar players and bartenders, mostly), there were good crowds at most of the shows all day long. And the college kids kept coming back, thereby getting exposed to stellar Fort Worth acts like Skeleton Coast, Secret Ghost Champion, and Fou. And also a little band from Toronto called Rush (via Big Mike’s tribute band, YYZ, which played at The Moon). Overall, I’d say this was a pretty good party on a pretty big scale. –– S.S.