Home > Denver Bars & Clubs > Bar Review > Diary of a Barfly: Lions Lair

Determining what attracts different drinkers to their favorite watering holes is like asking a Philosophy 101 seminar to define “reality”—an excess of opinion. One thing’s for certain, though. People too-often frequent taverns where they are most likely to encounter others like themselves.

There are bars, however, where tribal concerns come in a very distant second to the more fundamental act of getting imperially whiffled. It has been my experience that in true dive bars the clan system loses its grasp, and anyone—regardless of aesthetics, philosophy, politics or dress-code—can find companionable refuge on the stool of their choice. Dives are simple creatures. They care about only one thing: And that thing is drinking. Period. Cue the girth-challenged lady.

Nourishing these thoughts (as well as a radioactive thirst for bourbon), I slide into the muted interior of the Lion’s Lair.   

7:54 p.m.
A bar shaped like a horseshoe dominates the middle of the room. Rickety stage and a pinball machine to the right, and a wall-mounted counter fronted by stools to the left. A big poster advertising the “86 Rules of Boozing.” Five other patrons; two women, two men, and a solo-act who is huddled so low over the oak her/his sex is a coin toss.

The lady bartender, sanitizing glassware, elicits my order by raising her eyebrows. “PBR and a shot of well bourbon, please,” I say, and her eyebrows drop back into place.

8:27 p.m.
The two men sitting at the bottom of the horseshoe by the door are textbook downtown punk-a-poet types. One’s shaved his bean, but still wears mutton-chops, while the other sports a carefully mussed Jack White mop. Both wear black jeans and black t-shirts advertising b-list bands. They’re drinking beer and the occasional shot of Jager, and their eyes keep flicking over to the pair of women sitting around the curve on the pinball side of the bar.

The ladies each have hair the color of Labor Day wheat; one wears a ponytail and the other a fly-away bun. Each wears a summer-weight blouse (beige and turquoise), and jeans. They radiate Metro State—not quite sorority cupcakes, but it wouldn’t take much of a push. While they have noticed the two men, they’re keeping their pocket cards close to the vest.

Bartender holds up two fingers. I nod. Fresh beverages arrive in short order.

9:11 p.m.
Newcomers. A quartet of retro-hip ladies. Vivid hair, outfits that are half 50s cocktail hour and half thrift-store snazz, big handbags, dangerously tall shoes, up-tempo gabbling. They sit between the men and the women, order cosmos.

Bartender delivers their drinks, crosses over to me. She inquires if I’d like another round, which, of course, I would, and returns with them, plus an extra whiskey, quick as you please. “I got the shot for you,” she says, and raises hers. We clink glass, tap the oak—“Santé!”—and decant.

10:35 p.m.
The two guys, now faced with a veritable cornucopia of possibilities as regards the casting of their flirtations, have ramped their intake up a notch, apparently laboring under the impression that the drunker they get the more attractive they will seem.

A creaky thud as the front door opens, admitting a mixed trio; two men and a woman, all in their late thirties, early forties, and togged out in the latest Sears/Gap/Target line of untailored coziness. Their decibel level and Smilex grins indicate that this isn’t their first stop. I’m guessing office-mates who got together for a quick one after work and decided to make an evening of it. Seating themselves a few stools down from me, they order bottles of Bud Light and shots of Goldschlager.

Ms. Bartender sees to their needs, makes her way around the horseshoe to me. I order another brace, and a shot to repay her earlier splendid gesture. Alakazam! More Kentucky ambrosia down the ol’ gullet. It’s a warm and wiggly world.

11:17 p.m.
The downtown guys have made their move. Mutton-chops plays pinball with one of the natty chicks, and White-mop is ensconced between the two Metro girls, regaling them with sagas and wisdom. Neither lass seems to mind.

I request a final round, let Ms. Bartender know I’ll tab-out. No hurry, though; just whenever she has a free moment.

11:51 p.m.
Head down Colfax to my car, feeling the heat of a good buzz and enjoying the satisfying glow of a hypothesis bearing fruit. Two coeds, two skate-punks, a genderless gnome, four urban fashionistas, three biz-cal cubicle-warriors, and me—a barfly on the wall—effortlessly coexisting in a single ill-lit room.

Dive-bar camaraderie in THX and Todd-AO. And maybe a little Smell-O-Vision thrown in for a goof.

Join resident gin-dog Rich English on his weekly quest for Denver's greatest dive bars, and enjoy a dollop of bar-stool wisdom for the same low price. The truth isn't deep. It's right there at the bottom of the glass. Feel free to offer comments and hate-mail to dionysos1966@live.com