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Connoisseurs of neighborhood bars
are a low-key breed—simple needs, easily fulfilled. Take stools, for example.
They should swivel to streamline comings and goings, and, on the same grounds,
should never be bolted in place. They should also be spaced close enough to
facilitate congeniality, yet far enough apart that no one gets an elbow in the
gizzard every time the guy next door scratches himself. Upholstery, padding thickness,
and arm rests are matters of personal taste. The establishment’s hours of
operation are also important. No disrespect to some otherwise fine boozeries,
but a proper local should open around eight in the morning and absolutely no
later than noon. The restorative effects of a bloody mary are often required at
times which fall outside standard commercial hours. In a perfect world all bars
would have the option of staying open 24/7. (Yeah, and right after that happens
Chuck Norris will announce that he’s always felt like a woman trapped in a
man’s body.)
The Squire Lounge isn’t open 24/7, of course, but still throws back
the bolt every day at the Gary Cooper hour, bless its squiffled little liver.
Drinks. This isn’t the sort of bar where people order banana
daiquiris and boysenberry martinis. It’s a pitcher of Bud and three fingers of
Wild Turkey joint. Which is not to say the bar isn’t amply stocked. It is, with
all sorts of tongue-tickling libations, but you’ll just feel stupid sipping
daintily away at some jagoff mocktail. The Squire
offers drink specials galore, with Happy Hours afternoons and evenings. In the
mood to test the limits and compliance of your circulatory system? Order a
Bionic Beaver. Invented by the Squire
staff (the recipe is hush-hush), the B.B. is 54 oz. of dipsomaniacal ecstasy.
It tastes a little sweet and a little too fruit-punchy, but the combined spirituous
elements will most definitely take a whiffle bat to your neural net, and turn
your body language into something only a cuttlefish would recognize.
Décor. One look at the interior of the Squire Lounge and you know you have entered a true dive bar. Larger
than some of its kind, it is divided into two rough halves, one housing a large
oval-shaped bar, and the other a couple of tables and a row of semi-circular
booths clad in shiny black vinyl. A trio of weirdly synchronized ceiling fans
spin hypnotically in the gloom. The walls are adorned with a typical number of
televisions and rock-band posters, neon beer signs and kitschy lounge
accoutrements. One wall is taken up by a shuffleboard table, and a pool table
squats between the bar and the raised area with the shiny black booths. There’s
a foosball table in one corner and a vintage Galaga machine in another. Molded
tiles in 1920s baroque finish the drop-ceiling above the bar. They appear to
have been there since flappers chugged orange blossoms, yet continue to do the
job with a sort of world-weary pluck.
Crowd. If an anthropologist from the future hopped aboard Professor
Peabody’s Way-Back Machine and landed at the
Squire he or she could pen a whole dissertation on the variants
found in this antediluvian goulash of Colfaxian archetypes.
Like most dives, the daytime crowd
is lots different than the nighttime crowd. The daytimers are there to get some
drinking done. They sit scattered around the bar, heads angled toward the
nearest TV, but not really taking it in. They order pitchers of suds, and
sometimes a few ounces of neat whiskey, and go about emptying them at a pace
that is somehow both leisurely and determined. Occasionally one will discourse
on the State of
Things,
and everyone else is free to comment. Or not. Doesn’t really matter, ultimately.
Then, come sunset, the gang gets a
little younger, a little hipper, a little louder. Queues form to play eight
ball or shuffleboard. People feed the jukebox and it says thanks by way of
Johnny Cash, Social Distortion and the Ramones. The amount of pitchers poured
decreases as the number of mixed drinks rises. Jager bombs, kamis and
Washington apples are
dispatched into eager tummies.
Insider Tips. Sweet bouncing Mary, watch out for the stools. They have
got to go. Made of molded plastic, they are top heavy, with skinny metal legs,
and about as comfortable as something Torquemada might’ve employed to extract
conversions from recalcitrant heretics.
Bottom Line. Good watering hole. Cheap drinks. Better than some,
not as good as others.
The
Squire Lounge
1800
E. Colfax
Denver, CO 80218
303-544-9028
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