Diary of a Barfly: Wandering the Streets of London

Richard English

Special to Metromix

4:44 p.m.
Praises be to the Great Barkeep for provisioning the ol’ eyeballs with such a welcome sight: the Streets of London Pub—awning festooned with British flags, four-sided picnic tables bound by wrought-iron fencing, crew of drinkers doing Happy Hour on a sunny afternoon. A homeless woman hovers ‘tween fence and front door. Instead of the standard exhortations to God and altruism, her sign reads: “Wishing For Chicken.” I give her a buck, whatever, in loose change. Would that my goals in life were so clearly defined. 

I bang through the door, bee-line it for a stool at the bar, one against the wall. Three other customers at the other end. Don’t even have my ass situated, stool-wise, before Steph has a pint of Newcastle heading my way. In my personal religion, heaven will be filled with telepathic bartenders. Cute telepathic bartenders, with Mensa-level IQs, and daffy predilections.

Couched on the corner of Colfax and Humboldt, Streets is a happy oddity. Different bars generally attract different customers—viz., hippie bars, biker bars, yuppie bars. But Streets is a bouillabaisse. Keith, the proprietor, obviously has an intuitive grasp the symbiotic relationship between a bar and a booze-hound. Make room for the monkfish or you got no fish stew.

5:22 p.m.
First pint goes down like Olympian nectar, and faster than Mercury could deliver an inner-pantheon memo. I request another and a shot of Beam so it won’t feel lonely. Steph provides, as is her righteous way.

While ostensibly a “theme” bar (“Streets” and “London” being the operative words), it doesn’t haul back and thrash you about the head and neck with All Things British. One or two ornamental signs, a number of English entrees, and a selection of appropriate beers are about as suggestive as it gets. It has matured organically. Hence its eclectic clientele and atmosphere.

6:14 p.m.
Happy Hour is over. Switch to cheaper suds. (Yeah, I’m a tightwad. Bite me.) PBR and a couple fingers of bourbon. Kick around conversationally with Steph and the others—Nuggets, Harry Potter, slime-wallowing presidential aspirants. Ditch out for a smoke.

Last few years, the imbecilic smoking ban has corn-holed any number of quality drinking joints. The trick to surviving it? A Patio. Streets has TWO, the one out front and a second out back, this one complete with roll-away canvass walls and a heater so butch you could cure beef jerky out there.

7:37 p.m.
PBR #3 makes way for PBR #4, and the early evening begins to take on a pleasant sepia tone (not unlike the color of beer, actually). All but one of the stools at the bar are now occupied, and the main room is filling rapidly. Typical Streets crowd. Some hipsters over there, a couple of workman types here, a gaggle of professionals across the way, a tableful of Metro-(State)-Sexuals over in the corner, three or four sk8ers shooting pool. Crew cuts, mohawks, six different species of hat, a premium on facial piercings, and if tattoos were gold, we’d be drinkin’ in the planet’s fifth largest economy.

8:28 p.m.
Shift change. Steph is seamlessly replaced by Janelle, who delivers new drinks before I knew I wanted them. Telepathy, man. Accept no substitutes.

Noise level blossoming; conversation competing with declamation, and both in a handicapped match with Social Distortion from the juke. People stacking up at the bar, two and three deep. So, naturally, some diaper-stain decides that now is the perfect time to order six different, multiple-ingredient cocktails. Bad form, Brainiac. Right now, the staff is hoping you’ll finish the night in a tête-à-tête with a gravel truck. Janelle assembles the drinks with only a slight hint of acrimony, but her eyes flash dangerously when the silly tool leaves her a two dollar tip. Douchebags like him should spend eternity in a Hieronymus Bosch painting.

9:03 p.m.
PBR #7. Nip out back for a cigarette. Wall-to-wall revelry out here. Bump (literally) into my buddy Walter, share a few full-throated words. Then it’s back to my lovely stool before someone jumps my claim.

It hits me, finally, why the place is so crowded. It’s Tuesday, which means two-dollar you-call-its from 8:00 to Close. One of the more delightful specials in town. And, man, it attracts drinkers like porch lights attract miller moths. In the few minutes I was smoking and chatting, the throng has increased geometrically.

The trick to doing Tuesdays as Streets is this: show up just a tad early and plant your flag in a table. A home base leaves you free to enjoy your drink and your companions without the constant jostle-and-scooch involved when you’re forced to free-swim for floor space.

10:10 p.m.
One last pint and time to go.

Streets of London is one of Denver’s great bars. It’s staffed with seasoned professionals, the pours are heavy, the prices rock, and crowd is weird and fun. Don’t let another week elapse without checking it out.

Streets of London Pub
1501 E. Colfax Ave.
Denver, CO 80218
303-861-9103