BOTTOMS UP!

What's in a Bar? What isn't? A Bar is a place for quaffing and laughing, for chewing and spewing. A Bar lets you in on the secret. A Bar is a Bar is a Bar.

A Bar should welcome you with tasteful neon. A Bar should require its employees to do one little ridiculous thing like wear green bow ties. A Bar should have bottles of liquor that haven't been opened since the heady days of the Johnson administration. A Bar should be like Duffy's Shamrock. If only.

There are bars, and then there are Bars. Duffy's takes its seat, silently and confidently, in the latter category. This is a place to do your tavern business. This is a place where any service industry employee gets two-for-ones on the first drink, where lunch can cost $2.67. This is where you might encounter your barber and your congressman at the same table--hell, this is where you might discover that they're the same person. This is a damn institution, is what it is.

Duffy's has been downtown for a long time, long before original owner Bernard Duffy moved the place to 1645 Tremont in the '50s. The present operators are the sons of Joseph Lombardi, the man who bought it from Bernard in 1963. The Lombardis moved Duffy's to its present location on Court Street in 1974, after the old Tremont spot was demolished to build a high-rise.

Despite entreaties from developers, Frank and Ken Lombardi have resisted the temptation to sell the joint and become instantly rich. There's even a check for more than one million dollars on display in the dining room adjacent to the bar, a memento from an interested buyer who, like so few people do, left Duffy's unsatisfied.

What would have happened if the place had been sold? Denver would have gained another ugly concrete-and-steel phallus and lost a bar. And that, my young kittens, would have been just too bad. If you don't believe me, ask Joseph.

"We have the best bartenders in Denver here," he said. "One thing is, they don't play favorites."

Joseph, who works at the Adams Mark Hotel down the block, has some history with this place. He turns to bartender Greg--a tall, mustachioed fixture at the place since 1986--and asks him if he can take back his 50-cent tip and put it toward another Budweiser.

Greg scowls at him. "Jesus, Joe, you've been here for twelve hours." He scoops up the change and cracks open a Bud longneck. "Maybe we could put this money toward a padded room for two."

Joseph isn't alone. The semi-adversarial relationship between customer and server at Duffy's is only one part of the place's charm. There's a feeling here. It's an egalitarian vortex--this well-lit bar with its faux-Irish theme (a large wooden Leprechaun reclines on a carved rainbow on the back wall; a green neon sign tells customers the place is "World Famous for Irish Coffee") is a sink collecting the soggy crumbs of Denver industry. Hotel employees, restaurant and bar employees, any old kind of employees: they all filter in through the brass-handled doors at some point. Working people come to Duffy's at night to slug a few, watch "SportsCenter" and eat greasy food from a kitchen that stays open until 1:15 am.

Sometimes, they come and stay for twelve hours at a time. Joseph engages in a discussion on the nature of fate with some guys from Maggiano's Little Italy.

"You see, everybody's Murphy's Law is different," he said in a slightly exasperated tone.

"Joe, it's time to go," said Greg, familiarity breeding a touch of contempt. He walks away shaking his head. "We can't call him a cab, because he stiffs the drivers."

Joe protests mildly, but gathers up his stuff. As he leaves, I ask Greg why he's worked here for 14 years.

After all, 14 years is a long time to be anywhere. I haven't even had secondary sexual characteristics that long. How can anyone withstand the nightly arguing, coaxing and refusing?

"I dunno. I guess it's just guys like Joe-Joe here," he said with a cackle.

Even when you're being a pain in the ass at Duffy's, they understand. Hell, they expect it. Most of the bartenders have worked here for at least as long as Greg, some much longer. One guy's done time for more than three decades. Continuity is the name of this game, and Duffy's delivers.

Which is nice. There's a new hot spot popping up every week on the overheated face of this Mile High hamlet. Who needs a Sacre Bleu when you've got a Duffarito and a Seven & Seven? Who needs the haughty sneers of some wannabe model when the waitstaff at the Shamrock wears such appealing looks of perpetual weariness? Who needs anything else, really? Here, you have a Bar.

Did I mention the two-for-ones? A