BOTTOMS UP!
Alex Neth
EASY BEING GREEN
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THE PUNCH BOWL
2052 Stout Street
303-295-7974
Blocks from the bus station, bordering the neighborhoods
that suburbanites avoid, around the corner from a few guys
passed out in a pile, The Punch Bowl
makes no apologies and wears no costume.
This is a place where you can have three
beers-- okay, Pabsts-- for less than $6. A
place that serves tasty food without any of
that arugula or aioli, a place that makes
green chile that is-- hold your breath, former
Southwesterners and other fans of flavor--
actually, genuinely green. No kidding.
You know I wouldn't fib about something
this important.
I can't overstate this (well, I suppose I
could if I tried). Denver doesn't make real
green chile-- the unmistakable,
omnipresent stew/topping/hangover cure
of our West's lower regions.
Almost every metro area
restaurant that advertises
such is telling you a big
fat lie, because they all
commit the same, unforgivable
affronts:they put
tomatoes in and don't
use actual chili strips.
What results is a pinkish
broth more suited for babies
than adults, a culinary exercise
that drops a weight on your foot. I'd
rather eat a bowl of tripe and cigarette butts
than assault my delicate sensibilities with
such offal.
So when I found The Punch Bowl, I wasn't
expecting much. I was happy to see they
had an old-time engraved metal ceiling, the
kind cowboys used to shoot each other
under, and the broadly painted upright
wooden booths gave me mountain town
flashbacks. Other than that, it just seemed
like a comfortable old bar, indistinguishable
in the maze of hole-in-the-wall bars
and boarded storefronts in the No Man's
Land between North Capitol Hill and the
Ballpark neighborhood. No great shakes. I
did, however, notice the tap right away.
That's right. Pabst Blue Ribbon, baby.
Award-winning beer, the stuff of a thousand
Midwestern breakfasts, the familiar
red-white-and-blue of my childhood refrigerator.
The only brew that can, in a pinch,
serve as both beverage and industrial pickling
agent. I knew then that the prodigal
son had indeed returned home.
>From that moment on, it was all Pabst and
posole, a two-day whirlwind of beer, burritos,
and more beer. I talked to a retired
postman named Dave, for a while. He
came in muttering, but after a few bottles of
Coors, he spoke up and told and me about
how he used to deliver mail to Adolf Coors
Jr., when he lived in Belcaro Park, right
about the time he was kidnapped and murdered.
I listened to an old rogue try to
sweet-talk our little freckled bartender with
a story about itching powder in the Army
barracks. I sat on the same stool that a
thousand others had rested cheek on, a guy
sitting with other guys, enjoying our shared
disease. I looked at beaten old frame photos
of baseballers past-- Dom DiMaggio,
Joe's underrated, bespectacled brother;
Whitey Ford, the best money pitcher ever;
Carl Hubbell, the great malevolent lefty of
the '30s Giants, the man who once struck
out Babe Ruth; Lou Gehrig, Jimmy Foxx
and Joe Cronin in succession. The pictures
and my fellow drinkers outdate me by
decades, but, like them, I'll likely spend
most of my life in a bar.
Did I mention the green chile?
Sloppy, chunky, spicy,
green. Green. Green. I
was so moved when this
beautiful mess showed
up on my shredded-beef
burrito (or as they say on
the menu, 'shreaded')
that I had to order another
Pabst. After all, what better
way for the disparate worlds of
the desert and the breadbasket to come
together? Almost like a Coke commercial,
but without the Coke and the actors and the
singing. But I digress, as is my wont. I'll
leave the food stuff to Bobby. My tattoos
aren't nearly qualification enough.
The important thing is, hell, here's a spot.
This place has everything I look for in a
bar, except for dwarf-oriented adult entertainment
and a giant water slide, and since
the demise of Celebrity Sports Center,
where do you really find that in Denver,
anyway? More of a Colorado Springs thing
nowadays. If you can be happy with cheap
booze, a 4-to-7 pm happy hour that promises
two-for-one drafts, a friendly, unpretentious
serving staff, and actual green
chile, then here you go. Show up and tell
'em the kid with the goiter who drinks
Pabst sent you.
And if you can't be happy with that, there
is something seriously wrong with you. Go
seek professional help. Do it now. Now!
Go! Every second you waste is another
second you spend as an idiot. Now! B
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