In such uncertain times as these, with the good ship Go-Go tossing astride the winds of change, it is heartening to remember that, no matter what, there will always be alcohol. Ah, yes, dear alcohol--you help us make important decisions, deal with grief and solve simple rebus puzzles. You are the liquid post upon which we lean. Your simple sugars and complex processes are the hard, unmistakable sidewalk of civilization. So it is important for all of us to acknowledge you and your blessing, because without it, there wouldn't be any Guess? Jeans or Chipwiches, no bicameral legislature or Charlie Parker. And there certainly wouldn't be anything called the Brewery Bar II.

But, since the engines of society are fueled by many a Gin Rickey, there are, and there is. You can check for yourself-- it's on 4th and Kalamath. It doesn't look like much from the outside, and really not from the inside either, but looks, like smiles at 2 a. m., can be deceiving. This is a hell of a place to grab a big plastic cup of American beer and eat an oh-momma spicy burrito. And what, beyond a magic-fingers attachment on the toilet, could any reasonable person possibly want?

Let's start with the obvious positives. Denver bar, Broncos memorabilia everywhere, photos of customers from the past eating mass amounts of food-- a trencherman named George Goldberg had something like 430 bowls of green chile in front of him, which as we'll learn, couldn't have meant good things for his bathroom-- friendly and diverse wait staff, regular customers, plenty of parking.

There's drink specials, but I gotta tell you, I pretty much locked on to the Tiny Tim, which, as I mentioned, is cheap domestic beer in a 32 oz. plastic cup. Overall, though, there would seem to be little to distinguish this place from any other hometown bar else on the Front Range. Until you eat something.

There are thousands of Mexican restaurants in the world, and I've eaten at several, but I have never, ever encountered anything as mouth-searing as one of the Brewery Bar's smothered burritos. I mean, they are something else-- not oh-that's- hot, but more yeeowch hot. Eating one gave me a tan, and I haven't been out in the daylight since 1993. Tiny Tim felt so threatened by the fierce heat that he had to hide in my stomach, and, genial Dickensian father-figure that I am, I offered succor to a few of his brethren. It was the best thing for all of us.

Surprisingly, the actual flavor of the food-was not overcome by the presence of such culinary napalm, the source of which could be traced with little effort to the green chile of the photos. How in the name of Francis the Talking Mule could that one guy eat so much-- 13 bowls, in truth--without just melting into goo? One burrito and I was ready to eat a freon candy bar. I had to knock over three employees and stick my head in the bar's ice well.

Whatever Mr. Goldberg did to prepare for the experience-- and I'm guessing there was some sort of pagan penguin-eating ritual involved-- it hopefully didn't end like mine did: crouched and whimpering, locked in a bathroom clutching a roll of toilet paper like Soft Mother.

But whatever the consequence, it was a good eat. No sass from any teenage servers, no attitude from any store-bought downtown bartenders. This may not be where you want to come and show off your Prada handbag or stylish haircut, but oh well-- you can show off your old sneakers and your mullet instead, and people will be substantially more impressed.

So grab yourself a barstool and a big plastic cup of American beer, and remember exactly what gives us all the juice to fall off the cot in the morning. Have a smothered burrito or a bowl of green chile, but for the safety of your family, be careful and don't overindulge. Here's to hot food, cold liquor, and the variety of both that makes our country second only to New Zealand. Cheers.

George Goldberg would agree with me, but after bowl 13 he had to have his mouth surgically removed. A+

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