Volume 4, Issue 7
April 4 - April 17, 2002
by Rob Williams
It all started innocently enough. Battered from last night's wrestling match with a bottle of Courvoisier and trying to make sense of a CD review my laptop happily chimed "you have mail." (I'll go into my rant about the illuminati that run AOL another time.) The message was simple: "I'm hungry--pick me up in 20 minutes."
Normally I'm not one to jump at such terse text, but the message was from an old friend, Editrex Lex, the editor of Hootchie Mama Magazine. I've known Lex for something like 17 years and she's always good for conversation and a cocktail, so I said "what the hell." The fact that she's a knockout had nothing to do with my decision to blow off my afternoon at the office.
Really.
Twenty minutes later we were en route to our favorite Cherry Creek watering hole. Duffy's Cherry Cricket. The Cricket is another old friend of mine--I've been enjoying their hospitality for ten years or more. Most people only hear of the Cricket during St. Patrick's Day when beer-addled strangers crowd the place to gasping room only, swilling Jameson and singing Republican anthems with the bagpipers. Well, it's April and the green beer is gone for another year and there is no evidence of a single step dancer to be found.
The place greets you like an old friend with its well-worn booths and chairs. If you are lucky you can snag a comfy booth near the corner with the best view in the bar for people-watching. Another good choice is between the wait station and the pool room, where the booths sit under fish tanks set into the walls between the diners and the kitchen. Somewhat out of place for a sports bar and diner like the Cricket, but I like it. Non-smokers beware: the non-smoking section is a plaque by the front door. The bar is massive and well-stocked with a myriad of taps and bottles, dominating the left side of the room and featuring a real brass rail to rest your booted foot on. There is a small pool room in the back with shootable tables and it's been my experience that the waitstaff won't forget you back there.
Lex and I wasted no time ordering up some cold barley soup of the day (which the Cricket happily puts on special-one domestic and two micros daily) and perusing the menu. Our waitress Rochelle has been another friendly fixture at the Cricket. Her hair color may change from time to time but her friendly service has never wavered, even during those crazed St. Pat's parties.
I won't lie to you. I really only order a few things off the menu at the Cricket--not because I lack an adventuresome spirit, but because I really enjoy some of their eats. I opted to accompany my beverage of choice with a Moroccan Steak Salad ($6.95) The steak was cooked to perfection (which is always a challenge with flank steak) and for no charge they added some tomato. My only complaint about this dish is I always want more of it. . . more meat, more artichoke hearts, more everything. Oh, and a piece of Pita bread would make it easier to swab up the Sriracha hot sauce dressing.
Lex opted for the good old cricket burger ( they come in two sizes, half pound and quarter pound) with cheese ($4.05) and a plate of green chili cheese fries ($5.95). Judging by Lex's appetite the burger was delicious since it disappeared in no time. We worked on the fries, smothered in spicy chunks of pork and chili. It might not be kosher, but damn, is it good.
We spent the post lunch round of drinks discussing the future of Denver magazine publishing, the size of J-Lo's ass and the struggle for peace in the Middle East. We argued pan-seared sea bass over monkfish while watching fishing shows on the Cricket's many TV screens. We cheered when a Wahoo nearly took a hapless angler out of his boat off the Big Island. The cricket really is a good place for sports, whether it's the Avalanche or Rockies or fishing, for example. The place is layered with TVs so you can keep an eye on your game of choice, but usually the sound is down so the jukebox can warble on all night.
Our next round arrived and with it came the after work rush --that platoon of harried wage slaves in suits and skirts desperate for refreshment and the odd chance to let their hair down. The Cricket is a great place for people-watching. Along with this crowd there are always a few singles sort of patrolling the room, looking for that dangerous liaison they arranged over e-mail in the veal-fattening pen of a cubicle they call their office. Sure enough, as time rolled by the singles melted into doubles and Lex and I were well into doubling our bar tab.
We ordered more. It's after work--to hell with beer, bring us the cocktails! We clicked glasses in good cheer and crunched ice noisily as we reminisced about old times, punk rock and mutual friends living and dead. The crowd got noticeably larger and louder after six, to the point where sitting at a table made us opt for semaphore to communicate. We opted to head for quieter digs and realized that day had turned to night while we waxed nostalgic inside the Cherry Cricket.
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