Volume 4, Issue 9
May 2 - May 15, 2002
by Rob Williams
Well, it finally happened. My nightlife column was all set to roll for a night of sushi and drunken mayhem with a stewardess named Camille, but no . . the fates struck. She stood me up. No calls, no e-mail, no apology. If I wanted service that bad I could have booked a flight. Not even a lousy foil packet of almonds and a cheery Stepford wife "b-bye" at the door. My night was shot. I drowned my sorrows gargling tequila at a dive bar, I can't remember the name. I spent the night lamenting the horrors of airline food and damning stews and the service industry in general to a barmaid with a vaguely Russian accent. I was hammered. My next day was destined to be in hangover hell.
The dawn came rosy-fingered, if you mean the kind that carved deep blue ripples in the tissues of your frontal lobe. I checked my watch and realized I had an appointment across town in short order. I was to interview the lovely and talented Lisa Gedgaudas for our Three Questions segment that fine morning and there I was feeling like I had been merrily keel-hauled by a gang of Irish pirates. I needed to get my act together and fast. I downed some club soda, showered and headed out for the interview. Hiding from the light of day behind my Perry Ellis clip-ons I made my way to Lisa's gallery.
Let me share a secret. There is no cure for a hangover . Sleep is about the only thing that really helps. Sleep and comfort food. Luckily, my interview with Lisa was set over lunch at a delightful bistro in her neck of the woods, Heidi's Brooklyn Deli .
You have to have some serious cojones to claim to be a "Brooklyn" deli in Denver. But what the hell . . tape recorder in hand, we strode into the place. A long, high counter separated us from the sandwichmakers. They were rough-looking guys with ham-sized fists and aprons painted Pollack-style with mustard and mayo. I knew we had made the right choice. I ordered up a prime rib sandwich ($7.95) and a root beer. (It's ok, we'll get to the real drinking later.) Lisa ordered up a french dip ($6.95) and get this -- a bottle of Honest To Bob YooHoo. Now that's comfort.
I'm no spendthrift, but for eight bucks a sandwich needs to be substantial, more like a meal than a snack. I was NOT disappointed. Folks, the size of the thing was scary. Eight inches across, a chunk of bloody prime rib over a half inch-thick and caustic creamy horseradish mayo. Picking this beast off the plate was the equivalent of placing a calf between two pieces of bread. Lisa's french dip was no less impressive -- a torpedo of bread stuffed with roast beef and a vat of au jus that was steaming hot. The sides are simple: slaw, potato salad or chips -- included in the price of your hand-held meal. A big crunchy pickle spear rounded out the plates. Good? Yeah, but that's like saying the Brooklyn Bridge is "ok," or that Catfish Hunter was a "decent" pitcher for the Yankees. Try absofuckinglutelymindblowingsupersexysodeliciousfingerlickin good .
Go there. Eat something. Your stomach and wallet will be happy. The decor is minimal and there wasn't a single copy of Go-Go in the big stash of magazines by the front window, but the food is really good. I'll be going back, with a stack of mags and an empty stomach.
Sadly I had finished Lisa's interview, but NOT my story. After all, this is Nightlife, not Lunchlife . My hangover pain had subsided, but my ego was still smarting. So what better to drown the sorrow of loves that could have been than some country music?
You know what I'm talking about. Tear in your beer stuff by Hank, Johnny, Waylon, David Allen Coe. Unfortunately none of them were in town. However, my new alt. country fave from L.A., Betty Dylan , was playing at the Soiled Dove.
Betty's guitarist/vocalist Dr. Dan describes his relationship with wife/singer Vickie equal parts "Keith and Mick or George and Gracie." This isn't your average truck driving alt. country stuff. Think more like Dusty Springfield meets Sonny and Cher, with guitars.
The band served up an amazing set that was more lounge than honky-tonk, with "conversations" between Dan and Vickie that went from sad to risqué. Jangly guitar riffs and near jam-session interludes cut up old country favorites. Betty Dylan made "Folsom Prison Blues" sound sexy . Dan's vocals are rough and low, almost nonchalant in his delivery. It's all part of the show, a counterpoint to Vickie's soulful growl. They really hit it hard in songs like "Kicked in the Chin," about a rough night for a girl drinking Absolut on the rocks. Of course I had to follow suit and the rollicking tune let me ignore the fact that it was served in a tiny plastic cup. By the time they played "Work it Out" I had forgotten I was there working and that my deadline was looming the next morning. Dan pulled out a '20s vintage steel guitar and told us all a story about the first riff his daddy taught him to play. Tears in my beer? Indeed. Vodka became Jack Daniels by the time they launched into their college radio hit "Poison Kisses," a song about a witchy goth girl that done Vickie wrong. I was drinking it up with a fat gauge McDonald's straw. So what if my date stood me up? I had lunch with a gal 10 times cooler. That steel guitar was telling me everything was gonna be alright long into the night. A half-dozen Jacks and my deuces were running wild, singing along to every song.
They ended the set with the powerful ditty "American Trash," a send up of all things Americana, complete with shout outs to TV, Bruce, Norma Jean and Bowie. You won't find that in a Dwight Yoakham tune. You'll leave the show feeling like American Trash, but you'll have a smile on your face. Their new CD, Flame , doesn't do the band's live act justice, but fear not. You can catch Betty Dylan in person at the Gothic on May 10 with Marty Jones and the Pork Boilin Po' Boys. Call 303-380-2333 for details.
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