Volume 4, Issue 19
September 19 - October 2, 2002
by Rob Williams
There comes a time in every writer's life when the booze catches up with him. I was no different last Tuesday. It's not that I was on the wagon, I was just not in the mood for yet another night of wistful thinking over a cognac and cigarettes while some barfly damsel made chit-chat. Call it drying out, call it a case of the Sept. 10 tremors, I just wasn't in the mood for a cocktail. Didn't mean I wasn't going out, though. No sir.
Lucky for me, the previous Friday at the Go-Go Art Show (arranged by yours truly) at Revoluciones I ran into an old friend I'll call "Slinky." At a slim five foot seven and with a cascade of red curls she's an attention getter, so you can imagine she had my complete attention when she asked me out for a coffee. It's funny how you can not see someone for almost a year, exchange business cards and by Monday be back at the office exchanging rants and gossip. So after cutting and pasting our latest peeves and musical choices, Slinky suggested we meet at that venerable java joint, Paris On The Platte.
Yeah, I know what you are thinking. More like "Crank on the Creek." I've been to Paris and the Platte is a sad replacement for the Siene, but still, I hadn't been in the place for a year and it sounded good. You have to understand that I turned in my black beret and want ads when I started at Go-Go, so I don't really have much reason to get to coffeehouses these days. Truth of the matter is, I rarely drink coffee anymore.
Not that this is a problem for the art set lining the tables at Paris. The menu has a fine selection of coffees, lattés, chai, soft drinks and fruit enfusions--enough variety to make an AA member feel like he had just ordered a Two-Fisted-Peruvian-Monkey-Fuck-Against-The-Wall. Whatever that is. So Slinky and I ordered up a pitcher of hot chai and a sandwich to muse on old times. Old times indeed--it had been a year and the place didn't look much different. The bookstore overflowing with used tomes, the line of chromed bikes out front as the place filled up, the garish art on the walls and the guy in the corner making chainmail and sipping Earl Grey. I swear that kid was in here last time. (I secretly suspect he may have inherited the chainmail-making franchise from one of the guys that worked at Muddy's.)
The one thing that has seemed to change, maybe thanks to the competition from the big chain coffee joints, was the service. The waiter was a little slow taking our order, but shazam, before I could finish half a cigarette there he was with hot chai and a tuna melt on rye. He even smiled. (Try getting that from the uppity pierced freak behind the counter at Seattle's finest.) And the chai was creamy, smooth and with just the right blend of cinnamon. Not as refreshing as a shot of Rumplemintz, but a lot more heartwarming than your average truck stop Joe.
By eight o'clock the place was swinging. The line of bikes out front had quadrupled and the place was as jam-packed full of interesting folks as any Mos Eisley cantina. Slinky told me on the sly that the city is thinking of banning the parking of motorcycles on Larimer Square. Well, when Larimer Street is too good for my bike, I guess I'll have to park over at Paris. They still seem to be gearhead friendly. (Not that your average Doctor and Lawyer Harley Gangster is gonna pull a Hollister Riot over this, but you never know.) I'd rather drink tea with a Boozefighter than whiskey with a Jaguar-driving chump in chinos any day.
Fine, if the leeches of Lo-Do don't wish those of us smelling of high octane gasoline, leather sweat and burning rubber ruining their carefully sculpted look of casual urban hip with our grease encrusted nails gripping a mug of mud, then to hell with them. I can always get a coffee and a snack WEST of the Platte. Besides no one on THIS side of the river will complain that four bikes take up the space of ONE luxury SUV. Well, at least they will know whom to ticket when the meter runs out.
Slinky and I decided we'd had enough chai and berets for one night and made our way towards more familiar digs, namely My Brother's Bar a half a block away. (You remember, our Bar of the Year Vol. 4, Iss. 4?) Yeah, no matter what my mood, you can't keep an Irish hillbilly from the bottle, especially with a red-headed girl in tow. So it was off for a drink and more conversation.
But you will see me having a coffee once in a while, even if it's just as an act of defiance. Vive la Revolucione! It might even be AFTER a night at Brother's. But if I'm sitting close to a slinky girl with curly red hair, please don't bother me. We have a lot of catching up to do.
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