April 12, 2008
A Bar Trilogy
Recently, I read a piece from the New York Times, detailing the emotional and physical stresses that are being visited on bloggers. Two have died! Others have found themselves battling wrist and arm pain and/or nervous anxiety.
Point being: I recently meant to punch up some thoughts on the West End Grill and Pub (354 N. Boyle, www.westendgandp.com), which is directly appended to the Gaslight Theatre. I didn't punch up those thoughts, though, then saw the Post run a blip on the space, founded and run by a handful of industry vets, including the Gaslight's prime mover, William Roth. The appearance of this note gave me, if not wrist pain, a brief shot of anxiety.
After all, the Gaslight's become one of my favorite destinations, thanks to the initial season of the St. Louis Actors Studio; seeing an anonymous lobby suddenly turned into a very nice bar-and-grill is rather a sight to see. If you happen to find yourself in that corner of the West End, you may wish to stop in yourself, with a seriously veteran staff sure to take care of you.
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Sandrina's was long known as a port-of-call for those seeking one last round before the homestead. It's still that, though under new ownership. What remains is just a touch of the original, rather intense wallpaper, along with the 3 a.m. license, which was tried out for the first time last night. Seems that people knew about the additional 90-minutes, since the late-rush crowd was in full-effect, with the room dotted by the workers of every 1:30-closing bar in a three-mile radius.
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Twice in a week I've found myself at Sauget's ever-open destination, Pop's, the direct result of working late nights and the equally direct recognition that it's hard to downshift from activity to sleep at some point after midnight. Or 3, or 4, as the case may be.
Last night, I gave an offering of $70 to the Karma Gods, the monies somehow escaping my pocket between: the door and the bar, or the door and the stage, or the door and the restroom. When you're tired, bookkeeping gets sloppy and the environment of Pop's just breeds a certain world-weariness. Even if the drink don't getcha, the nerves somehow jangle in that Eastside spot.
The music's part of the sensory overload. Last night's cover band was grinding out a mix of Alice in Chains, Guns n' Roses and Tool. The dancefloor was roiling. The bouncers were busy. The pool tables were full. The place had life. And, as it turned out, it also had $70 scattered on the well-trod floorboards.
I hope whomever picked it up - or boosted me, youneverknow - had fun with the dough. Me, I was ready to go as soon as the car turned into the lot.