Popination Asian (Fusion)

a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Jing Lounge

I like where this is going…

Jing Asian Fusion

Every time my partner and I go to Jing, we always go the slick and purple neon-lit lounge, not the restaurant side. And every time we go, we declare as we nibble the best dry rubbed ribs in Denver, that We Should Come Here More Often (the death knell of what was Dionysus). The dimly lit, lacquered black vibe is elegance elevated, and they’ve got a great happy hour.

Did any of you go nightclubbing or cocktail lounging back in the early aughts? I never did—I didn’t have enough money. But to me, I imagine this is what one of those Purple Martini type places looks like. And it’s a refreshing environment—very unlike our ‘local,’ and also our erstwhile, now more rare, ‘local’ that happens to be nearby: Slattery’s. Irish pub this is not. I feel like I have to dress up just a little bit when I’m at Jing. Maybe not as much as I feel obliged to when going to Cherry Creek, but.

Surprised I have enough light for any pics.

I don’t actually like where this is going

There’s a seat right under that sign that spiraling-ly avers, ‘I like where this is going’ in pink neon. I assume it’s set up for selfies, like that couch in Mile Hi Distillery with the sign that says…oh man I forget! But the restaurant part of Jing is your run of the mill mid-level almost-posh restaurant, but the lounge is super loungey: mirrors reflecting your (and especially the servers’) hip beauty in its many panels, the long row of flames above the horseshoe booths against the back wall, and the waterfall behind the bar. It’s cool, and smacks classy, even though it seems a bit outdated-classy to me. But then what do I know.

The regular Jing clientele (as far as I can discern it) ranges from flocks of blonde women to knots of biz bros, still wearing their patterned oxford shirts with their fleece vests over them as they chat boisterously about consulting and pussy. And their wives, and how big their kids are getting, to be fair. 

And here is my $50 glass of cognac. Which I did not expect but I did enjoy.

Drier? I hardly know her

I’ve only ever had the small plates when I go to Jing, which does seem like it’s the way to go there. Their dry rub is some of the best I’ve ever had, if ever. Their sushi rolls are spicy and well made and snack-worthy and their wontons are classic comfort food. I needed comfort food that night, but I’ll get into that in a minute.

I’ve already mentioned the devastatingly good looking staff (you can tell it’s a classy joint when they’ve got long black aprons)—the kind of good looking that you can only gaze upon in awe, not really imagine doing anything with. These women have made themselves into works of art, and I’d like to know if they have a dress code beyond just a server uniform. But Partner and I were talking about that—it’s like, wow that’s incredibly beautiful. But like. Not sexy. Like I do not think that getting intimate with one of them would be at all even interesting, let alone hot. It’s an aesthetic thing, the weirdness being the sexiest part of a person in our opinion. But I digress…

We were there (as opposed to at our beloved IC Brewhouse) to take a moment to unwind and to debrief. And grieve a little: this was the day after the election, and neither of us knew what to say or do, dumbfounded. And we couldn’t face the folks at IC, not yet. I needed someplace where I wouldn’t have to look in the face anyone I knew well voted for a world hostile to me and my kid. I wanted to experience something beautiful (not destroy it, as in our FCC a couple weeks ago). We went there, together, to unwind the thread of disbelief and anger into the sadness where it wove deep. We discussed one of his kids, and then the other, wondering about their future. And we discussed the upheavals at his work. And my struggles with my own. And what it would take to move to London. And what tattoos we wanted to get next.

It proceeded to dump on us not soon after.

Pubble?

We realized that we’d maybe gotten into something of a rut, or bubble, in our pub across the street. It was good to have a new, or at least a different, environment this time, for all the mulling over we needed to do. We filled up on spicy fish and sipped on fine wine and cocktails. I wanted a cognac as my dessert drink, so I ordered a Hennessy. When the bartender asked if I wanted the regular or the higher end version that they had, and Partner murmured ‘get the high end stuff’ in my ear so I did. It was smooth and amber and caramel and burnt sugar and wonderful on the palate. When we got the bill, we saw to our astonishment that that one glass was fifty bucks. Welp. Worth it. I think. I’m not used to luxury items like that but dang if I couldn’t get used to them…

As we strolled out to our car for the 2 minute drive home through the continuing blizzard, I snapped a shot of the heavy weighted snow that today, as I rustle up my notes and write them into a narrative sitting at IC, has already reduced to merely wet streets, and water dripping from everywhere like a clock ticking. 

New rooms, new places that are old, and a fresh look at nostalgia. Oh hey: next week’s Popination falls into this category too. I guess it’s where I’m at these days. Seems so. And we’ll see what happens next, won’t we.