Popination Celebration
a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: the bar at Cherry Creek Grill.
We’re going back in time again, to a popination past but not long past: a birthday fave of mine, and a place I’d never have thought I could do at all, let alone somewhat regularly. It’s on the posh side of things; not prohibitively so, but enough that I don’t really go there more than a few times a year. And it tends to be for special occasions: on my birthday it’s usually the main event, and it’s also a tradition for post-Xmas shopping sustenance during that time of the year. This place is an example of my getting used to a different level of life, since joining my partner’s household: I deserve nice things, but not to the extent that it literally empties my bank account outright. It’s a good balance, and a realistic. And it says something, that I’m actually kind of getting used to Cherry Creek.
But whenever I go to Cherry Creek Grill for a meal with my partner, we always gaze over at the swooping bar and muse that it looks like a fabulous way to spend a people-watching afternoon. There are deep roots of my partner and me and people-watching (and snarking thereon)—it’s a fundamental part of how we socialize together, and I’ve written about this a little bit before:
This is exactly how he and I first met, almost thirty years ago, in high school. The only differences: then, we sat side by side in science classrooms, the teacher being the main recipient of our intelligent (albeit teenaged) banter. The barely-suppressed guffaws would be tolerated for a while, as we both were good students, as Metal and Goth as we looked, respectively.
I’ve been learning from my partner about the art and science of allowing oneself to enjoy posh things, as he learned himself, as a man who grew up poor, from his 1st wife the heiress. It’s a matter of knowing (or at least, pretending to believe) that you do indeed belong there; that you are not at all out of place and how very dare anyone question this truth. I’ve been practicing this exercise and am getting a little better at it, bit by bit, as you can see from my piece about the opera (linked above).
The (Cherry Creek) Grill
It’s pretty much called just ‘The Grill,’ and as I described above, it’s normally a place my partner takes me to for a special occasion. But this time, we happened to be clothes shopping at the nearby mall, and so we decided to try it finally—our imagined fun afternoon—a leisurely afternoon at the Grill bar.
Of course, when one goes to The Grill, one must begin with the insanity of driving and parking at Cherry Creek, in that sort of pedestrian mall type area that isn’t really pedestrian. Once you manage that, you get to the corner where The Grill presides, and hopefully you’ve got a reservation if you’re looking for a table. If not, sit at the bar. This is the first time Partner and I chose the second option, and it was a lovely, lovely time. Of course, I always enjoy grabbing one of the elegantly printed cards at the host stand, which describes the dress code for the place. I always find this to be a delightful part of the poshness of the place, and also notice that it’s pretty much not enforced. I’m not sure I still have one around—if I do, I’ll put some of it up in the comments.
The Grill is a dim, woodwork-heavy restaurant with a long U-shaped bar centrally located, and the kitchen fully visible in the back. Right next to the kitchen, there spin tantalizingly a series of rows of chickens, or sometimes other cuts of other edible creatures, glisteningly rotating on spits behind glass. It makes me think of an old porn type of place: Beautiful Ladies Behind Glass. But the less you know about such places, the better, I suppose. The whole place has a sort of swirly construction, the carpeted walkways swooping in long curves to connect to other areas like the restrooms and the door.
But what’s the scene there at that central bar, that my partner and I always wondered at, gazing from our erstwhile spot at a fancy table? Well, we always noticed that the population of said bar, especially in the afternoon, tended toward the middle aged monied. This, so we thought, was prime fodder for people watching, and this latest time when we actually sat at the bar for the first time, that population was there in spades. We delighted in ordering our favorite appetizer (the incredible cold-smoked salmon that leaves a beautiful oil behind on the lips), a cocktail and then wine with lunch, and watched. And, as we’ve been doing since we were 15, we had an MST3K-like running comedy commentary.
Cast of Characters
The hung over finance guys were actually kind of amazing, in that their story was pretty apparent. Two men in probably their 30s, looking like they had had a Rough. Night. They ordered what was obviously hangover helper, and partner and I speculated amongst ourselves what project or venture they must have been laboring on probably all night. Then, sitting nearer to us, there were (as there always are) the cougars. Two of them, one of them with only one eye. They were doing what cougars do: scanning the area, having gossipy conversation, and we were here for it. Of course my partner got a lot of lingering looks, as he’s a hottie, but having me sitting there with him tempered their thirst just a bit. In the past, we’d watch cougars pounce on various and sundry men of a certain class, and even leave together, and it was always something we wanted to be at the table for. These two were mainly enjoying their own company but it was definitely a typical afternoon there. Finally, there was the older couple sitting just to the other side of us, enjoying themselves hugely. Not unlike partner and me—was this a vision of our future? Looks pretty good, if so.
But the culture here is very different than other social scenarios in pubs I’m a regular at, or certainly at dives I love like Nob Hill or Outback.
I’m not nearly as likely to start a conversation with a stranger here, for example—we’re more separated, observing from afar even as we’re sitting right there. But it does make me think. Why? Are rich people that much different than us? I think
might have a thing or two to say about this concept—what do you think, David? Are we that different after all? My suspicion is that we’re really not. My theory is that it’s an attitude, calcified by how a person is raised. It can be unlearned, but it takes experience and an open mind.
Going to places like The Grill is a lot like doing theatre: you dress up and go to a special stage-like space, to see and be seen. It’s fun! The clothes are great! Is this what people do who don’t have a theatre background or roleplaying hobby, or? I think so: we get to, not pretend, but embody a character that we’re not. There’s a shamanic magic to that, and it’s not deception, far from it. It’s a form of magic, a magic only humans can do.