Popination Congregation

a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Zink kitchen & bar.

Something strange is afoot behind the Circle K

Tucked around a tree-buried corner, deep behind a Circle K and its gas station, there’s a Doubletree hotel, all dressed up rust-colored and brown brick in the height of 1970s fashion. Follow me as I enter this hotel's bar and lounge, under its severely slanted awning and roof, under the ‘80s nightclub font that neon-glows out its name. Inside, some slightly panicked and harried but bright and friendly greeters point us the way to our friend who’s already been seated and is sipping on a Bloody Mary as he waits upon our arrival. 

It was Thanksgiving Day—what were my partner & I doing in a skeezy hotel bar, meeting up with a friend we knew from our ‘local’, instead of feeding our faces with family? Well, Partner’s kids were off across town, celebrating with their mom and her family, and so we didn’t have to do our own home feast till Sunday. Our friend from the ‘local’ told us about the splendid buffet that Zink always did on Thanksgiving, and as he was friends with Zink’s proprietor, and it was his daughter’s birthday as well as Thanksgiving Thursday, we thought why not go see what the fuss was all about. 

And so there we were, seated in a corner facing the vast dessert array, sipping on tall festive drinks (Bloody Marys for the friends, a cranberry old fashioned for Partner, a flute of prosecco for me), and gazing around us in curiosity. 

Zink a ma rink a doo

Apparently Zink, the Doubletree’s bar and restaurant, is a regular haunt for our friend on many a normal evening, as it’s a nice kinda loungey style place to go relax, with a sort of old timey lounge lizard kind of vibe. But that’s not the vibe we found there on Thursday—it was all decked out with a giant Thanksgiving feast spanning the whole huge ballroom area off to the side, and the bar wasn’t functioning as a bar as much as it was a display area for desserts. 

So we piled towers of turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, potatoes (both mashed white and brown sugar yam), and somewhere down there a glazed carrot, doused the whole thing with gravy, stuck a buttered roll on there for some kind of eating assistance, and tucked in. The food was all the basic traditional flavors you’d expect for Thanksgiving, and all delicious, if a bit not quite as warmed as it could have been waiting there in their chafing dishes.

I failed to take my own pic of this entrance, but this is literally what it would have looked like if I had. I blame the tryptophan for my post-meal forgetfulness. 

Mark’s men

Mark’s the kind of guy that seems to have been put on this earth strictly for the purpose of being curious about other people. He makes friends in such an easy, breezy way that it’s impossible to, once you’ve been chatted at the bar by him, resist his earnest friendship. And once you’re his friend (which doesn't take long, by the way), he will do anything for you. I think literally.

The last few times we’d run into him at our beloved local, he had in tow a very quiet, shy, cowboy-hatted fellow of Mexican heritage, name of Lucas, who smiled sweetly and barely spoke in the wake of Mark’s cheerful and constant chatter. Their dynamic was very much like the memes you see on TikTok, of the extrovert taking their ‘pet introvert’ out for a walk. Adorably, at one point at the bar, Mark exclaimed in astonishment at the speed at which Lucas had finished his tall Bloody Mary—but all Lucas would murmur was, “I don’t talk, man.” We later learned that Lucas was a vet of the Marines, and that he liked playing pool with Mark over at a nearby shady dive bar, and was a follower of the Dallas Cowboys. But he never really talked much at all—that is, till we broke bread, er, turkey, with him there at Zink.

As we polished off our feast, attempting to digest without falling asleep at the table, and as Mark chatted breezily with his teenaged daughter and her friend about a birthday kitten that he’d been scammed on, Lucas started chatting himself, quietly, about how he used to live in Texas, about how he and Mark had been out drinking last night, and about hangover cures, extolling the virtues of menudo as a cure-all, much to the nauseated dismay of Mark and dubious demurring of his daughter. I haven’t ever tasted menudo myself (even though I grew up in close proximity to many Mexican families for which the food was traditional), but I have heard that it will indeed cure what ails ya, and I leapt to Lucas’ defense. 

He then asked about my tattoo—the big elaborate one that covers my right forearm. I showed it off and explained that it was a coverup, and he was even more interested, as he’s looking to cover up one of his less-awesome tattoos and wondered where I’d gotten mine done. As we continued to chat, he showed us a picture of his favorite tattoo, one that spans both his shoulders. One large red rose topping each shoulder blade, connected with a length of thorny barbed wire. He explained the military symbolism of the thorny wire and shared that the roses were an illustration of his surname, Rosas. Which. I mean. How beautiful is that?

Men, You, Dough

What I had thought was going to be a bro-y moment at a scuzzy hotel bar instead turned into an intimate little family feast, a kid’s birthday party, and a big holiday meal. Thanksgiving is supposed to be a family-centered event, after all, and I ended up having one, quite unexpectedly. My own family is small, and my relationship with them, while not bad, is withal a little fractious. But I guess that’s where the ‘Found Family’ trope comes in so strong, doesn’t it. Found family really is a powerful force, as is making friends when in adulthood, something many sociologists are noticing is nigh impossible for a lot of us. Particularly men, these days.

That’s why 3rd places are so important, particularly for broken and wounded or lonely men. That’s where we met Mark, and Lucas, and they met at a different one. And the motley crew that are regulars at I.C. are loyal to each other, devoted, a fine body of (mostly) men. Mostly hurt men who are moving through their manhoods carrying painful weights. I’ve kept the company of broken men for a good part of my adult life. I trust them, I understand them better than I do women, most of the time. I find myself mooring at 3rd places for my most important popinations because of this very thing—I function much like the broken men in my company, I’m coming from a similar path, just carrying a different gender along the way. 

And that’s what Thanksgiving’s for, isn’t it. Thanking for giving, as well as giving thanks. An anchor, sunk into a group of people. Good food, strange familial company, and a hot turkey-infused brain fog after. 

Where three or more desserts are gathered in my name…I will take a picture of only one third of the table.

Cheers. I’ll say ‘Zink-Zink’ instead of ‘ting-ting’ for this one.

P.S. us regulars at I.C. are throwing a big white elephant gift party in mid-December. To celebrate the very thing I’ve been talking about here. Organized by Mark, of course—it was all his idea.

I walked by this sign on my way to the buffet, and even thought: I should get a snapshot of that. Did I? nope. The turkey was smoked, though, you guys. Deadly delicious brain foggy goodness. I can’t be blamed.