Popination Intimidation
a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: Nob Hill Inn.
I first heard about Nob Hill Inn just the other day, from The Dive Bar Dick. He averred it lived up to its reputation as being Denver’s best dive bar, and well, if the Dive Bar Dick makes that strong a statement, I had to go check it out myself.
The criteria of what makes a dive bar a dive bar, according to DBD, are the following:
It should look closed: the entrance should be either hard to find or make you nervous to enter.
It should have cheap beer, and otherwise simple drinks on offer.
No food, or none to speak of—these days there are regulations on selling liquor and needing to have food on hand, even if it’s just chips or one of those big jars of pickled eggs or an old popcorn machine or suchlike.
It should be old. As DBD says, you can’t build a new dive bar; it forms as such over time. This includes the decor inside as well as the signage and everything outside.
The interior should be dark.
Strange restrooms: confusing, or graffitied, or strangely placed items.
Cash only. (This is the only criterion I don’t actually agree with, but I can dig that the system needs to be old and even analog.)
Nob Hill checks all these off the list, except for the cash-only rule. Honestly, I thought that doing a cash-only joint had some laws passed against it, but I don’t know for sure and I’m not doing any research, so. Oh, and I didn’t happen to use the restroom on this visit, so I don’t know if Nob Hill lives up to that criterion either.
Pull up a Pew
Nob Hill Inn is just a couple blocks’ walk from the cathedral where I attend church (when indeed I do attend), so I thought: since I was slated to be a lector on Ash Wednesday afternoon, why not take a walk over there afterwards to check it out and compose a Popination?
Now, I’m no stranger to dive bars and I like the gritty atmosphere of them for the most part. The Outback in Boulder in the poor neighborhood where I grew up, though, is worlds different than East Colfax Avenue in Denver. Ergo, I had to make sure I knew exactly where I was going, so I wouldn’t be walking around that area with a phone out, consulting Google Maps. And I made sure my tactical pen was in my pocket.
Like I mentioned, I had started my afternoon out at church, which is an important 3rd place for some. Not for me, though—bars are that for me. And since I’d been going to the cathedral for catchumenate and just going with Partner that did A/V services almost weekly all through last liturgical year, I’ve stepped way back from my old church frequency these days. But. The vibe of Ash Wednesday was perfect for me today, as I had figured it would when I signed up to read. I like being a lector—it lets me read beautiful old language aloud with all my Shakespearean actor chops, and it feels good. Keeps my skills honed, and (is this pride? Maybe, but I think JC would be on board) it does tend to impress the mostly older congregation, as well as the clergy.
This Ash Wednesday I had a delightfully challenging reading to do: it was 2nd Corinthians, and I found the long lists to be so fun to sink my teeth into, as well as the (very Shakespearean) litany of antitheses at the end:
…with the weapons of of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; in honor and dishonor; in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and, see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.
How fun is that?
But my favorite bit of regular spoken word from church is about: “The work that You have given us to do,” which is one of the main things I still keep with me daily about the whole church thing, even when I’m not attending regularly. Besides, the work that I’ve been given to do I do most often in my ‘local’ anyway, of which I have no doubt Jesus would approve. Heck, He’d come drink some wine with me and talk about pub camaraderie and God’s love.
Keep Your Head on a Swivel
The walk from St. John’s Cathedral to Nob Hill Inn is, as I said, a bit of a touchy business. So touchy, in fact, that in a burst of self-preservative energy, I made a mental note of what my walking route would be by perusing Google Maps before getting dropped off at church. This is the sort of walk that you don’t want to take looking at your phone and following GPS, as I mentioned already. It’s important to be alert and aware when walking Colfax. Not that I was going to walk along Colfax any longer than I absolutely had to. It’s only a 5 minute walk, though, Jenn, you might be scoffing. Yeah, but. It’s Colfax. And it’s probably the diciest section of same. Just. If you know, you know. And if you don’t? Better learn, if you’re gonna go there.
So after church, ash smudge emblazoning my forehead, I took 14th Street through some old and kinda rough residential areas, turned on Pennsylvania Ave. I thought, “gee, maybe I was overreacting, and maybe my partner, who’s lived in the crunchiest corners of Denver longer than me, is just being overprotective.” And then I turned onto Colfax.
Mind! I only had about a half a small block to walk on Colfax before I arrived at the blue metal door of Nob Hill, but those very few paces made my jaw clamp and my hand go into my pocket to clutch my tactical pen. What a difference one simple turn of a corner makes! But hey, that’s life in the big city, right? Even a city that’s not such a big city. A block or a street can be a whole different world than the one adjacent. Sunny daylight though it was, I beelined for that blue metal door like I was coming up dark basement stairs and had to outrun the thing that nipped at my heels. What? You know what I mean.
I opened the door and plunged in.
Decor? I Hardly Know Her
It’s so dark! How pleasant. And the smell? You know the smell. Cigarettes have been barred from indoor bars for decades now (even in dives), but the scent lingers here. It’s absorbed into the bones of this old place.
When I walked in, the bartender was having a lively discussion with a couple in their 30s at the bar about what it’s like being poor. Really poor. I joined right in—I know what it’s like. Everyone there was obviously a regular, but they were so warm and real and friendly, and young and pretty in a Bohemian sort of way. My entire body unclenched immediately, I took a deep breath, and I knew I had found another happy place.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light (only able to really see by the primary-colored glass panels in those front windows), I made my way to the empty side of the bar, had a seat, and looked to see what taps they had on hand. Since this is Colorado, even a dive bar has one or two beers that could be considered crafty, which I was happy to see, because as much as I love the dive bar scene, I really can’t stand most cheap beer.* I ordered a Lagunitas IPA and relaxed against the padded bar edge that I noticed was cracked and patched in places.
*Before you judge me, know two things: a) I grew up in Boulder, CO and was legally able to drink in the ‘90s. Yep, the big microbrewery (and coffee shop) boom. So like, I had access to all the better beers right away; b) my first husband was a malignant and manipulative narcissist and so the phase we went through of hipsterish consuming of multiple PBR tallboys does not fill me with the gentle nostalgia today it might for others. Plus, a basic pint of Lagunitas is not really any more expensive than a Coors. Ssh.
The bartender writes all orders down by hand on yellow post it notes, which is not something I’ve ever seen before. But the place isn’t cash only. The cash register, however, is a charming dinosaur and I’m here for it. Instantly and completely comfortable, I looked around, after asking for consent to snap a couple pictures. To which, the bartender was quite happy to give me some insight into the things I was snapping pics of, like how long they’ve been around, and that the oddly comforting clown paintings adorning the walls were created by the owner himself.
The bar is U-shaped and in the middle of the space, but lining the walls are old school red quilted vinyl booths, a couple computery gambling things and a neon lit dart board, and those strangely comforting clown paintings. Not that I could see very well since it was so dim, but that was okay—it was a pleasing atmosphere.
A young pleasant-looking guy with a blond beard, a quiet demeanor, and a Cannibal Corpse hat put Alice In Chains on the digi-jukebox, loud, maybe to end the conversation at the bar? I joked that he hadn’t put on Cannibal Corpse. “None on there,” he shyly laughed back.
So Nob Hill is the…second oldest Denver bar? I think? That’s the scuttlebutt. It’s definitely been voted Best Dive bar multiple times by Westword. But no research, remember? Anyway, however old school it really is, it definitely is as far as the people and vibe, which is likely why it feels so comforting.
But! as old a dive as the scene was, I wasn’t the only person absorbed in their phone. Everyone here had one in their hand. It’s like the place is a relic of the past but accessorized with modern tools. Is this cyberpunk in practice? The old mixed with the new tech? I noticed, too, that the weird beeps coming from the dart board (?) every so often made nobody pause their conversation or even blink. It was a strangely anachronistic computery sound that erupted frequently, but not regularly enough to make it not startling to me. I guess the staff and the regulars were that used to it. I still jumped a bit each time.
Man, I could’ve hung out there for hours. Outside, a rough back alley and a couple parking spots where all Nob Hill denizens seemed to go out frequently to smoke cigarettes or weed. That’s where I felt safest to wait for an uber and I was correct in doing so. I’ve got to bring my partner there for this experience, though we are absolutely ubering, not parking the car anywhere near Nob Hill.
Alice in Chains on the jukebox and clown paintings but everyone on their phones - you put me there, Jenn. So, why is it named Nob Hill? <she asks snottily, formerly of San Francisco, where there are probably no dive bars left>