Popination Relation

a series of unhinged personal essays disguised as pub reviews. Today: My Neighbor Felix.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: What the hell, Jenn? Yesterday was the sainted day for all Irish drinkers, St. Patrick’s Day! You’re certainly mostly Irish in there amid your obviously white-person-mutt heritage. What gives? What’s up with this posh-looking Boulder bistro? And Mexican, no less? How very dare? Hang on, hang on. Just a sec. I’ll explain.

Yes, in fact I do have lots of Irish blood swirling around in that white person soup that comprises my cultural heritage. (Scottish, too. And English. Also a little German, and my last name is actually Zukowski, not Zuko, so. Yanno. Polish.) And I do like a wee dram (wait is that Scottish? Eh, sorry) of Irish whiskey pretty much anytime. Jameson, usually. Also Tullamore Dew. And though I have written about two other Irish pubs so far in my popinations (Irish Rover and Slattery’s), I have yet to regale you with my history with an authentic Irish pub downtown, Nallan’s. But. Here’s the deal:

Though I am known to celebrate my heritage by tippling a bit on St. Paddy’s Day, to go to an Irish bar *on* The Day? Do you have any idea what kind of madhouse those places turn into? We’re talking about radio stations in the parking lot, massive drunken crowds, green beer. Like. No. Especially if I’m going to Nallan’s—that nonsense is right downtown, right where it’s no longer not dangerous to go. I’ll go, but like, in the early afternoon on a weekday. I’ll tell you about it, and I’ll weave you silver-tongued stories about how I learned to drink Guinness by an unrequited bastard of a crush that I was sure was a soul mate, in my naïve sword slinging youth…. But I sure as hell was not gonna be venturing down there this weekend. So. I hope you had a lovely weekend and please believe me you’ll hear about Nallan’s before very long.

STRANGE SIDE NOTE: Speaking of being very white? My partner enjoys taking shots of me from my stage burlesque performances and pairing them with stage pics of Rammstein’s lead singer, Til Lindemann. I…look, I’m not even offended. It’s rather uncanny. But I digress.

Look, I wish my biceps were as good as his. But I bet he wishes his boobs were as good as mine. Just sayin. Also? This is just one of several. Let me know if you’d like me to share more. They’re pretty incredible.

Cheese Heads, roly poly cheese heads

So last week, my dad was in Wisconsin (which is apparently where all Chicagoites retire to), visiting his mom who’s not long for this world. She’s one of only a very few short-statured people in our family (my mom is another), and was married to my fearsome Grandpa Rudy for a long time, till he passed. When he did, her assisted living scene was so vibrant, I found myself approaching jealousy as I moved through my own broke and broken-hearted adulthood, though obviously not fully. Grandma Estelle shares a birthday with me, too, so I’m sure it was a sort of conflicting sorrow for my Dad, going and saying goodbye to his mom while not being around for his firstborn on both of their birthdays. But hey—she likely doesn’t have another birthday so it’s good he went, please don’t misunderstand. She and my mom are two of the rare small women in our family, as I said, and they’re both absolute firecrackers. I couldn’t go to the one, so I went to the other.

So that’s why. My trip to this unfamiliar bistro happened because I was meeting my mom while Dad’s away—she still wanted to give me a birthday present, and I’m certainly not going to argue with continuing my own birthday celebrations yet another week. February is the shortest month of the year, after all. So I took a trip up to Boulder. I went over to Bookworm first, to unload a Spring cleaning culling of books (and oh man doesn't that feel good?) and, after refreshing my pastie and undie needs at the adult shop nearby, I sat for a moment at Outback, drinking in the comforting atmosphere and an Avery IPA, to gird my loins for the ersatz family reunion I was going to next.

My Neighbor Felix

…is way west on the Pearl Street Mall in Boulder—it’s across from West End Tavern (which I will absolutely popinate for you at some point), and Trident. I think it used to be a similarly posh but French bistro called Brasserie TenTen? That place, though posh, had a dynamite happy hour deal, where I’d often go and sip very nice wines at very nice prices and slurp buttery salted marrow out of perfectly roasted bones. 

But they’ve changed it to a Mexican flavored place, no doubt because of the state’s demographic and taste for such things, even in very white Colorado pockets like Boulder. It looked largely the same outside as I remember from the Brasserie, if not a bit more sort of secretive when it comes to signage and logos on the door. Speakeasy tropes are trendy these days I guess. Inside? They’ve widened it out since its French days and it’s elaborately and geometrically decorated. I noticed that my mom had fully charmed the wait staff already as I entered, and there too was her younger sister Shar, and close family friend Poeschl. (Okay his name is Bob but everyone always called him Poeschl or just Poesch so I think of him that way to this day, though my hair is nearly as white as his if I didn’t dye it.)

About my mom: if you know anything about D&D, you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that she’s a high level Bard with a natural 17 in Charisma. Then she has a magical item or two (these days it’s her walking stick) that ups her charisma rolls to over 20. She was a dancer for most of her life, and a school teacher (of literature and literacy), and so she’s blessed with not only the way of the sweet-talk, but erstwhile way of the dance. Now, because of all this dance stuff and her age, she has a couple titanium joints, as well as more than a few organs removed too, so she hypnotizes everyone around her differently than she used to. 

Her younger sister, my auntie Shar, was there at My Neighbor Felix to meet up that day as well, as I mentioned. I hadn’t seen her in quite a while. She’s a horse lady, and an animal lover in general, who keeps dogs and who used to be a wildlife officer. Their mom (my Grandma Lee) was a fricking Marine, and her mom (my great grandma ‘Ginia) apparently was a flapper and played piano for silent movies and cabarets. So. Yeah, I’ve got some pretty interesting women in my family.

The men are pretty cool, too—I’ll have to write more about my Dad at some point soon—why and how he fell in love with the mountains, how I look just Iike him, and why we call him Dadoo. He likes to have a pint with me, so maybe I’ll make him join me in a popination soon and I can talk about him for a bit over a craft beer.

Gotta Fight For Your Right to Party

What’s been cool as a social model for me growing up is the epic parties my parents would throw at their little trailer home. I have continued fond memories of a bunch of adults and maybe a couple kids my age, chilling on the deck and around the grill in our postage-stamp-sized yard, with several wandering down to the field in the middle of the complex, where they’d erect a volleyball net, cold Coors cans and dewy Dos Equis bottles jammed against the posts waiting for the team changes. I loved the sound of those knots of people sitting in circles in the living room on the green shag carpet, drinking and smoking weed and chattering with warmth and camaraderie, the soft noise soothing me to sleep. 

My parents were (and are) still buddies with several of their college friends and so even though I never had a big family, I kinda did though, because of these friends of the family. Really cool elegant artistic and intellectual men, and feisty sassy women. As I became a brainy teen, I enjoyed literati with not only my own artsy teen friends, but my parents’ college buddy, Poeschl, as well. Poesch is an architect and a film aficionado, and as his brain usually operates at a higher chakra most of the time, I find chatting with him refreshing. And I hadn’t seen him for a while either, so that was a lovely little mini family reunion of sorts, over at My Neighbor Felix. A lovely time. I’ve got to think the reason I’m still such good friends with so many of my high school and college friends is because of this social model. And I have many reasons to be glad I’m echoing that practice, as my partner is a high school friend of mine, himself.

And now, you’ll have to excuse me: I’ve heard that the pub across the street has gotten some Guinness in stock just for the holiday, and I needs must avail me of some. Slainte, or, cheers. Or whatever. Go call your mom, or text your college friend. I’ll talk to you later. ☘️