There’s a saying that states that “All good things must come to an end”. Well I say, “Fuck that shit”. I like my city, I like my restaurants, I like our bars, and I especially like burgers, and fries, and cold beers, and onion rings – especially when they come from My Brothers Bar. I can immediately tell if you’re from my city when I suggest going to this old AF establishment, because you – if you know me at all – know that not only do I NOT have a brother, he most certainly does not own a bar.
My Brothers Bar is without question an establishment in my city. It is in fact, “the oldest bar in Denver, continuously serving fine beers and spirits since 1873”. I took that fact directly from their website.
Some dipshit developer actually wanted to buy the land this summer and demolish my bar – our bar. And I can only guess what amazing piece of architecture they had slated for this plot of land on the corner of 15th & Platte. I’m sure it was a structure sure to elevate the cultural landscape of my – our city. Something that we all would sit in front of and gaze in amazement over. People would bring their children and surely hold them up to capture Instagram fodder for whatever new overpriced apartment complex would glimmer and dazzle newcomers to my – our city. Fuck that shit.
But for the same reasons that sunsets are orange and blue, God and the Universe watch out for my – our city. Because Danny Newman – God’s Golden Child – or really the child of longtime employee (32 years) Paula Newman decided to step in and save my – our soul(s). When I went in to eat a hamburger and grab a beer with my friend and executive producer, Kathy – Paula was kind enough to take our orders.
I get what I always get – a Ralphie JCC, a large half-n-half (that’s half onion rings and half French fry) and a Kronenbourg. I also have a weird, but exceptionally tasty ketchup/black pepper concoction that I’ve devised over the years – it’s a 50/50 mix of the two, stirred up with a French fry. Try it. A Ralphie is a bison burger, and the JCC is jalapeno cream cheese. You can add a bunch of other toppings when they deliver your burger because they land on your table an old time classic – plastic bin of burger accompaniments – I’m guessing because they figure that you’re a fucking grown-up and can put whatever you want on your sandwich – that and their grill cook is busy and cannot be bothered with constructing whatever bullshit you’re trying to accomplish – she/he has done their work.
They don’t have a sign out front, they play classical music everyday and their bartenders wear ties – not because of some dumbfuck-showcasy-mixologist front they’re trying to convey – but because they have class. They greet you when you come in the door, Kids get balloons, the staff doesn’t take any shit, and the kitchen wears white aprons. Because they’re a real bar. They don’t fucking need you – you need them. I need them. WE need them.
Oh, and they also sell a fuck-ton of Girl Scout Cookies.
I love you.