7.07.09»THE MYTH OF THE HAPPY NOODLE HOUSE

I call out of work on Wednesday afternoon. There is something strange in the wind that tells me that this Six Shooter is going to require my full attention. But where to turn that attention is a mystery. I heed the Colonel's advice when he tells me not to think too hard about it. I head out on my own, ready to succumb to fate. Where better to start, I think, than the bar just downstairs from my place of employment?

Suite 108 (The Boulder Bar with No Name)
8:26 p.m.
1325 Broadway
Broadway, $7

“This is the coolest bar you don’t know about,” Glenn the bartender tells me to tell you. He is a reasonable man. The bar connected at the kitchen to Cosmo’s Pizza doesn’t need a name, doesn’t need décor, or windows, for that matter. The drinks are stiff and the crowd is warm. The jazz is loud and there is always baseball on the television. Into my glass go the bitters, Makers Mark, Amaretto, Grand Marnier, with a squeezed lemon hugging the rim. I take down all the elements and they put me into an adventurous mood. It is then that a couple a few stools over tell me about the Happy Noodle House. It is a mythical bar I will find only by navigating the back alleys of Boulder. There is something in their voice that makes me take them very seriously. Something tells me I’ll be eating noodles for dinner.

As I slam my glass down, a man with dreadlocks at the end of the bar asks me if I’m a journalist.
“No," I tell him. "I’m a drunk.”


The Burnt Toast
9:08 p.m.
1235 Pennsylvania Ave.
Samuel L. Smith Tadcaster, $5.15

My favorite coffee shop on the Hill also has a great bar, and on Wednesday nights, hosts an open mic night in conjunction with Baobob Tree Press. I notice quickly that the Tadcaster I purchase holds enough beer for two. I marvel at the universe’s propensity to get me drunk. I watch the ceiling fan overhead and listen to poets talk about the inside of their mouths. I pass off my camera onto Max, and when I find him again, he has somehow taken a picture of everybody in the establishment. All talk in the form of wistful reverie reminds me that somewhere out there, the Happy Noodle House is closing its front doors in order to trick the world into thinking there is nothing left to be had. I venture back into the night. Thunder rumbles from the western side of the Flatirons.

T-Zero Bar
9:55 p.m.
900 Walnut Street
Sake, $9

The rains start to fall, so I hurry into the bar at the St. Julien Hotel in order to find shelter and information. Andrew, the bartender, gives me a more specific address for the Happy Noodle House. He has heard whisperings about the allure of the bar. He tells me that I won’t be able to gain entry until after 10.

I have time to kill, so he offers up a concoction of his own design. He mixes Tozai sake with St. Germaine Elderflower Liqueur, muddled raspberries, and Midori melon liqueur. I ask Andrew what muddled raspberries are, but I quickly forget his reply. I try to come up with a suitable toast, but fall short. “To not being drunk enough for a good toast,” I say finally. I walk around the lobby with my drink and talk to the women at the check-in desk. I look at the art in the marble bathrooms. The rain does not let up, forcing me to dart from awning to awning up Walnut Street.

The Bitter Bar
10:36 p.m.
835 Walnut Street
Absinthe, $14

The rain comes sidelong, but there are only so many alleys in Boulder. I run out of protective storefront awning, but then I see a beacon of light reflected off a dumpster. When the Happy Noodle House reopens at 10, they change their name to the Bitter Bar. The vibrant energy is noticeable immediately and the bartenders are friendly and knowledgeable. I am set up with an absinthe demonstration. While wormwood is now legal in the states, it is highly regulated. Five parts-per-something-I-can’t-recall. I watch the bartender ignite the sugar cube resting on the knife over the absinthe glass, then start to drip water over it. This is the Czech method. I am amazed at the arcane knowledge I'm receiving — I feel like I am in some subterranean church dedicated to the sanctity of alcohol. I have reached my oasis, and while I drink, the rain stops. It is now time to find two more bars on the slow crawl home. But not before the house mixes me up a glass with single malt Scotch, Vermouth, Glenroth, and a 1786 Antica Cherry Liqueur. An orange rind is toasted and dropped into it. They call it a Blood in the Sand. I go back out into the streets soaking wet, just as I came in.


The West End Tavern
11:35 p.m.
926 Pearl Street
Blueberry Lace, $8
I talk to the doorman about his bicycle for a little while before sidling up to the bar. Ever conscious of health and nutrition, I look for a drink that will sit lightly in my belly. A bottle with some sort of plant in it catches my eye. The girl behind the bar tells me the West End grows fresh basil for their drinks. She tells me her name is Sage. All is right with the world. She mixes me up a drink with Bourbon along with the basil and some muddled blueberries. I ask her what muddled blueberries are, but I cannot remember what she says. I want badly to take a picture with Sage, but my camera battery has dried up. I do not take the tragedy lightly. Somewhere out there, a stranger’s cell phone holds a picture of me and Sage.


The Sink
12:40 p.m.
1165 13th Street
Sunshine Wheat $4
By the time I walk up Broadway, I need a drink of water. The next best thing is Belgian beer, so I duck into the Sink. The walls and ceiling are colorfully illustrated with caricatures that all start to spin like the oil paint was still fresh. I try to flip a quarter with the bartender for the tab, but he's not having it. I stand at the bar watching my neighbors take down their drinks. I think back at the piss-stinking alleys running over with rainwater. Then I think about the fireplace in the lobby of the Saint Julien. I hurry to finish my drink, longing only to tell someone here a story about a bar out in the dark.