Since when is four f***ing inches of snow an emergency in Minnesota? Hold on, let me amend that. Since when is four f***ing inches of slush that has largely melted a snow emergency in the piss-poor city of Minneapolis.
Just a heads up, there will be more of that to come.
Let's get into this one, my head hurts, partially from a hangover, partially from my dog headbutting me awake this morning.
Tony Jaros. A name synonymous with a concoction known around the Northeast portion of Minneapolis as the "Green Meanie".
How does one create a Green Meanie you ask? Hard to say, but it has a s***tload of vodka in it. Maybe a press. Top it with melon liqueur and add a dash of a white substance from an unmarked packet.
No seriously. Could be sugar. Could be coke.
DISCLAIMER: The writer of this blog has absolutely no idea what the contents of said package are and his alcohol addled mind will create whatever kinds of parallels it can to make sense of the night before. It is shear speculation and conjecture for comedic purposes and in no way an accusation. So lighten up.
Whatever it is, the drink is good and strong. Sweet, but not too sweet. Had two. $4.50 each. Not bad.
The ambiance would be considered minimalist. The center oval bar taking up more space than the actually seating area. A small kitchen in the back reportedly served food. I did not care to try.
Just as I learned that the bar also serves a "Bluie" and "Pinkie" my party pulled me away, perhaps detecting that my deteriorating mood needed a change of venue. Perhaps, they were right, but their choices were so wrong.
Nye's Polonaise. Jesus f***ing Christ. What did I do to deserve this one.
Far be it from me to suggest that my tastes are better than those at Esquire magazine that deemed Nye's Polonaise to be the "Best Bar In America"... wait, no it isn't. I'll say whatever the hell I want, they charge $5 for a tap of Miller Lite.
1960 threw up on a lot in Northeast. It was then named Nye's. Red carpeting, dark wood paneling and gold flecked booths. All the things that the magazine loved made me ill. A piano player that seems to want drunken aging hipsters to sing their favorites.
A polka band in the side room that looked like a cross between the Chuckie Cheese Animatronic band and the results from opening The Ark of The Covenant. Three old, melted, polka players pressed against a wall, staring at you when you go to the bathroom.
I get it. It is quaint and "original". You don't see bars like that anymore. Is there a reason for that? Yup.
As I am not an aging hipster, a well-worn traveller, or a part of the population that needs more from their bar than good prices, flat screen TVs and pleasant company, this is not a place for me.
Though I will at least concede that there is a large enough portion of this population to make Nye's a very popular haunt. Probably why the parking lot was full.
It was far too much for me to handle. Their parking lot that was only big enough for a dozen cars was filled and we were forced to park two blocks away. Fortunately it was after 10pm. No meters. Yeah!
Or was it...
My party and I needed food. Not wanting to dig into the fair at Nye's, our cravings drifted to something simpler. Something more white trash. We needed tots. We needed The Bulldog.
Three blocks south from Nye's is The Bulldog, which unfortunately took over the space from the gay club, Boom. Say what you will about whatever stupid ass political views you have, if you are male and want to get drunk, go to a gay club. I could get a double Maker's Mark for $5.
But I digress. Walking into the entrance we passed a couple commented that they had been towed.
How much would that suck?
Inside was pretty filled. A far more modern design, simple black high top tables surrounding a very large, fully stocked bar with a serious number of imports and microbrews available.
Of course, I'm not that guy, I was there for Tater Tots. I ordered a High Life.
I hate Napoleon Dynamite, but these tots are good enough that I will endure people's quoting of ridiculous movie lines. Fried, salty and delicious, if I have anything negative to say about them, it is that they are too fancy.
Directly from their menu:
My party got the truffled parmesan. Very good, but something about them just seemed to be too much. Like putting pearls on a pig, in the end, it is just a pig. A delicious, delicious pig.
Avoid the Fried House Made Fresh Mozzarella. You get two blackened hockey pucks. Besides on a pizza, the only way mozzerella should be served is in stick form. What you expected better from this blog?
It was time to leave. The drink had set in and I knew I had to actually be somewhere this morning. Wandering back to the car with my sober cab I commented, "Did you hear that girl who said her car was towed? How much would that..."
Then we saw the car had been towed.
Snow emergency. How the f*** was I supposed to know it was an emergency? Did any businesses have signs? Were there any signs in the streets? What the f*** do you think?
Quickly back to Nye's whose postage stamp parking lot I blame for it all. They had no idea where it would have been towed. Three phone calls later, it was at the city impound. It was then that I noticed the insane number of tow trucks clearing the streets.
Of course, there weren't any snow plows. That would make too much sense.
A ride from concerned citizens (shout out to Cameron and Emily, you my peeps!) to the city impound lot and $138 later we had our car back. I f***ing hate Minneapolis.
Evidently, I need to check the local news stations and internet before I go out drinking. What an awesome town!
That's it. No realizations. No summation. I'm sure this is riddled with spelling and grammar errors, but I just don't give a s*** at this point. What would have been an otherwise fun jaunt through the well known Northeast was ruined. I thought I had avoided the s*** of downtown by staying on the other side of the bridge. But it looks like s*** really does run downhill.
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