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Pour House Pub

Old home week

When women get together after a long separation, their discussion seems to focus on who's pregnant, married, divorced, cheating and/or fat. Men discuss who's seducing their secretaries, how much money they're making, the latest "sweet" deal they closed and who's fat. Guys, on the other hand, pick up right where they left off -- no matter how long ago they last saw each other -- and immediately start rehashing college partying stories, reliving the highlights of their youth and high school football greatness, bitching about how bad the Vikings suck, lying about the quantity (and, to a lesser extent, the quality) of women they've dragged back to their caves, and laughing about who got fat while still recognizing that they themselves have no more cardiovascular fitness than Marlon Brando.

One of the Institute of Drinking Studies' professors emeriti recently came back from a year-long assignment in an undisclosed location that would be the largest, most worthless tract of real estate in the world if it weren't sitting on all that oil. We celebrated his return by engaging in one of our all-time favorite pastimes: getting overserved. Which is tough to achieve with this Wisconsin-bred drinking machine, who looks exactly the same as he did when I saw him three years ago, despite eating several pounds of bacon a week, going through two packs of smokes daily, not really working out, and drinking as much as the best of us. We thought hard about where to go and decided on the Pour House Pub (1435 Market Street) because it sounded like a place that would continue to serve a variety of draft beers long after we didn't need any more.

Which certainly was the case. But unfortunately for our neighbors and one young Institute recruit, not before we had rehashed every good story from our Air Force Academy days and all of our alcohol-intensive meetings hence ("Remember that time we were totally hammered and we found Wade sleeping upright in his closet?"). It really makes you wonder why we haven't gotten the hell out of Iraq yet, what with all the troops jonesing for a six-pack or four.

In addition to reliving our past greatness, we discussed the vagaries of marriage ("My wife wanted a lap dog, so I taught my Labrador to sit in her lap," our august alum said), the criminal insanity of people who order a perfectly good beer only to put fruit in it, and how much easier it is for guys to pack for an overnight trip than it is for women. The alum, for example, had showed up at my door with a baseball cap and three packs of smokes and grinned, "I'm packed."

The Pour House's extensive collection of beers lubricated our memories, and the rooftop patio proved the perfect place to bore everyone within a ten-foot radius. If you haven't seen the guys for a while and you need a place to reconnect with the inner child who came out at the last reunion (and did several hundred dollars' worth of water damage to the house of the fool who knew better than to host such a gang of hopeless idiots), we suggest you check out the Pour House. Be prepared to stay out longer than you should; in the ultra-competitive guy world, nobody ever wants to be the one to call it a night.

 
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