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Darcy’s Bistro and Pub

You’re as young as you feel.

We here at the Institute of Drinking Studies regard alcohol as a wonderful tool in the battle against age. With a few on board, it's easy to recall those days when you felt invincible and even your most moronic antics seemed funny to you and occasionally a few other people. As we get on chronologically, it's important to revisit that inner child -- even if doing so causes us to age anywhere from ten to fifteen years in a single night.

Professor emeritus Todd was recently back in town for an Institute reunion, and we desperately needed a watering hole where we could get off the overly adult subjects of work cafeterias and our daughters' schools and on with the bad behavior. In a stroke of brilliance, I chose Darcy's Bistro and Pub (4955 South Ulster Street), the older brother of Casey's in Stapleton.

As expected, after a few drinks we more closely resembled Harry and Lloyd of Dumb and Dumber more than we did two relatively accomplished adults. Our booming conversation quickly drew dirty looks from surrounding tables. Not one to take a challenge lying down, Todd upped the ante by mimicking the loud, shrieking laughs of a gaggle of women nearby. They responded by firing daggers from their eyes; unscathed, Todd stood politely and asked, "I'm sorry, was that too loud?"

But we weren't just obnoxious that night. We were stupid as well -- although at the time, we thought we were brilliant. For example, after just five Maker's and Cokes each (we were still warming up), we determined that this drink could form the basis of a new fad diet designed not so much for weight loss as to encourage male-female interactions; we dubbed it the "Coitus Diet." That decided, we concluded that television was culpable for declining SAT scores, the hurricane season, the deficit and hemorrhoids. On one of the numerous sets at Darcy's, we caught snippets of that celebrity ballroom-dancing show. "You know," Todd pointed out, "in some ways, the Taliban is right about America." Mindless shows are okay, but mindless shows of real people doing really boring stuff are criminal. This is why we here at the Institute cannot recommend Survivor, but agree that Temptation Island was a good guilty pleasure.

Finally, we turned our probing intellects to Onstar, the GM feature on high-end cars that absolves people of the responsibility of knowing where their keys are. Todd's rental was equipped with this, and though he hadn't driven, we thought about how cool it would be if Onstar had an autopilot to get you to the nearest good bar -- or at least called you a cab. To prevent self-transportation, Onstar could also be equipped with a Breathalyzer or automatically dial the cops for you and play this: "I'm really trashed." Still, this would be no substitute for Todd's wife, the human Onstar. Once, with no more help from Todd than this plaintive telephone plea -- "Come get me. I don't know where I am!" -- she managed to do just that. At the very least, she should be awarded the Medal of Freedom for dealing with nonsense like this.

Darcy's deserves a few awards, too, for its large patio, wide-open seating, expansive bar and some great food (traditional Irish and otherwise) that gives sobriety a fighting chance. But if that battle's lost, be prepared to feel like you're over a hundred the next morning.

 
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