By Jamie Swinnerton
By Mark Antonation
By Lori Midson
By Jonathan Shikes
By Amber Taufen
By Cafe Society
By Juliet Wittman
By Jonathan Shikes
For those of you interested in ridding your frat party, wedding reception or bar of unwanted guests, the Institute can no longer recommend sounding the fire alarm. When I was in college, though, this was a highly effective method. We'd had to sneak into a frat party because the dirty hippies of the People's Republic of Boulder didn't see eye to eye with "short-hairs" who didn't reek of pot, patchouli and arrogance, and just before we had drunk enough so that we could no longer stand upright, someone pulled the fire alarm. The resulting stampede was reminiscent of a Who concert in Cincinnati. Being highly trained military personnel, we waited while the masses cleared out, getting in those crucial last two beers in the process.
Now we are jaded and immune to such panic, no doubt after multiple threats by radical Islamists, Scientologists and the Cartoon Network. And while we did leave Fadó Irish Pub & Restaurant (1735 19th Street) when the fire alarms went off the other night, that was mostly because we'd already had our fill of good draft Guinness and pub food. About the only excitement we got from the alarm -- which we did not pull, by the way -- was the sharing of several graphic fireman fantasies by the women in our group.
The Institute was out in force because Fadó had recently updated its menu. I'd been there before with the former Head of Research but never got to eat; my evening was cut short by a near-lethal case of hiccups. Institute tip: Do not drink Guinness and Jameson after you've had several "beers" at Coors Field. Any other time should be just fine, however.
The new menus have wooden covers that would have been perfect for braining the moron in the bar who thought he was still in third grade and lit a couple of stink bombs. At least I hope they were stink bombs. Despite the nauseating reek, we tucked into our food with a vengeance, devouring sliders, cheese dip, and fish and chips as we drained several beers. We could not have been happier with the fare or the service we got from Louis, the manager.
No, our problem was "Daisy." Daisy has been out with the Institute on several occasions and probably deserves to be a member, but we don't know what to call her. There are lots of types of drunks -- mean drunks, sloppy drunks, combative drunks, horny drunks (an Institute fave), silly drunks and professionals -- and Daisy is none of these. She's funny and pleasant and holds her own, but instead of getting more rambunctious, loud and annoying with each drink, she goes to the dark side: She's polite. After a while, it's as if she's absorbed the spirits of Ann Landers, Heloise and Martha Stewart (minus the felonious tendencies). She'll just sit there primly and make insightful but utterly proper comments, such as "That was quite funny how you just fell out of your chair" or "That was an excellent brew. May I have another?" In expressing the same ideas, any other Institute member would drop numerous F-bombs at a deafening volume -- after having already helped push someone out of his or her chair. Still, we're grateful to Daisy, as her grounding presence may be the only reason that the Oriental Representative didn't fall out of her chair that night.
While we debated what to do with Daisy, we granted Fadó unrestricted Most Favored Bar trading status. We recommend the place highly -- especially when the town finally thaws out and you can enjoy the patio. The libations are great for a run-of-the-mill drinker, and true professionals can take advantage of extended hours by pretending to be soccer or rugby fans. We do not recommend that you pull the fire alarm to clear space for yourself; people wouldn't pay attention, anyway. The only thing you might get out of the deal is a date with a pissed-off fireman or maybe a ride home in a police car.