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Is Kokopelli a fertility deity — or just a dick? When I stepped inside Kokopelli’s (formerly Manny’s Smokehouse), I instantly loved the look and feel of the place, right down to the wonderful oxblood banquettes and the fabulous blues singer playing on a tiny stage draped with red curtains. But once we sat at the bar, my friend and I might as well have been wearing our invisible suits, because the bartender — let’s call him Dick — ignored us in favor of clearing plates and going to tables to do shots. And the waitress spent more time changing her hair — up, down, ponytail, pink ribbon in, pink ribbon out, big green hat on, big green hat off — than she did waiting on people. When Dick started chatting with the waitress about her serious commitment to her hair, I waved my hands and shouted for his attention (rudely, I admit), and he finally came over without so much as a “Sorry, I’m in the weeds” or, my favorite, “I thought [insert other worker’s name here] had helped you already.” I asked if Kokopelli’s had any specials; Dick sullenly explained that the joint used to have a chalkboard in front but when it blew away, the daily specials went, too. So I ordered the easiest cocktail I could think of, a cranberry and vodka ($4). Next time I go to Kokopelli’s, I’d rather be waited on by a humpbacked flute player with the traditional large phallus than by a bad-tempered dick.
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