RIP: Regulars Remember Longtime Nob Hill Inn Bartender Bart Case

On East Colfax, it’s not terribly unusual to see grown men crying in the middle of the afternoon. But this week, the grown men crying at Nob Hill Inn are (mostly) sober. Some may have done a little time back in the day. Some definitely could — and would — kick your ass, should your ass be in need of kicking.

But their tears flow freely as they mourn the man at the heart of one of Denver’s most beloved dive bars. At 10 a.m. Monday, May 1, a small group of regulars found the doors at 420 East Colfax Avenue still locked because Bartley James “Bart” Case, age 53, wasn’t there to open them. He had died in the night with his beloved (albeit mostly just to him) pup, Milo, at his side.

At a time when the surgeon general warns about the dangers of isolation, the Nob is as much a community as the congregation meeting across the street at the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. Like a church family, the bar forges friendships and fosters petty feuds. It has patrons who appear only for high holidays like the Super Bowl, as well as penitents who partake of draft beer communion on a daily basis.

Lushes and lawyers, hippies and hobos — Case served them all. His excommunications were rare: If you were 86’d from the Nob, you deserved it. Strangers were treated like friends, friends were hugged and teased. When a regular revealed a cancer diagnosis, Case shaved his long surfer locks in solidarity faster than you could say “chemo.”
“He was a saint,” says Pixie Garcia, a regular who met Case in 2014. She recalls him walking people to cars, buying a warm coat for an elderly regular, and literally pulling the hoodie off his back to give to someone in need. “He took care of us all in his own way.”

The service extended to non-customers: Case’s aid to a stabbing victim outside the bar got its own coverage in 2015.

Lyle Black Elk, a retired Marine, comes in on Mondays and Thursdays. “Bart knew I’d be here, and he’d have my bottle opened before I got through the door,” he says.

Zach Lamb recalls Case’s ability to curate a playlist on the bar’s legendary jukebox. “I played a Temptations song one time ten years ago,” he says. “Whenever I came in, there was a proper lineup of Motown bangers waiting for me as soon as I got another shot.”

Born in Denver and a graduate of East High School, Case worked at numerous local bars (and had a brief stint as a carnie) before landing, newly sober, at the Nob Hill Inn in 2013. Bartender Christy Simonsen hired him on the spot. “Bart always looked out for me,” she says. “He would always show up when I closed [the bar] alone to make sure I was safe. I loved him like he was my actual brother. I’m paralyzed with grief today.”
During the darkest months of the COVID lockdown, Case texted regulars who lived alone every morning, checking in to make sure they were still hanging in there. The messages usually included a picture of his corgi mix — a small dog with a bark so loud it rivals the sirens blaring on Colfax.

Although a lifelong Denver resident, Case's admiration for Red Wings hockey great Gordie Howe and Lions running back Barry Sanders kept him rooting for Detroit. He was also known for his generosity, thoughtful gifts, elaborate LEGO builds and colorful shirt collection, many of which were thrifted from local stores.

But most of all, Case will be remembered as a bartender’s bartender, a fixture of old Denver, and a good friend.

Case was preceded in death by his mother, Tara McCraken, and is survived by his father and stepmother, John and Judy Case; siblings Jason Case, Power Case and Ruth Bartlett; daughter Alician Musat and son Jaime Case. Arrangements are pending.