As we all know, the landscape of Las Vegas changes at a pace that makes even those wee, caffeinated trolls who can turn a vacant lot into a Starbucks overnight look lackadaisical. The flotilla of high-rise condos that suddenly looms over every horizon like Imperial Walkers bearing down upon the fleeing desert populace are the most obvious; but a host of street-level changes have been taking place in the Fremont Street area. Within a few scant months, it's gone from crack alley to main drag, with bars springing up like ... well, like high-rise condos, only cheaper and more useful. Soon, we'll be able to stagger from tavern to pub to lounge, with none of that troublesome driving in between.
Not so long ago, the Bunkhouse was a neighborhood dive known as Peyton Place, with dim lights hung from cheap, acoustical tile ceilings and clusters of monosyllabic regulars slouched around sticky tables. But they've undergone a few alterations of late, discarding the formerly nondescript décor for a western theme—full-on western, perhaps in honor of the desperadoes and gunslingers who once roamed Fremont (and on some nights, still do). If the name doesn't tip you off, perhaps that big-ass wagon wheel on the porch will. Inside are stucco walls and rough, wooden beams, with giant, sepia-toned photos of cowboys—mostly of the Roy Rogers/Dale Evans/Hopalong Cassidy variety—interspersed among bridles, stirrups and various horsey accoutrements. Still, I have no doubt that the bartender's cowboy hat is not management-mandated. No, sir, that is a man who was born for, to and possibly in, a Stetson.
Yet, despite its thorough commitment to cowpokery, the Bunkhouse has a strangely schizophrenic feel. A dozen televisions tuned to ESPN and a row of beige, leather recliners lined up before a wall-sized screen are straight out of any sports bar. Some nights you'll inexplicably find that screen alight with Japanese music videos as a squadron of Eastern European tourists lay karaoke waste to "No Woman, No Cry," "Let's Stay Together," "Hotel California" and a number of other hits that sound much better when sung loudly, atonally, chorally and with a Czech accent. And did I mention the Frito pie? Yes, the Bunkhouse serves food as well, including that American culinary classic, Frito pie: basically a big ol' casserole of Fritos, chili, cheese, jalapenos and other things that taste real good after a few drinks. And they have an awesome $2.99 breakfast special, for those who like to start their day off with bacon, eggs and beer.
Last week's First Friday after-party hosted a roomful of hipsters, Budweisers in one hand and Camels in the other, crammed AC/DC T-shirt to Bebe tank top, heads bobbing and shoulders shaking to the Black Jetts and the Pervz. As you can imagine, the few Fremonters (Fremonsters?) who drifted in for their usual TGIF MGD hustled out again pretty quick (if only that asshole in the bathrobe had followed their lead). Not that they should be unused to the music; the Bunkhouse often features bands—could be country, could be rock, could be blues, could be punk ... the choice seems as curiously random as the bar itself. And as random as the crowd is—along with the aforementioned tourists, locals and scenesters, there's also a blend of casino workers, yuppies and old men—fittingly, for a bar that's a little of everything, a few of every kind seem to turn up here.
The Bunkhouse, 124 S. 11th St., between Fremont & Carson. 384-4536.
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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