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The Red Rock Inn didn't exactly set the bar to an unreachable height. The West Charleston dive smelled of Pine-Sol, cigarettes, popcorn and things that go splat in the night. The sawed-off pool cues were barely usable. Same with the beer list. And, in the end (five years ago), the joint was so popular it became a Mexican restaurant.
Then why am I still chasing the Rock? Was it that spunky little jukebox? The atomic-blast 8-by-10s on the walls? The cow bell that inexplicably hung over the bathroom stalls? Or could it have been Katie the bartender, who more than just bought us an occasional beer and put up withour bell-ringing antics—she liked us. In fact, Katie called not long after the Red Rock closed to tell me where our gang could find her. (I'll always regret losing that number.)
Everybody knows bars like that, where the two of you just hit it off. Maybe it's the ambience, the room's feng shui or some other undefinable factor ... or maybe it's the way that chick with the tattoo peeking out of her low-riders pours the Guinness.
One of the things that qualifies me for this enviable position at this fair and just publication is my gift of seeing the glass as half full. Some days, just the sight of a decent domestic on tap and a bartender with teeth is enough to win me over. In other words, I like bars. But it's a tougher job than you'd think in Vegas, where—for all its world-class lounges, clubs and pubs—there are twin hurdles when it comes to neighborhood bars: too little sense of place and too keen a sense of revenue.
In other words, good, unique, character-building neighborhood bars, ones where the culture doesn't revolve around video poker, are hard to find.
Despite the fact that Mr. Half Full just eliminated 90 percent of the city's bars from ever qualifying as Good, I don't seem to be fired yet. So let me tell you about my first official stop in this weekly journey to ... well, some day we'll both find out what this is all about.
I had been flirting with The Gin Mill Bar & Grill in Henderson for several weeks in hopes it could be a successor to the Rock. The relatively new, freestanding, stucco building looks rather bland if not awkward, its drug-store Tuscan architecture set way back from Pecos, between a physical therapist's office and a car wash. But it also looks a little lonely, and one afternoon, the large, red neon sign, embellished with a tipping martini glass on its facade, lured me out of the daylight and into its dark den.
I planted my tank on one of the few stools not in front of a poker screen, laid out my bar-scouting gear (pen, paper, compass, emergency reading material, wallet) and looked around. The horseshoe bar in the middle of the place, between the small dining area and game room, was admirably populated for 3 p.m. on a Monday, though most of the community craned their heads downward, watching their luck.
"Hi, I'm Liz," the bartender said.
I told her my name and, after wincing at the lack of taps around me, what I wanted. Bud Light. Why, I had no idea. It's bad enough to wean yourself off the gorgeous draught Fat Tire at Roadrunner with bottled beer, but Bud Light? My first duty on the first day of my new job and I froze.
I overcompensated by ordering a poor boy from the waitress, then shrugged off her news that the sandwich would be on a separate check. In front and overhead, ESPN's Peter Gammons blathered about the Red Sox. The lady to my right kept shouting out her four-of-a-kinds (Liz evidently keeps track of such scores). The guy to my right lit up, ordered a Jack and Coke, and briefly clarified with Liz some rule about his video poker account.
After 15 minutes, I heard him say in my direction: "This isn't Christmas, is it?"
I looked over at his screen. No clues. I bit: "Why do you say that?"
"Because I keep seeing three kings!"
I shook my head and swigged the Light. "Four would be a better sight, huh?"
He spieled about some poker contest the system has, where he needs four kings to complete something-or-other to win as much as $15,000, which diminishes as the week goes on or if you don't play high enough stakes—
I gently interrupted: "Sounds like they've found another way to get your money."
He agreed, but never slowed down. I ordered another round. Three guys to my right hovered around a poker machine. The four-of-a-kind lady had vanished. When? Liz opened a stained-glass door, pulled out a mini screw-top bottle of white wine and poured it for one of the men. They were gaming feverishly.
Time passed and numbness set in. As I finished taking notes, I had one for the road. The motif consisted of wood paneling and brick mixed with stone and wallpaper. Faux plants surrounded us. The bar was clean and comfortable. The service friendly and accommodating. The game room was fine: a couple of pool tables, a jukebox, a dart board.
More video-poker dialogue between bartender and the guys. Their full house didn't hold up or something.
Checks, please! The three Lights amounted to nine bucks and change. The food bill was around $7. I paid each and slipped out.
"Thanks, Phil."
She remembered. I want to tell you it seemed a little too programmed, but what did I expect? Besides, generic camaraderie is what a guy who shows up alone, orders Bud Light and doesn't play poker has coming to him.
Phil Hagen is our new bars columnist. Send your feedback to [email protected].