"Feel free to sit anywhere," the bartender says as we walk into Hennessey's Tavern. And with dozens of empty tables, we really are free to sit anywhere.
"This place is way too nice to be this deserted," I say to Lisa, my girlfriend. With its glossy wood finish and warm lighting, the bar has the inviting feel of a comfortable living room. Yet tourists and locals seem to prefer lining up in mundane, overcrowded casino bars only a block away, where stoic bartenders endure the hordes of Vegas visitors with cold, robotic efficiency.
It appears Hennessey's suffers from the same leper-like curse as the nearby Neonopolis. Perhaps people get this far down Fremont Street, glimpse the less savory and illuminated area on the east side of Las Vegas Boulevard, and flee in terror. Or maybe they just can't bring themselves to leave behind the safety of the canopy of lights, for fear of missing an opportunity to crane their necks for a cheesy NASCAR promo.
But Lisa and I were now avoiding the canopied section, following a brief run-in with The Man. As we'd strolled down Fremont Street in the hope of discovering a watering hole with character, I'd noticed on the side of a building a giant arrow which read: "Topless: Girls of Glitter Gulch." I then observed that if someone—say ... my girlfriend—were to scale one of the soda machines below, this arrow would point directly at her. To me, this represented a hilarious photo opportunity I'd be stupid not to take advantage of. Fremont Street security, however, had a difference of opinion, hinting we'd best take our anarchic attitudes elsewhere. And since the bustle of the Fremont Street Experience seems to die west of Fourth Street, Hennessey's felt "elsewhere" enough.
We sit down at a cozy little table opposite the bar and are promptly greeted by a waitress with a tail-end-of-a-long-shift look on her face. So overwhelming is her fatigue that she even comically rests her head on our table before taking our orders. We offer our sympathies, and in return she brings over three Sambuca shooters, on the house, and performs an impromptu dance of sorts. The dance is so entertaining, Lisa and I can't bring ourselves to tell her that we both find the taste of licorice nauseating. We choke down the drinks with a smile.
Now considering us allies, our waitress launches into a hilarious tirade about her workday and throws in a bizarre anecdote about her friend's creative pronunciation of "car pool lane." And at this point, we're buzzed enough that "caw poo lane" becomes the easy-laughs catchphrase for the rest of the evening.
"These people had better not sit outside and make me go out into that heat," she says, spying a few patrons hovering around a table just outside the window. With an exaggerated huff, she heads off to meet them.
Maybe it's because we've worked our share of soul-sucking customer-service jobs ourselves, or maybe it's because we're presently on the lam for Unlawful Vending Machine Ascension (or U.V.M.A.), but Lisa and I agree that our waitress's rebellious insistence on letting her personality show is incredibly refreshing. It's certainly preferable to the dull, workman-like attitudes of the other "more professional" bartenders we'd contended with earlier. A little character in the bar staff can mean the difference between a watering hole to revisit and just another room with booze in it.
We decide to make a special toast to our waitress when she returns with the next round ... even though it winds up being another round of Sambuca shooters.
HENNESSEY'S TAVERN Where: 425 Fremont Street.
Info: 382-4421.
At long last, Matthew Scott Hunter has a valid reason to drink. You can e-mail him at
[email protected].