It’s A Small World
Look’s like Jerry has cleaned up his act. I once lived in Dacono, Colorado (north of Denver) and the sign was correct. The greasy food was good though … if you dared enter. A biker dive bar when I lived in the area. Long ago.
But heavens above, they have a web presence now. Jerry’s old lady must have busted his chops.
I’ll let the quote from their web page speak:
“Jerry D’s is a revitalized biker-friendly sports and live entertainment bar, known for its long history and recent renovations. It offers a great atmosphere and a welcoming environment, making it a top-notch destination for both bikers and locals alike. The restaurant has a lot of outdoor seating, perfect for fall, providing shade and a relaxed vibe. While it had a limited menu in its early days, Jerry D’s is now gaining a reputation for its good food, including the popular burgers and cow balls.“
“Jerry D’s is a great spot for those looking to enjoy a cold drink and good food in a laid-back atmosphere.“
OK. Laid back. Back when, it was laid back ’cause if you mouthed off to some biker, he laid you back. Nice enough place though if you didn’t mess with the clientele.
Cold beer – greasy (but good) food.
Times change I guess … haven’t been there in a long time.
Everyone’s got an old bar-greasy spoon in their background somewhere don’t they? Mine was named “Pete’s Hangover” and it was right on 41 in south Fort Myers, FL.
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The place I actually consider “my” dive bar was a place called Mr B’s Bar, right next to the pool hall. I was just a visitor in the others.
Do I wanna know…what are cow balls?
Trust me on this, Jean. You don’t want to know.
aka “Rocky Mountain oysters”
geez. You’re not helping.
OK. azlib tried to warn you … but you asked for it.
bull – X = steer
yikes..edible gross.
I never knew that.
(I ain’t no cowboy)
Learn something new all the time.
There was a bar in New Orleans that catered to [my former airline’s] pilots, and for the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the place. I want to say it was “Eileen’s”, but it doesn’t matter….it’s no longer there.
The place was named after it’s owner….a woman. Anyway, “Eileen’s” was in the French Quarter, but well off the beaten path. You had to know where it was, and even if you did, you might walk past it and not notice it at all. The bar was on the ground floor, but you had to take a couple of steps down to get to the front door. I always wondered about that. The city itself is about 6′ below sea level and how do you operate anything by going lower than that? The ceiling was really low too….maybe 8’…and it was always really dark in there. Most of the lighting came from those beer signs behind the bar.
We’d usually start an evening with a stop into her place, and if “Eileen” was there, she loved, loved, loved seeing pilots. She was pushing 80 and spent most of her days perched up on a bar stool in the corner, nursing a drink and smoking cigarettes one-after-the-other, which I’m sure is part of the reason why it was so dark there. Word was that she had a clause in her will such that after her death, her body would be flown back home but only on [my airline’s] planes.
After she died, her husband, every bit as ancient as she was, tried to run the place, but it didn’t last. Maybe it was the flooding after Katrina, maybe her husband didn’t know how to run a bar, maybe Eileen was the real appeal of “Eileen’s”….whatever the reason, they closed the doors and it prolly turned into some Voodoo shop or something.
A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away that no longer exists under the same management, there was a falling down shack right off the flight line of Camp Holloway at Pleiku. You could go in there and get a cold one or something stronger if you felt the need and what little entertainment there was consisted of a PX stereo and our own conversations. I don’t remember the name of it, if indeed it had one, but it had as its exclusive clientele we few, we happy few, we band of reprobates officially known to the goddam army (hat tip to Bobby Troup’s character in MASH) as H Troop, 17th Air Cav. The 57th Assault Helicopter Company was situated down the strip a bit, but they had their own separate area, and I never saw anybody but us in there, which is how it should be because in accordance with the prophecy, “if you ain’t Cav, you ain’t shit.” The 57th probably had their own equally squalid little shack and if they did, we would have been equally unwelcome there, too, which is how it should be.