Rose Garden

I once lived two blocks from a completely bizarre little bar where the space-time continuum severed and I’d step into another dimension. In this dimension, the bar was open from only 10pm-2am and it was situated in the downstairs of a two-flat. The bartender had a sizable collection of dust-covered Fred Flinstone figurines and he’d disappear for millennia, walking up the creaky stairs to his apartment on the 2nd floor. I’d down a few beers, stumble home, and wake up in reality the next morning.

I hadn’t thought about that place for a long time—until I stepped through the doors at Rose Garden. This tiny beer and wine joint threw me through a dimensional portal once again and dumped me in someone’s living room—with a pool table smack dab in the middle. Trying to shake the steely gaze of Rose Garden regulars, I beelined for the bar and immediately ordered a Lone Star and whiskey, only to be denied by Rose’s quizzical look—no whiskey here.

But I did get my hands on a cold one and a chair in the corner from where I could survey the space. Wood paneling hugged the walls like a warm, bourbon-soaked blanket and a large jukebox stood next to stacked supplies. A Formica table rested under the romantic glow of a neon Bud Light sign and video slot machines beckoned the high-roller crowd.

Chatting with the clientele at the bar, I learned that this is a Polish and Czech joint that once catered to the ethnic clientele in the neighborhood before they mostly moved away. I also learned that Rose doesn’t like her place being called a dive bar, and thinks that only a bar with a garage door should be called a dive bar. And then I heard about the time a ski-masked dirtbag with a sawed-off shotgun held the place up, but Rose refused to give up her necklace. (What a G.) I met Bob the lawyer, who gave me his business card (might need that one day), and his skeptical, steel-handshake wife, who probably thought I was a narc or pervert or worse.

The bar closed when everyone else left and I was cut off at about 11:30pm. What else is there to say? They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Ladies and gentlemen … the Rose Garden. 🌹🍻