Gold Rush Bar and Grill
IT WAS SATURDAY night, and I was blathering about a paddlewheel. "Yeah, it looks like a prospector's house, right by Port Authority," I said, drinking a beer. "It's called Gold?Gold Rush."
"Oh my God! I worked there!" the brunette on the stoop said. "I bartended at the Village Idiot, and the Gold Rush owner offered me a job. It was H-E-L-L. I wasn't allowed to turn down a shot; I'd match construction workers, whiskey for whiskey. End of the shift, I'd have to count the register totally shit-faced. I only lasted a couple months."
A few days later, armed with our own questions, Aaron and I tromp down a Lincoln Tunnel-abutting length of 10th Ave. We stop at the Gold Rush. A sign announces Budweisers are two bucks. For union members.
"We'll bluff," I say, and we enter Village Idiot's cleaner, more taxidermied sister. Above our heads, antler chandeliers glow. A steer skull sports a sailor's cap. Behind, a mountain goat head wears a frilly Mexican hat. A mangled bobcat guards a log; an armadillo peeks out. In front, an otter wears a bowtie and "I [HEART] NY" garb.
So does the bartender. "What-what do you want?" the black-streaked blonde asks. She sways to a 50s song about fast cars.
"Two Buds," I say. Rule of thumb: In foreign lands, stick to local swill. A peek around the Rush-exposed barn beams, a shuffleboard table, men with tucked-in tees-reveals de rigueur Bud. A sweaty pair appears on a too-shiny bar. The bill is eight dollars.
"But?isn't it union Tuesdays?" I ask.
The blonde levels a thousand-yard stare. Takes my $20. Change is $12.
"That's some bullshit," Aaron says. "We should wear one of those fireman shirts and get the special." T-shirts from firehouses as far away as Nevada line one wall. On the bar's mirror, stickers tout the virility of rescue workers. We search, but no sticker lauds sallow-armed 20-somethings. Still, we attract the attention of a balding gentleman with a belted cell. He taps my shoulder.
"I want to ask you a favor," he says, eyes liquor-shiny.
"What?"
"Take my wife and throw her off a bridge. Any bridge. Just throw her the fuck off." He laughs and places his palm on my back.
"Uhh, I don't know if I'm strong enough," I say, pointing to muscles barely thicker than my forearms.
"I'll help you." A former high school wrestler-type enters the fray. Slick-backed black hair glistens. "You get arms, I'll get legs."
I sip my Bud for strength.
"Or," wife-hater says, "keep her. Do whatever you want. Just no backsies. Unh-uh."
"Yeah, no backsies," wrestler says.
"I already have a girlfriend," I say. "Don't you think I have enough problems already?"
"Ahh, now you're learning," the wrestler says. He laughs. Wife-hater laughs. They walk past a drooping American flag and reseat. A few minutes later, the bartender approaches.
"That gentleman bought the entire bar beer," she says, pointing to the wrestler. "This one's free." She supplies two beers.
Perhaps someone accepted the wife challenge? Aaron and I attempt acknowledging our benefactor. We hoist beers, shout, wave-he's occupied recounting a story with third-base coach hand gestures. We stop hoisting and start sipping. Quickly.
When comparing Gold Rush to the Idiot, several differences stand out: First, overpriced beer. Second, the tiled bathrooms carry little E. coli threat. Third, the Gold Rush's perfume lacks urine and vomit, any decent dive bar's measuring stick. Sure, buoyant-breasted bartenders shimmy the occasional bar-top two-step, but a belly-flash is hardly enough to lure flesh-starved drunks to the 10th Ave. venue hinterlands. Who parties near the Javits Center?
We're draining our last drops when our welcome is extended: We're recipients of a free shot. The wrestler, part two. Is his friend a serial-killing polygamist? We order Jägermeister and wonder about the liquor bounty.
"He does this all the time," the bartender says with been-asked-too-much weariness. She pours heavy-handed shots. "He's got a lot of money."
Thinking better of why, we instead raise our glasses and heartily toast the unknown. o