For my money, the best OSM event takes place on Lyndale Avenue. This past Sunday was the third or fourth time Momma Cuan and I have participated in the Lyndale festivities. The road is closed to traffic from 24th Street south to 54th Street. We chose to stay within a seven block perimeter, which afforded the best and most concentrated sampling of people watching, eating, drinking and listening to live music.
Rather than give an accounting in the traditional "chapters" style, my post is separated by bars. After all, how smart would it be to walk miles down a city street on a hot summer day without having the anticipated periodic reward in the form of an ice cold beer to quench your thirst?
The First Bar: Muddy Waters. I am excited to find a place to park our chariot on 25th Street, only two blocks from Lyndale. Momma Cuan and I mosey up Lyndale to Open Streets' northern boundary, 24th Street. It is hard to resist entering Minneapolis' best pizza parlor, Leaning Tower, which sits at that intersection, but we would feel too guilt-ridden devouring a meal before barely starting our planned afternoon of walking.
From there we do an about face, heading south toward the heart of the Lyn-Lake neighborhood. We quickly discover that, although permission to walk down the middle of the otherwise busy street is central to the Open Streets theme, the sidewalks provide much more welcomed shade. Another central theme is great people watching and camaraderie. All nationalities, races, languages, religions and hair colors are combining here for early summer fun. You don't see many Nike swooshes, Adidas triangles or Under Armor linked U and A logos. In fact, corporate symbols of any kind are unofficially verboten. Instead, you're more likely to find T-shirts with names of metal bands (Slayer, AC/DC), sports teams (Maple Leafs, Lakers), tourist attractions (Grand Canyon, Daytona) or political statements ("Proud to be a despicable," "I think, therefore I R"). If you don't have a tattoo or a piercing, well, you'll just have to try a little harder to blend in anyway.
It doesn't take long to run into a familiar face, Justin Anderson. He has mapped out his walking itinerary to catch all the best bands at the festival, even persuading one of them to push back their gig's start time fifteen minutes to fit into his schedule. He's waiting to hear one of his favorites, the Blood Shots, who are setting up near the Greenway overpass. Momma Cuan and I walk a little further and hear a jiving group of percussionists keeping the beat to a recorded Latin up-tempo tune. They invite passersby to grab an instrument and join in. Momma Cuan urges me to pick up a drum stick and a homemade, hand-held double cowbell. I figure I'll never see these people again, so why not? Of course she takes a picture of me playing and immediately plasters it on Facebook.
Between the Greenway bridge and Lake Street there must be a dozen watering holes to pick from. That is a major reason we've chosen this stretch of Lyndale. Having walked eight or nine blocks since we left our car, we are ready for a beer. Most other OSM participants are thinking alike, so we can't be too choosy. We duck into the closest one, Lago Tacos. We've been there several times before for happy hour, particularly enjoying their patio. But on this day the place is packed, causing us to keep on strolling down Lyndale. We stop to watch a terrific sextet called Jack Brass Band, sounding as good as anything we heard on our last trip to New Orleans. The front man, a pleasant fellow, is a burly trombone player who is accompanied by a skinny trumpeter, plus a sax, a tuba, a snare and a bass drum. The Dukes Of Dixieland would be proud. After several ragtime chestnuts, their final song is a sing-along, When The Saints Go Marching In. There is not one person in the circle of spectators who isn't smiling.
All that singing and cow bell playing, not to mention the walking and the heat, now has me really parched. Muddy Waters is close at hand. We are pleasantly surprised to find two unoccupied stools at the bar. I never thought this suds emporium would have room!
Muddy Waters, once an obscure coffee house kitty corner from Leaning Tower before relocating within 200 yards of Lake Street, has a reputation for having one of the best beer selections in all of Minneapolis. It's also known for hiring bartenders who have a thorough knowledge of their inventory, and who are more than willing to offer suggestions and samples. I almost feel guilty opting for a beer that I've had many times before, Deschuttes Freshed Squeezed IPA, but I am currently more thirsty than adventurous. Momma Cuan, being the local economy supporter that she is, selects B-Side Pilsner from Indeed Brewing, a Nordeast craft brew purveyor.
One reason we like to sit at the rail is the potential for interesting conversations with the bartenders. Such is the case today. One of them overhears Momma Cuan mention to me the name Mike O'Keefe, her former counterpart as Director Of Admissions at De La Salle High School. The bartender, who later introduces himself as Chloe, says he went to De, class of '09, and remembers O'Keefe well. The three of us talk about De La Salle and their long time boys' basketball coach, Dave Thorson. After winning the last six Class 3A state championships at De, Thorson recently took an assistant coaching position at Drake University. The conversation also mentions some De staff members who are common acquaintances of Momma Cuan and Chloe. Finally when it's time to tab out, Chloe points at us, makes a clicking sound and says with a smile, "These are on me."
The Second Bar: The Country Bar. All of our activity so far has been on the east side of Lyndale. But upon exiting Muddy Waters we hear a rocking' band performing on a sidewalk stage across the street at the VFW. A large crowd has gathered to watch the Black Widows, a girl band. The tall lead singer is somehow energetically dancing and singing on key without breaking a sweat -- very athletic. The lead guitarist and keyboard player might be sisters, slightly built with straight blonde hair, bright red lipstick and proficient on their instruments. The keyboardist reminds me of the French models in the famous 1985 Robert Palmer music video of Addicted To Love, her face expressionless while her hips sway rhythmically to the beat. A physically strong drummer and a functional bass player comprise a nice rhythm section. In front of the raised stage is a group of six women, all wearing Black Widows T-shirts, who are doing a kind of improvised snake dance. Like the musicians, most of the troupe is wearing ripped black nylons. They obviously are Vikings fans, the tipoff being the purple streaks running through their hair. All that is missing is a pole dancer. These chicks would be a hit in Pigalle. Great entertainment from a band that I would like to see again.
It is now time to check out what is happening south of Lyndale. Like the 2900 block of Lyndale we've just left, there are plenty of options to grab a cold one in this 3000 block as well. I suggest we check out The Country Bar, which neither of us has been in since the remodeling undertaken a year ago by its new owner. Momma Cuan likes my idea; I come up with a good one about once every other month.
In our view, The Country Bar is known for three things. First, as astonishing as it seems given that it used to be the quintessential dive bar, their chicken wings in the old days were fantastic; large, meaty, hot, not too greasy, with a tasty dry rub and in a generous serving. Second, who can forget the night our daughter Jill performed a Motown song during karaoke, standing on a table and pouring her heart out to the inebriated masses below? "We love you, Minneapolis!" Third, perhaps the greatest Trip Advisor review I've ever read pertained to The Country Bar. The reviewer was recalling his first experience there as he sat at the bar waiting for his take-out order of wings to emerge from the kitchen. A crusty, grizzled regular, smelling of stale beer, sidled up to him and asked, "What do you think was the Beatles' greatest album?" Then, a half-second later added, "You'd better say Abbey Road or I'll [*]ing kill ya."
We score two seats, the best in the house, at the open window overlooking Lyndale. Our server, Samantha, seems genuinely happy to see us. Do we remind her of her parents or -- perish the thought -- her grandparents? A better guess was that she's a pleasant young lady, a "people person" who enjoys her job. Momma Cuan and I both order Bent Paddle Pils, one of my top three non-hoppy beers made in the Gopher State (Duluth). But we are here not only to sip some suds. We also want to check out the chicken wings so we can compare the new Country Bar's rendition to the wings that put the old bar on the map. The verdict: These new ones are not bad at all, although not memorable.
A microcosm of Open Streets is taking place right before our eyes as we relax with Bent Paddle in hand. Walkers, joggers, little kids, dogs, cops, hippies, war veterans, hucksters, senior citizens, wheelchair users, bikers, bladers, all parading and meandering within view. The most intriguing scene is a faux wrestling ring set up in the street a few yards to our right. People are lined up five-deep on each side of the ring to cheer on their favorite grappler, who in real life is probably an actor from the Fringe Festival. Just like pro rassling, each bout features a hero and a villain. Some are dressed with capes, masks or skull caps. The crowd loudly cheers. The best contest is saved for last. The "bad guy" stands about six feet six and is built like Dwayne Johnson. The fans boo him lustily. The "good guy" is about as big as a jockey, with not a discernible muscle in his body. For three minutes the giant tosses the poor underdog around like a stuffed animal, thrusting the poor guy's back into the turnbuckle and slamming him to the bouncy canvas. The angry witnesses can barely watch. Then suddenly the tide turns. The lightweight gets up on a top rope and comes down hard on his opponent. Next he uses a martial arts move to stun the dazed behemoth who can't get up. The joyous crowd is stunned. The referee raises the longshot's arms in the air, the symbol of victory. Good triumphs over evil!
The Third Bar: The Bulldog. Before heading back north in the general direction of our car, we walk south on Lyndale toward 31st Street. There is a so-called arcade bar, the Up-Down, which I didn't know was there, a few store fronts from The Country Bar. My guess is that the Up-Down caters to the college crowd; no thanks. Next to that is another new place, Szechuan Spice, a restaurant which I immediately put on my list of places to check out at some near future date.
Now finally heading back north, we re-cross Lake Street and hear more terrific music coming from the VFW. The band Casual Confusion has taken over the stage vacated by the Black Widows. The diverse high-powered quartet is really rockin' the block, attracting several hundred onlookers. Casual Confusion has two musicians who share lead guitar duties. They both can shred it. The electric bass player and drummer are at the top of their games too. The band delivers the best cover of Prince's When Doves Cry I have ever heard. In fact, I like it way better than The Purple One's original.
We stay until the end of Casual Confusion's set, then continue up Lyndale. By now our footsies are starting to yelp. The line to get ice cream at Milkjam Creamery in the 2700 block is just as long as it was two hours ago, probably at least twenty minutes. We reluctantly take a pass.
In keeping with our tradition, Momma Cuan and I know very well what our last OSM stop is going to be The Bulldog, located just north of 26th Street. Our son-in-law, Uncle Luker, used to tend bar here on Sundays which made it a natural final resting place -- in a good way. I have mostly fond memories of this spot, except for that one afternoon about five years ago when a young bartender tried to talk me out of ordering a Delirium Tremens. If my mind reading sensibilities were correct that day, I believe he took one look at my gray hair and figured the old codger couldn't handle a beer with an alcohol content of 9%. I fooled him by drinking three. Well, okay, that last sentence is an exaggeration, but I did in fact have one.
The Dog still has DT on tap, but I decide to go with Pyres Miraculum, which has become my favorite local (Minnetonka, I believe) brew, regardless of style. A manager at Golden Valley's New Bohemia steered me on to this delicious liquid which has become so popular the demand by taverns for it has, at this point, exceeded the craft brewery's supply. Momma Cuan opts for Kwak, a Belgian beer poured into its own unique vessel which in turn is held up by a wooden clamp. MC insists she likes the beer, but the fact is that her holding the easily identifiable tall Kwak glass in the clamp makes for another Kodak Moment.
While sitting at the rail we have an excellent view of the televised Twins-Angels game from Anaheim. The first place Twinkles are beating the Haloes. Many of the Dog's customers are watching. The bartenders are working hard but taking time to converse with the patrons. People who, like us, had been participating in Open Streets keep streaming in. It is a very fun atmosphere.
A forty-something couple arrives and finds a spot to stand next to me at the corner of the rail. We make small talk for a few seconds while they order two cocktails. My attention is diverted; the next time I look to my left they have moved. It isn't until fifteen minutes later that I see two one dollar bills lying on the bar more or less in front of me. I soon realize that I am not 100% sure whose two bucks those are. Did I already pay for our round, in which case I left that money for a tip, or was it left by that couple, in which case I have not already paid. My inability to know is embarrassing. I am only on my third beer of the day. Do I blame this lapse on the beer or on my rapt attention to the baseball game and Momma Cuan's conversation? I sheepishly ask Momma Cuan to solve the mystery. No luck; she does not know who put that money down. I don't want to walk out and stiff the bartender, but by the same token I don't want to double pay. I need to trust that the bartender is honest, so I ask, "Did I already pay you?" He answers, "Yes." I should have known that Bulldog bartenders are honest. I throw two more smackers down and we are out of there. Another wonderful Open Streets is in the books.
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