Ahhhhh, now THIS is what I like to see on a camping trip: a fun biker bar, filled with long-haired handsome biker-rock-n-roll dudes. Easy on the eyes. Easy on the wallet. What more could you ask for?
However, this was not the case in Ouray, Colorado. Sadly, this was from LAST year's vacation in Montana.
After we were skewled for being "old ladies" by the five-year old (OK, OK, 25 year-old) whose ass I should've kicked, we stumbled, half-starved, around Ouray trying to find food and stupidly going to the bar the baby-girl suggested for senior citizens--Ouray Brewery, an impressive, 3-story affair.
At the beginning it was promising; a cute little bartender recommended a fine pale ale as we sat on the 3rd floor terrace over-looking the quaint town.
"Ahhhhh," Doooders and I sighed after a nice long sip. After all, it'd been an entire hour since our last brew.
We perused the menu, but every damned entre on the BAR menu was over $13 bucks. This was just a tavern/"ale house" with food. It's supposed to be cheap. It's supposed to be greasy. It's supposed to be good. After all, it got good reviews on Yelp.
"Gawd, Doooders, everything on this menu is expensive," I noted. Earlier in the day, Doooders had over-paid $15 for a cup of coffee with about a quarter cup of scrambled lifeless rubbery eggs on spring greens while I only had a $7 cup of coffee and entertainingly swatted flies at our table. So we were REALLY starving by now.
"Let's get the Mozzarella Moons and the hummus with veggies. How could they possibly screw that up," Doooders noted. I nodded ravenously.
Doooders went up to the bar and posted our order then came back to our table looking pale and shaken. What was it, I thought. Did she see Cactus Man here? Nothing else could have afforded such a scare.
"Doooders," I start alarmed. "What's wrong??!!"
"The bill was $32," she sputtered.
"$32 bucks for two appetizers?!" I squeaked. "This BETTER be fucking good."
Twenty minutes later, the bartender brought us over a plastic, tissue-paper lined basket with 4 wads of shriveled mozzarella, each piece smaller than a jalapeno pepper, and a strange grey blob of hummus served with 4 pieces of celery with brown ends, the size of my pinkie, and some slimy carrots, which, starved, I proceeded to eat anyway. Dooders passed on the celery sticks and carrots and ate the 2 pieces of red pepper, wiping the slime off them first.
"Do you have any bottles of Ensure to-go?" I wearily asked the baby-bartender.
"HUH?" he grunted.
Well, the GOOD news was that no one got the squirts or threw up later at camp, AND a good lookin' biker from Florida sat down next to us and chatted to us for a while. But our next Ouray trip means, bringing our own food, and cooking in camp.
And next time I see that woman, I'm gonna skewl her right in the ass. . . . Stay tuned for more Camp Tales.