The Dive Bomber: Time Out! This Isn't a Dive

OK, so maybe I do have a few hipster tendencies. Before this week's dive trip, I spent a couple of hours coddling a $5 bottle of beer at the Bleeding Deacon with friends.

I'm not ashamed to admit I enjoy such activities. I had a hard time pulling myself away to go a block down Gravois to Time Out Bar and Grill.

click to enlarge The Dive Bomber: Time Out! This Isn't a Dive
Robin Wheeler
After the dark, smokey, crowded interior of the Deacon, the diffused colored laser lights I could see through Time Out's glass brick windows threw me for a loop. That should have been my clue that perhaps the bar I'd considered the dive in that neighborhood really wasn't a dive.

It's not a dive.

To the right of the door, a gas fireplace glows, surrounded by a full set of cushy living room furniture. Blame the Lagunitas IPA and the chilly fog, but the urge to have a little nap on the couch was damn near irresistible. I powered through, walked past two guys shooting pool and sat at the long bar. Only one other patron was there. Off in the back corner, a DJ played Queen.

I ordered a bottle of Stag, and the bartender brought two. Ladies night! Buy one, get one free. Twenty-four ounces of beer for two dollars. The couch's siren song nearly drowned out Fleetwood Mac.

So it's not a dive, despite dive prices on my favorite dive beer. So why were there only four customers in the place? Maybe there were more in the game room; I didn't check for fear that the couch would get me. Comfortable atmosphere, decent music, cheap beer, friendly staff and customers. What could make it any better?

How about a kitchen that serves slingers until 2:30 a.m.? Why isn't every bar in town doing this? It's ingenious!

Don't mind me, fellas. I'm just going to double-fist these beers, have a little nap and wake up in time for breakfast. I'll be out the door by the time you close. I'm not too hip to beg.

Robin Wheeler writes the blog Poppy Mom and is a regular contributor to Gut Check. She also has a strange attraction to drinking establishments with jars of pickled -- or possibly fossilized -- eggs. She reports on these dives every Thursday.
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