Down At O'Rourke's

"Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going." Tennessee Williams.

I had a few moments on hand the other day and surfed the net for the latest news. Among the big headlines was a story about a race for a senate seat in Texas, how money is pouring in from everywhere, like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. The incumbent is a faithful party member, the upstart challenger - O'Rourke - has something of an acceptably checkered past and a curious nickname.

It was a place from many years ago, accessible only in my mind's eye. Even the omniscient Internet cannot recall O'Rourke's Mexican Cantina, in the Denver suburb Glendale. That makes me wonder if I recall it correctly.

I don't remember how I discovered it, or who discovered it for me. It was a modest joint, dining room of ten or fifteen tables and booths on one side and a bar on the other.

Growing up in Western New York, good Mexican food... I pause here to give notice to those grammar Nazis who have read this far. It seems awkward, almost an ism of some kind, to refer to cuisine by a one word label. In my arcane literary world one does not go out for "Chinese" or "Tibetan." One orders Chinese food - usually an Americanized version of it, anyway. There was this editor with whom I worked who insisted, and because he had my publisher's ear I relented. But, when I called up my buddy Harvey I said "Let's go to O'Rourke's for Mexican food" and he was never confused. I digress.

 The food was excellent, the margaritas flowed freely. Having a Western NY palate for Mexican food, that is having eaten a time or two at Taco Bell, the vivid spices and searing sauces took some getting used to.

One of my fondest memories of the place was when friend Howie and my brother Dave ventured out to my apartment for a ski trip. They had, as only those two larger-than-life personalities could, gotten upgraded to first class on the flight out to Denver. They emerged from the jetway in high humor, mildly soused, which was a mere preview of things to come. Among other events, my brother somehow hit a trash can on the slopes at Winter Park. All of that is for another day.

We went to O'Rourke's for Mexican food. Dave devoured his smothered burrito, all the while sweating profusely from his own "Back East" reaction to the hot, peppery sauces. He drank his water in one gulp. His margarita in the next. Then my water, my marg...

Harvey and I stopped in one night, only to have our dinner interrupted by a strolling brass quartet playing something very loudly. "Finnegan's Wake," it was explained over the raucous celebration - patrons singing and clapping to the music. There was even a casket containing a mannequin dressed for the occasion.

That's how I remember it all, anyway. For all I know it was actually called O"Flynn's, or Saint Patty's. It closed only a few years after I used to haunt the place. A shame.

The memories are still alive, though they - like me - have faded.