On the End of the Dark Horse: Closing Time, for the Last Time

It's November 19th, 2004.  I'm sat in the fireplace room of the World Famous Dark Horse, passing the time before the clock strikes 9p.  My roommates and I had come from Friday night basketball band rehearsal and just kind of stuck, as you do.  But, I was not yet 21, and at 9 o'clock I would turn back into a pumpkin. The staff at the Horse were primed and ready to go around, check IDs, and kick out the underage losers, like myself.  I was ready and resigned, but adamant to stick it out till they forced me out.

Come on in, the Horse has been waiting for you.

There was a game on the TVs that night, an early-season NBA tilt, which had been drawing our attention.  It was Pacers/Pistons from Detroit; a matchup between two Eastern Conference playoff-caliber squads, who, more importantly, boasted two recent CU basketball greats -- Detroit's Chauncey Billups (*cough*) and Indiana's David Harrison.  The Pacers were going to run away with it, and I was about to hit the bricks when the dang Malice at the Palace broke out.  

Everyone started yelling and pointing; talking across each other.  As the staff went around checking IDs, amidst the chaos, they somehow forgot to check our table in the center of the room.  I was in, unintentionally slipping past curfew. It was an underage miracle! My older roommate slipped me a mug for the pitcher on the table; that one pitcher soon turning into multiple. Suddenly, a normal night at the Horse had turned into something special.  

And that was the Horse in a nutshell.  Walking through its doors was like passing through a portal of time and space into another world where sometimes the weirdest stuff would happen.  A Disney Land of beer and sports and Boulderites and random crap on the walls (and ceilings, and floors, and...); no wonder, then, that a stained glass depiction of Goofy, Donald Duck, and Mickey sat above the entrance.

Did you ever notice this?

We learned a few weeks ago that the Horse, now a whopping 50 years old, would be plowed under to make way for some modern-age complex of upper-bougie housing and urban planning.  Sure, build your little boxes or whatever, and I'm all for higher-density usage, but the Horse has to go?  The stupid McDonald's and the broke-ass, derelict, irredeemable Broker Inn gets to stay, but the Horse has to go?  

As of last week, it now sounds as if the Horse could be up for the executioner's axe in the next few weeks, with the Boulder City Attorney suddenly announcing that the building must be demolished before the end of the year. There is simply no justice in this world.

It has become apparent that the Horse is doomed for the simple fact that it's in the way.  In the way of some new development and more money.  No, the apartments-to-be are not tagged for affordable housing.  No, the grocery store is not guaranteed to stay, probably further depriving the neighborhood.  There is no morality here. The Williams family just wants to make more money, and the out-of-state, trust-fund detritus must be catered to.  So, out goes the Horse; an institution of heart, of local identity, and in comes some modern taupe and gray shrug of a plan that will mean nothing to no one in a few years.  

Ultimately, the closing of the Horse is emblematic of the continued slide of Boulder proper into cookie cutter irrelevance.  The push by outsiders and greedy shills to turn the town into something homogenic and profitable has continued, apace, to strip the town of any uniqueness or color.  Much like the football program, it's become more style than substance. Glitz, but no heart or soul.  The tourists will come for their photos and TikTok reels, but then these influencers will disappear, and we're left with... something we could get in Denver or really anywhere else.  But, at least we have great access to the same Cotopaxi, Marine Layer, Kuhl, Helly Hansen, North Face, Prana, Patagonia, et al crap you can get online?

He ran a good shop.

Boulder was long ago turned over to the tech bros and corporate diaspora.  I grant and have come to accept the post-hippie, pseudo-grungy college town that I fell in love with is gone and never coming back.  But, I wish at least *some* aspects could survive without the 'quest for more blah' getting in the way. But, kudos to the Madysons and Braylynns of tomorrow -- their parents' money will land them some swanky new digs at the corner of 30th and US 36.

Once the (literal) dust settles, and the development is in place, there's rumors and half-promises that the Horse will ride again, placed on the ground floor of one of the apartment buildings.  I'm sure that a burger bar named the "Dark Horse" may, one day, take root in the area, but it will not be the same.  Hell, maybe they'll even scatter a few of the pieces of memorabilia across the joint, but the soul will be missing.  That smell of stale beer, mild disinfectant, and aging wood will be gone, the prices will double, and no one will be interested.  The term "enshitification" comes to mind.

It's just a damn shame.

I want to do *something*, if only just to jot down some thoughts and memories.  And so here they are, insufficient but earnest. You will have your own, and I welcome them. If you care about the place even a little bit, I hope you get the opportunity to say good bye to it in the coming days it has left.  

--

My first memory of the Horse is of the... stuff.  The encroaching floatsam and jetsam of bygone Americana shoved in, around, and through every nook and cranny of the place.  Posters and playbills from early film and stage history; rusty implements and tools from all eras; props from productions across the spectrum; a license plate from seemingly every state, province, and territory on the continent; books from anywhere and everywhere, including the 1929 Portland phone directory; a giant damn metal ship placed precariously over the fireplace room entrance; stained glass spotted next to crude drawings; a rube goldberg-esque contraption behind the back bar that I could never quite figure out; random photos and street signs from God knows where; a pregnant mannequin set up next to a giant plaster cowboy hat; wagon wheels and sleds galore; countless taxidermy of quality ranging from 'good' to 'that's just a rubber rhino head'; and, let's not forget, a not-insignificant amount of mid-20th Century smut lacquered into the bars and plastered into the back corners.  And that only covers about 2% of what you can find in there.  I made a point of spotting something new every visit, and I never came away failing in that mission.

Anything and everything.

That you could get lost in the Horse, winding through its floors and corridors, spotting this and that and whatnot, was essential to the charm. It was overwhelming, in a good way.  It confronted you with a warm embrace of wood and antiques and character from the moment you crossed the threshold, making it entirely unique from anywhere else I've encountered.

My second memory is of the food.  The burgers have been and always will remain iconic.  The wings, all three-joints of them, are unlike anyone else's wings (the combo sauce of honey mustard, bbq, and standard wing sauce was the best). And, yes, they did have Rocky Mountain Oysters ready to go in the fryer.  There's rumors of salads and steaks on the menu, but I just never understood the point -- the burgers are *right there*.  Most importantly, the pricing was always honest and affordable.  In hippy, crunchy, overly-expensive Boulder, you could come in and find some of the best short-order burgers around at a reasonable price.  It's why, even though it was a bar-forward burger bar, there was never a shortage of families with kids running around -- where else can you feed your family on the cheap these days?  That's not to mention their Starving Student special (a regular burger, fries, and a small soda or beer for only a few bucks), which was essentially the best meal deal around, and kept those poor undergrad sods fed and sated during cold winter study nights. 

The *best* burgers, no lies told.

In my mind, there was a definitive hierarchy of the Horse's burger options; your mileage may very:

• S/GOAT-tier:
• Jiffy Burger - the King of the Horse Burgers.  Peanut butter, provolone, and bacon.  At first glance, you wonder why, and then, after one taste, you never doubt again.  Secret, off-menu hack: add on a fried egg, over easy, and be sure to check your cholesterol in the morning.
• Royale Burger - Low key, my more recent go-to.  The added onion ring and bbq sauce make this a monster that's hard to beat.
• A/Really Frickin' Good-tier:
• Fried Egg and Ham Burger - I liked mine runny; afforded an opportunity to dip the fries in left over yolk.
• Hickory Bacon Burger - just a really solid improvement on the standard burgers.
• Avocado Burger - No, not guacamole, a whole-ass slice of avocado.  Really leaning into the Colorado vibe with this one.
• B/That's a Dope Burger-tier
• Original/Cheese Burgers - You can't go wrong.  
• Chipotle Burger - Never as spicy as I would've hoped, but a nice change of pace.
• Blues Burger - When I wanted one of these, it never disappointed.
• Swiss and Shrooms - Not really my style, but I can recognize game.
• C/Solid, but Just What Are We Doing-tier:
• Patty Melt - I just don't get patty melts, but this is a really good version of one.
• Sourdough Burger - The individual components are all there, but I just never jibed with it.

Regardless of your order, you used to have to place it directly at the kitchen window... except during a weekday when they had table service.  (Yes, table service -- going to the Horse and getting table service is like seeing your schlubby drunk uncle show up to an event pressed into a suit with slicked-back hair.  You know it's him, but you have questions).  Then, someone on the kitchen line would scream your name into the microphone -- the speakers were ancient and poorly mixed, so you could never quite understand them over the din of a packed bar on a Friday night.  The trick, then, was to come up with a "Horse name" that was uniquely identifiable across the hum; some of them in my friends group were "Trixie," "Turd Ferguson," "Squiggly, "The Rear Admiral," and the "(Butt) Punisher."  And woe to him who didn't come and grab their food when called.  "Henry, I know it's a common name, but your food is ready," or, "TODD, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, COME PICK UP YOUR FOOD BEFORE WE THROW IT OUT!"  It was a whole deal, and I loved it.

My third memory, hazy as it is, is of the drinks.  Nothing special, in all the right ways.  Beer, and plenty of it. But, not in a "you'll get Coors and like it" faux-blue collar asshole way, but in a "we got some options, but it is what it is" kind of way.  Happy hour drink specials that made sense, pours that were generous, but not too generous, and bartenders who knew both you and how to keep you happy.  Given its proximity, it was the best place to go before and after a basketball game to catch a drink.  My favorite was always a double bourbon on the rocks (Bulleit, preferred), before braving the 10 min walk to the arena -- to me, that *is* Colorado Basketball.

God, I'm gonna miss this place before games

My final memory is of the vibe.  It felt like capital-B Boulder in there.  From the bathroom doors to some of the goofy, Sink-esque art, to the food and drink, and, finally, to the people who joined in the revelry.  There was an honesty and decency that came with the decidedly dishonest and indecent behavior seen therein. I'd call it democratic.  Barflys and lushes, scholars and vagabonds, families and loners, preps and goths, sports fans and knitters, the well off and the working poor.  They all mingled in the same space, ate the same food, drank the same beer.  In a town that has come to really lean into drawing lines around caste and class, the Horse was anything except that. 

There was trike night, where you could see 20-somethings risk life and limb for minimal prizes; open night mic, where you'd be pleasantly surprised to hear some quality music every now and then; there was the Anniversary Crawfish Boils; and there were friendly faces you saw time and time again, drinking the same beer, and telling the same stale anecdotes they had been doing for years.  

Choose wisely, soberly.

Then, there are the stories. You will have your own, and I cannot do even a fraction of mine justice. But I can't help but flash back to the Stanford fan who was struggling to come to terms with the bar back on an order, before finally settling on a glass of unnamed red wine and scoffing (with a Silicon Valley air) "I guess I'm just used to a country club pour"; the bartender immediately shot back "It's a $5 glass of wine!"  Or my Uncle, walking in after avoiding Boulder for over a decade only to say "oh, they have TVs now!" Or my friends having their anniversary party in the upper room, or my other friends having their wedding rehearsal there.  Or the trio of students rehearsing a western-themed skit on the impact of irresponsible lithium mining in the upper connecting corridor.  Or, the bartenders getting frustrated with someone who kept calling the landline, before finally shouting back, "there's no Ben here, we're a business, stop calling."  Or, finally, me sitting at the back bar, enjoying my first meal in a restaurant post-COVID, just thinking how happy I was to to be anywhere, speaking with anyone.

--

This hurts. I'm not going to pretend it doesn't.  There were more than a few tears when I passed through the other night. Losing the Horse is like losing a friend, like losing Boulder itself.  We lose a little of ourselves when these institutions that we love go away, only to be replaced by bland nothingness.  I miss dearly Liquormart, Tulagi's, Cosmos on the Hill (really, the Hill in general), Old Cs, the Walrus, the OG Gondolier, and the old Daily Camera building.  I take waning comfort that the Village Coffee Shop, the Sundowner, the Buff, McGuckins, Into the Wind, Trident, the Boulder Book Store, the Pearl St Pub, and Mustard's Last Stand somehow survive.  But the Horse was something else, something apart.  Some special that stood out among a herd of special places.  It was 1 of 1, never to be duplicated.

Closing time.

In a way, it's kind of like the Casa Bonita in Lakewood.  A place of memory that took on a life of its own well past what should've been a sell-by date. Unlike that story, however, there was no mega-millionaire cartoonists around with the drive to save the Horse from the Williams' family bulldozer.  No documentary to be made. No Cartman statue to take over pride of place in the rebuild.  Just the finality of a closing date that's coming far too soon.

In the end, there are moments you hope you remember on your death bed.  Maybe it's something from your childhood, or time spent with your parents, or your first kiss. Of those moments, when my time comes, I hope to remember a random Sunday, sat at the end of the front bar at the Horse with two of my best friends, drinking, laughing, and watching the Bears lose. I think that would be fitting. Just.  A memory of a time and place lost, but not forgotten.

I'll miss you, Dark Horse; you were loved.