Poised on the brink of a new destiny, I catapulted myself from the bubble bath and laid my garments out before me on my new vintage futon. Tonight will be a night of unparalleled revelry, and I shall dance with Venus before the moon parts the sky. Would she have me? I suddenly became preoccupied with thoughts of probable failure, for I could not bear to lose another lover with such magnificent cologne releasing from my pores. But with bedroom eyes, a staunch appetite for abandon, and a well-oiled set of legs, I began my sojourn with steadfast determination.
Five of my closest companions were awaiting my arrival at the newest Mockingbird Station addition, Mockingbird Taproom. It was a long overdue replacement for the previous tenant, if I do say so myself. And I do say so. I strutted into the station with much the same candor as any young Honeyboy Wilson would, and my friends were awaiting with cheerful demeanor. With much time for levity, we filled our mouths with the elixir of the lord: beer.
The Taproom hosts an impressive list of local beers and craft beers from around the globe. I started with the Dogfish Head Palo Santo, and this 12% beast went down smooth and heavy against my endeavoring jubilation. It’s malted with care and biting in its delivery. We also enjoyed one of my favorite locals, the Lakewood Temptress, but the favorite had to be the sweet and supple Vanilla Porter from Breckenridge. Their draught list is not shy and pays homage to all the efforts of our local lovelies and their outstanding beer.
Our lady of service was kind, informed, and refreshingly honest with her suggestions. Whilst we discussed poetry, philosophy, and identity of soul, the food left us full and gay with chuckles. Though I don’t consider the items champions of culinary excellence, the crowd-pleasing nature of its menu in combination with its creativity was enjoyable at some length. The fried chicken sliders came on soft, powdery buttermilk biscuits with a delicious chorizo gravy and maple spread. We also had the Fundido dip which was elevated by the housemade potato chips. The tortilla chips were too crunchy, so I would certainly suggest sticking to the standard potato chips even though it seems unfitting with queso. The mood and atmosphere is lively and open. All are welcome. Though some of the food items missed the mark for me (i.e. the burger being weak-bodied and dry, the pretzels resembling maidens of porcelain that were slightly stale in texture, and some of the wings coming off flavorless) there is plenty to please here. The foot-long grilled cheese garnered many swoons from across the table, and the bourbon-molasses wings made up for its brethren’s missing taste. Also, to excite the dog lovers, they serve chihuahua, which wasn’t as chewy and angry as I expected and was really just white cheese. We all kissed on the lips and massaged each other’s temples with the generous offering of moist towelettes after our meal. The beer was flowing freely and the Doogie Howser jokes flew fast from our newly kissed lips. I shall consider this place well for its friendliness and mass appeal. After a moving picture viewing or just between shopping in the concrete palace, it would provide a plentiful bounty for all patrons. And hopefully, they serve enough wings to keep a certain breast-heavy competitor from entering the station at all.