Admitted: I’m obsessed. With The Wedge. Long story. Some other time. So…
It’s open again. Went by last night. Got stood up by a pal. (Thanks, pal!) Watched hi-definition football with: three patrons (including the pensive owner of the Iron Barley, who I’m convinced wants to ring my neck, though I’m not sure of any plausible reason); the cook; and the sexily-clad bartender, who introduced herself before studiously avoiding me for the remainder of my 15-minute stay, thus denying me the opportunity of finding out who owns this spot. For this, I gave a $2 tip. Go figure.
The decor’s the largely the same, save for the addition of: a Golden Tee; a pair of electronic dart boards; a crookedly-slapped sticker above the bar proclaiming that “you can’t fix stupid”; and a touch jukebox that was cranking out top-40 hip-pop. Strangely, that modern musical vibe was set against the classic punk-rock photos that still line the place, so that, for example, you might be drinking your $2 Busch beer, while staring a framed photo of the Sex Pistols, as blaring Li’l Wayne washes over you. Can’t recall if the boar’s head is still there, or came out. Details, details.
I dropped by, so others don’t have to. It’s my gift to you.