See? Sports bar: Daniel Carlson

I’m new to town, and I like to drink. For reasons I’m not stupid enough to question, 29-95 has decided to pay me (I know!) to bring both of those considerable traits to bear as I explore the city I now call home.
• Read about my visit to Alice's Tall Texan.
• Read about my first visit to Alabama Ice House.

You remember that episode of “The Simpsons” when the waterfront gets restored with all those yuppie bars and restaurants? And how one of the doors actually led all the way back through town to Moe’s Tavern? One of the whitebread people stumbles in and says, “Wait a minute. This isn’t faux dive, it’s just a dive.” I couldn’t get that line out of my head all night at the Velvet Melvin, though my feelings were the opposite of that lost Springfieldian.

The Velvet Melvin advertises itself as a dive but in reality, it’s a faux dive; the kind of sports-centric and overly slick bar that pretends to be rootsy and authentic but is really anything but. It’s a place to go and watch sad old men watch games on big screens, and to see other dudes throwing darts. (It’s also a sausage fest.) My problem with the place isn’t even the sporty nature; it’s with the lack of authenticity, you know? You wanna be a shitty sports bar, go for it. Don’t act like a roadhouse but then set up plasma screens next to the couches. The best part of the experience: Daniel Carlson

I arrived hoping to find a good place to get a drink and maybe a meal. Bar food is notorious for being, well, bar food, but I was too hungry to debate the matter. Plus, though I could have swung through the Jack in the Box across the street, I didn’t know how the staff at the Velvet Melvin felt about freeloading quasi-journalists carting in their own spicy chicken sandwiches. (Spoiler alert: I got one on the way home! Hey, I was really hungry.)

Once inside, I sidled up to a long and somewhat empty bar being patronized by a few guys pushing 40 who had decided to show their sporting allegiances by wearing jerseys to the bar, like this is an OK thing to do with your life. The menu offered a standard selection of bar fare (I even took a photo of it just for you), and I eventually settled on the meatball sandwich because I was feeling adventurous and also because I’ve got a pretty strong immune system that I felt like putting to the test. It took a bit longer than to flag down the woman working the bar than expected, but she was busy milking the attention of the jersey boys. (Wordplay!) But once she put my order in, it was only a few minutes before the food arrived, and it turned out to be the best part of the night. The sandwich was warm and crispy, with tasty sauce and melted cheese in all the right places.

I wish the service had measured up to the surprisingly pleasant food. I cut bartenders slack the more crowded the place gets, but I caught the bar in a down time that should have provided for maximum happy drinking abetted by the woman serving me Shiner. But she mostly stayed with the older dudes, even when a woman in her early 40s walked in and sat between me and them and one of the guys said with a cackle, “Hope you came alone.” As much as I love to watch the game while post-Boomers get rapey with the locals, the Velvet Melvin experience left a lot to be desired. The rest of the fitful evening was spent trying to catch the bartender’s attention and trying to avoid the weird defensive glances of the dudes a few stools down. The place was a mostly boring sports bar pretending to be a fun dive, with staff that pretended to be welcoming without actually caring about you. If it weren’t for the sandwich, the whole night would’ve been a bust.

Oh, well. My journey continues.