When you see a tweet like this you just have to click the link, right?
@MPLSSTPL – “He didn’t marry me for my personality or because I give good blow jobs.” http://bit.ly/9FBhpv
The link takes us to Heavy Table’s review of the Gopher Bar.
“Fuck you,” says the guy behind the counter. “I’m not talking to you. Fuckin’ middle of lunch.” Behind him a grill covered wall-to-wall with charred hot dogs and buttered buns sizzles and spews a cloud of smoke so thick it’s audibly choking the overhead exhaust fan. The guy takes a swig from a bottle of Bud, sets it back down next to a pack of Marlboro Reds, and squints at us like we’re wearing panties on our heads. “Talk to my wife.”
The guy is the owner of The Gopher Bar, where — according to the sign taped to the back wall of the bar over half-empty bottles of J&B and Black Label — you’ll find “The best fuckin’ Coney Islands in town.” This is why we’re here.
The results:
It’s hard to know what makes the Coneys at The Gopher Bar so damn good. Is it the soft, lightly grilled, buttery bun? The snap of the hot dog? The spicy meat sauce? The sharp bite of the cheddar? The crunch of onions? Or is it a result of the orchestration of all these things? So many textures and flavors come together that you almost forget you’re sitting under a Confederate flag.
The Gopher Bar isn’t a bar, it’s a moral dilemma. One that goes right to the heart of the economic climate we live in. At a time when every dollar is harder to make, and even harder to make last, are you willing to support a business that has no problem asking, “How about an ice cold bottle of SHUT THE FUCK UP!?”



Latest comment — Jerjo: The coney at the Gopher Bar is great but the one at Keenan's on West 7th is even better. Plus it is served without the attitude.