Rocky Mountain News  
 
 On West 32nd Avenue between the streets of Lowell Boulevard and Meade Street is a little slice of Americana.
Like a small-town Main Street, the quaint row of restaurants, shops and bars with the wide sidewalks and brick facades recalls an era fast disappearing in the strip- mall and fast- food prefab world that global commercialization has created. OK, far be it from me to get carried away on a "progress is evil" rant, but seriously, the 3600 block of West 32nd is really adorable. It's like Boulder's Pearl Street without all the annoying trustifarians. It has character oozing from its pores and is one of the most attractive elements of the Highland neighborhood (Highland, not Highlands Ranch, incidentally. To confuse the two would be akin to confusing Greenwich Village with a New Jersey suburb). The Mead Street Station (don't let the E on the street sign fool you) anchors this block (across the street from Heidi's Brooklyn Deli, another truly amazing addition to this block), and offers a destination that lures foot traffic from much farther than walking distance. 

   On a recent stop there, Mrs. Buzz and I joined Sir Mallery and the little red-haired girl for dinner and drinks. The food was good, but it was the environs that kept us well into our third and fourth round of after-dinner cocktails. With wood floors, high ceilings, comfortable seating, exposed brick surfaces and art by local artists, there's a strong element of urban credibility that beckons to the hipster in all of us. Certainly, though, it takes more than just decent decorating to bring in clientele, and it's Mead Street's inviting nature that does it. Like the neighborhood itself, the row of barstools provided seats for several of Denver's unique subcultures - from riot girls to rednecks and yuppies to hippies - that all seemed to get along famously at this truly neighborhood joint. And everyone received the same friendly service from the wait and bar staff. As the evening passed into night, a table was cleared away and a small P.A. was set up for an open-mic night. 

   Normally, this is where I'd make my way out, but we were enjoying the evening so much, we figured even badly sung folk tunes couldn't ruin it. And we were right. And happily surprised when the badly sung folk tunes gave way to some halfway decent singer-songwriter efforts. More than a few people were debuting their guitar/vocal chops in public, and they actually weren't half bad. Sure, it's easy to suspect the three scotch and sodas might have had something to do with that. But I'd like to think those were just one more in a string of key elements that all came neatly together to color the evening in such a lovely shade of sublimity - the street lamps, the storefronts, the weather, the trees - I wouldn't have been surprised if a bluebird landed on my shoulder.I'm sure I would have bought him a drink, at least.

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Another popular neighborhood bar is Mead Street Station, just a few blocks away at 3625 W. 32nd Ave. Mead Street features consistently good pub food and a lively crowd. Mead Street has live music five nights a week (none on Fridays and they’re closed Sundays), which ranges from acoustic rock to jazz, fold and blues performed by local musicians. They also support local art, regularly displaying area artists’ work.
 

Mead Street recently was closed for renovations, but is back in business. You may notice a few small changes; they have a spruced-up kitchen, an expanded menu, and several new beers available on tap. It’s a great neighborhood pub, and the character and ambiance remain as good as ever.

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Ricardo Baca – Denver Post, On the Rocks
Hip Crowd Attracted to Highlands Bar 

As one couple recalls, and imitates, their favorite childhood cartoon characters, another makes out and fondles each other as if they are on the Seine in early fall.

Thundercats, hooo!” says he.
No way, Smurfette was the best,” says she.
Smooch smooch, kiss, kiss, say they.

All of this as a singer/songwriter sings her heart out from the modest stage of the Mead Street Station (3625 W. 32nd Ave., 303-433-2138), a north Denver bar nestled deep in the Highlands neighborhood. The gentrification of the Highlands (around West 32nd Avenue and Lowell boulevard) has greatly changed the average age and general hip factor at the Mead Street Station, spelled without the “e” of the nearby street Meade because the street that winds through north and west Denver and the suburbs is spelled both ways, says owner Andy Robinson.

While there are still those in their 40s milling about, they are greatly outnumbered by drinkers in their 20s and 30s. As always, though, the vibe is creative and loose with lots of live music in the air and local art on the walls, and the bar is especially conducive to socializing. While that may sound redundant, some establishments, especially those that resemble a UK pub, have a way of bringing on the chit-chat even without the prerequisite two beers.

Funky: The servers are attentive, even happy to serve. One eve calls you “boss” without it sounding like he’s trying too hard to add on a pseudo-hip appellation. Skunky: The bar can get too smoky, but fans (behind the bar and mounted on the high ceilings) help to clear the fog.

Westword - Mead Street Station

Nothing a Cheeseburger Won't Cure

I have a very simple policy about eating meals while drinking: I don't. Not, at least, when my goals for the night include over-inebriation. Snacks and appetizers? Fine. But big, juicy bacon cheeseburgers with jalapeño cream cheese and a side of fries? Sweet Christ, never while boozing, and never, ever while on a Guinness tear, which I am tonight at Mead Street Station (3625 West 32nd Avenue). There are exceptions to this rule, including one found under the How to Sober Up clause, but I've only had three frothy pints when I succumb to the temptation of said jalapeño cream cheese burger — partly because I'm starving, but mostly because only a few places in town offer such a beautiful burger.

I'm here on a Monday night to show love for my friend Ken, who wants to play a few songs at Tony Padilla's weekly Open Mic Guitar Church. A recent transplant from Baltimore, Ken doesn't have all his musical gear with him, so I bring one of my guitars, along with a tambourine and some shakers, just in case I get drunk enough to embarrass myself. Back in the D.C. area, Ken and a buddy made decent side money playing covers for happy-hour drunks, and he's anxious to see if he's still got it after a few months away.

After we finish eating in the back corner of the pub, we close out with our server and find a table by the stage, where Tony is busy unraveling microphone chords and fussing with the P.A. knobs, and where I switch to Bud bottles because my gut is a brick wall and Guinness just won't make it through the cracks. Although he looks like he could be the disgruntled love child of Ozzy Osbourne and Glenn Danzig — with his long, stringy black hair, pale skin and T-shirt-and-jeans sound-guy attire — I quickly discover that Tony's one of the nicest guys in the bar. And as any barfly will tell you, the nicest guy in the joint is always the one buying shots for strangers. When Tony stops by our table shortly before Ken goes on to ask if he needs a shot for courage, Ken politely declines under the guise of having to drive back to Longmont, where he's squatting until his wife and kids move out here next month. But Tony doesn't buy it. "I only fuck with you 'cause I know you can take it," he says with a laugh and a hearty pat on Ken's back. "I'll buy you a shot when you get off stage, then."

The three or four guitar players and singer-songwriters who have already played are surprisingly good, and Ken is no exception. He starts with an Alice in Chains song I don't care for (only because I never liked Alice in Chains), then continues with Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man," Oasis's "Wonderwall" and a slowed-down version of U2's "One." He's the first guy of the night to play covers and, as a result, the first musician that anyone in the bar pays attention to. The older, mustachioed dudes sitting at the table behind us smile and sing along to Skynyrd; Tony comes over with a big grin on his face and asks me to remind him who sings "Wonderwall." And I actually feel a caught-in-a-moment shiver run through me while listening to Ken gently wail through "One." It's an especially impressive set made all the better by the absence of me and my tambourine.

Ken returns to the table feeling sheepish and self-conscious, and I'm slugging back my second Bud when Tony comes over to shake his hand and ask if he wants a celebratory shot. Again Ken declines, so Tony looks at me: "How 'bout you, bud?" Fuckin-A. Problem is, he wants to shoot Jäger, and I have a strict policy about that filth as well. But it's no use. Tony's back before I realize it with two shots of liquid black licorice and a toast. "Here's to a guy who lets another guy borrow his guitar," he says, before we tap our glasses on the table and send the shots sliding down our throats. I immediately feel sick to my stomach, but Tony continues: "It's a noble thing you did, man."

So much for self-control.