For whatever reason, I’ve always been led to believe that PR’s is kind of rough, bordering on stabby, but after dropping by on Thursday, I kind of wonder why.
I mean, I get it. PR’s is in a part of town, the Stockyards, that welcomes hotheaded drunks every weekend, and the joint is by no means classy. However, there was nothing dangerous about the crowd, and the facilities weren’t any more worn or dumpier than what you’d find anywhere else on the North Side. Further, if anyone decided to make a scene, there was this one bartender who looked like a friendlier version of Abobo from Double Dragon, if Abobo shaved his mustache and took time off from bossing the end of DD’s first level to open beers in the Stockyards. Bald, gigantic, and wearing one of those busy graphic t’s that bald, gigantic dudes like so much, he was a presence, definitely big enough to convince any potential troublemakers to keep a lid on their shit. Like those little birds that flit around a rhinoceros, a couple of hot young women wearing halter tops and amused grins poured well drinks for people taking breaks from the dance floor.
Over the shuffle of a country song I didn’t know, I heard a customer ask one of the chicks what the special was.
“Seventy-five-cent wells,” she said.
She smiled and nodded.
“That’s crazy!” he said.
I couldn’t believe my ears either, and when she skipped over to take my order, I also asked if she was for reals.
“Yep,” she said. “Every Thursday, we have wells for seventy-five cents.”
Once my eyebrows settled back onto my forehead, I asked for a whiskey and water, sliding a couple bucks across the bartop. I looked around at the crowd, a mix of twentysomething town-and-gown types seasoned with a handful of dudes you might dare to call “shitkickers” but only if you wanted to get your shit kicked in.
“Well, with a special like that, I hope you have some good door guys,” I said.
She smiled and glanced over her shoulder at the giant bartender, in the midst of popping the top off a bottle.
“Yeah, I feel pretty safe,” she said.
I watched some college kids leaning into the cocktail tables along the low partition separating the dance floor from the rest of the bar and thought about every mouthy drunk I’ve ever dealt with, wondering if any of them would have the balls to be an a-hole at a place like PR’s. Barring some Weatherford dudes I know, I surmised that only the drunkest fool would ever step out of line. But crazy shit happens, even crazier than 75-cent cocktails. I guess PR’s is as rough as you make it out to be. –– Steve Steward
Bands of BrothersKeepers
Despite the fact that its Facebook invitation suggests that Poag Mahone’s is holding its first music festival, the West 7th Street pub (OK, Carroll Street, technically) has held plenty of all-day live music blowouts, especially its annual St. Paddy’s Day Madness. But Saturday marks the first time the bar will throw MusicFest, a charity concert organized by BrothersKeepers, a local fund-raising group.
BrothersKeepers began as a monthly “guys’ night out” supper club, with its members chipping into a pot to help out those in need — that was 20 years ago. More recently, the group has pledged to expand its fund-raising efforts to two causes per event. Saturday’s concert features Brad Thompson, Big Mike’s Box of Rock, and Poo Live Crew and will benefit Task Force Dagger, an awesomely named wounded warrior charity, as well as the Humane Society of North Texas. In addition to bands, beer, ’n’ booze benefiting the nonprofits, there’s also a silent auction. –– S.S.
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