Considering the unofficial theme of Snowdown is everyone gets a hall pass on decorum and public drunkenness for a week, I was genuinely concerned about starting my Saturday in a warehouse of chili and Bloody Marys. However, it was not the booze fest I had envisioned – that would come later – but rather a pretty wholesome family event, with patrons trying to give away tickets on their way out the door instead of trying to squeeze the last drop of vodka out of the proceedings.
A few chilis and cocktails stood out among the offerings, but as someone who went more as a first-time attendee than a critic, I reverted to fight-versus-flee instinct almost immediately. No long lines in the first couple of turns, find a place away from crowds to eat without having to balance three vessels, and pick around the edges until full and sprightly enough to commit to long waits.
My three favorite chilis, in no particular order, were a green chili topped with a little tortilla wafer, a red chili from a couple of cowboys and a smoky red chili from a barbecue spot. I thought about trying to keep track of who made what, but got sensory overload and left that much ambition for another day.
The best bloody also required the longest wait of the day, but that’s because the garnish – also the highlight of the cocktail – was a little too labor intensive. (Shout out to event organizer Greg Yucha for throwing on a pair of gloves and pitching in to help the booth get out of the weeds.)
In the food festivals I’ve worked or attended, garnishes constantly bog down service and create lines. I’ve noticed that festivalgoers tend to have a little lemming in them, so as soon as one person has the fancy skewer, they all want it. Topping your drink with a shiny yet delicious object will help you win the trophy, but it requires extra effort.
Other than that, the cook-off was organized chaos in the best possible way. You had a marching band roaming around the venue, large swaths of people trying to figure out if they’re in a line or socializing, children tethered to parents, loose tickets, and food and drinks everywhere.
Usually, when there’s a semi-combustible mix like that, the momentum snowballs into wobbly legs and mid-afternoon naps, but not only were we level-headed when we left, we were able to hit a slight jog to catch the trolley back into town.
As a man rapidly approaching 40, I’ve more or less abstained from the Durango bar scene since arriving in mid September. However, this was a “When in Rome” week, so a buddy of mine, Ben, and I hit up the staples – the Ranch, Garage and Starlight Lounge. Weirdly sentimental for the smell of body odor and stale beer, I was quickly taken back to a time when it’s more convenient to be cold between bars than to hover around a dance floor with a seasonably suitable coat.
What’s that, Ben? You stepped on a guy’s toe, and now he’s demanding an apology? It might be time to leave. You know you’ve aged out of the nightlife when the bartender looks at you with bewilderment after trying to order a “Seven and Seven.”
That said, I was settling into familiar surroundings, even if only for a weekend, when my first visit to the Starlight Lounge turned into my last. According to the incredulous bartender, Saturday night was the final hurrah for the Starlight. The lease wasn’t renewed, and they were out of jobs as of Sunday morning, Feb. 1.
I’m not going to wax poetically about the Starlight, because it’s not the kind of establishment that evokes flowery language. It’s a grimy, dungy, dank, dark dive bar, with droopy bathroom fixtures and urine on the floors. It’s the kind of place you go when you definitely don’t want to be seen, and I’d rather hang out at a dozen of those spots than some bar with a neon-lit selfie bench.
The general vibe I got from Snowdown was “Spring break meets closing day,” so I understand if locals who view it like Cariocas view Carnival in Rio de Janeiro and would rather be anywhere else. The difference between Durango’s winter spectacle and similar weekends across Colorado is a lack of self importance (or shame). Being seen is such currency that comporting oneself is paramount to life, let alone dressing up like a weirdo and guzzling chili for the sake of your mental health.
Sean Beckwith is the Food Editor at the Durango Herald. Reach him at sbeckwith@durangoherald.com.
