Post No. 6 | THE BEAUTIFUL HOUSE MASSACREE
Dear Mr. or Ms. Yelp,
First, please forgive me for not referring to you by your full given name. I have scoured the Internet in search of it, and the results have come back inconclusive. I apologize for the informality.
I’m writing to you regarding an eatery which the readers of your publication may frequent, and as such, I believe it important to regale my experience of late.
I was enthralled by the sight of the Beautiful House, or what is more colloquially referred to as Casa Bonita, located at 6715 West Colfax Avenue, Lakewood Colorado. A glittering pink Spanish villa tucked amongst the droll happenings of an otherwise denigrated strip mall. I took more than a moment's pause to savor the sound and sight of the beautiful colonial-era fountain and my mind was drawn to a bygone era filled with gauchos and dusty grandeur. Consumed by nostalgic bliss, my soul was replenished by the fountain’s flowing patter. This feeling, however, was short-lived.
Regrettably, the rabble of chunksters milling about disrupted my revelry as they filed through the chain-linked chutes. After crossing the threshold of the Beautiful House these misfits seemed to be content to blither their way past the many historically and artistically magnificent frescos adorning the walls of the foyer. And I despised them for it.
Over the din of complaints vomited by the herd of cretins regarding the lengthy passage of time necessary to gain entrance, I pondered the heritage of our neighbors to the south, and how their cultural and architectural influence was adopted by your establishment. And for that, I applaud the entire Casa Bonita family on your magnificent homagé!
“What’s good?” I asked the maître d’, whom I believe was named Daniella. It was entirely apparent that Daniella had missed her siesta and the words, “Platter, chicken or beef,” bumbled out of her mouth, and tickled my eardrums. Chicken or Beef? Like choosing red or black on the wheel of a roulette table, I opted for beef. A decision that may or may not have won me a prize which I later deemed, “gastrointestinal-jackpot,” but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Having ordered and slid my dining tray down the well-loved countertop rails, I arrived at La Comedia where my meal would soon slide out of a decorative hole in the wall. My mind reveled at the thought of slung beans, and other slurrified ingredients spooned with grandma-like care onto plates in the kitchen. It was then that my heavily laden tray appeared.
With my meal in hand, I flagged a what I assumed to be one of your many porters and instructed her to make haste to my table. Now, I must admit that I am not unaccustomed to being rebuffed, nor am I unfamiliar with the “f-word” but being told by the porter to, “f-ing carry it yourself,” seemed beneath such a fine establishment. But being a gentleman, I foisted my grub and followed the aforementioned non-porter through a magnificent cave to a table which afforded me a prime view of your indoor waterfall. My escort seemed to accept my apology for assuming she would transport my vittles, and I offered many thanks before departing to flavorsville.
To the sound of water cascading a full thirty feet down the crags and ridges of a lava rock cliff, I sampled my first bite of the meal and was dazzled by the ease with which it was consumed. Soon enough, the meal had slid from the plate and into my belly.
As I had ordered the “all-you-can-eat” option, I made good on the custom of the land and raised the indicator provided signaling that I would like another helping. As quick as one can say, “Poco pico de gallio,” my waiter arrived with a second portion of delights. I ate and enjoyed myself a great deal.
Full-bellied, I relaxed into my booth and took a deep breath of chlorine-saturated air, resulting in an incomparable belch. As the resonant tone of my discharge dissipated into the cavern, I apologized to those within earshot and thought myself couth for having done so.
And as the thunder of falling water drowned out the cries of a child horrified by the appearance of a man in a gorilla suit atop the falls, I scratched my drum-tight gut and rested in the calm before the storm.
From my relaxed position, I became immediately upright, like a lightning rod struck by the power of Zeus himself. “You there!” I shouted to the non-porter who had escorted me to my table, “Where is the nearest toilet!” Without as much as a glance in my direction, the woman hooked her thumb over her shoulder and I strode quickly, but not too quickly, but pretty quickly, but carefully, and quickly, in the direction which she had indicated.
Imagine the horror I experienced as I thrust open the door only to find that not one, but all four stalls occupied by other residents of Pompei experiencing their own internal version of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Envying those in the privies, I locked panicked eyes with several other inevitable victims dancing in wait before succumbing to their own pyroclastic flow, and I pitied the lot of us.
Not being one to dally in the face of impending doom, I scampered out the door to find shelter in which I might hunker down. Your readers might be surprised to know that Casa Bonita touts more than 52,000 square feet of fun and has a seating capacity of more than a thousand people. Being that the Beautiful House can accommodate such a large crowd, it’s unfathomable that a single bathroom might be available, and yet that is exactly what I am here to report. Restroom after restroom was either over capacity or the aftermath of the cataclysm was so devastating that first responders in hazmat suits should have been called prior to use by the civilian population. Judging by the state and occupancy levels of the restrooms, I was witnessing the end of a civilization — and I was poised to become yet another casualty.
Run! My body shouted, and trot I did. To the sonorous bounce of mariachi music, I tore through the bowels of the restaurant in search of refuge. Through the games arcade, and across a bridge behind the aforementioned waterfall I scampered. Unable to locate the restroom, I ventured into something called Black Bart’s Cave deducing that surely Mr. Bartholomew would have designated some offshoot of his subterranean hideout as a bañio. My friend, I tell you there is no toilet in that hellhole.
I screamed aloud as my thoughts began to twist and morph into a stress-induced waking nightmare. Through hairpin turns of blacked-out passages I joined other victims trapped in Mr. Bartholomew’s lair. I cried out in panic as I came face to face with the gaping maw of a dragon eating several guests of the Casa Bonita. “Not today you old devil!” I shouted as I valiantly attempted to save a young family of four, the father of which violently shoved me away and escorted his brood to their doom within the beast. God rest their souls.
Back from whence I came, I flew against the stream of rabble joyously spelunking their way towards death. Disoriented, I emerged into the blinding lights of the eatery. At this time, I made a mental note to alert the authorities regarding the presence of an unregistered mythical lizard-demon killing unwitting simpletons by the hundreds, and that I will do as my schedule allows.
By now, sweat was pouring from my entire body. Conscious thought had receded from my cerebellum and only the lizard part of my brain was functioning. The fight to keep my innards from becoming outards was overcome by my flight instinct and I burst out the door into one of Colorado’s famous pop-up rainstorms. Through the torrents of driving rain I found myself sprinting from the knees down, and fully-clamped shut from the knees to hips, across a seemingly endless sea of bepuddled concrete. Across Colfax Avenue, I spied a potential refuge — The Red Coach Inn. I said a silent prayer asking that whomever this angry or sunburnt sports manager might be, he might take pity and allow me the use of his facilities.
I am not one to toot my own horn, and at this point, had I tried, I would have needed to shift my search for a restroom to that of a car wash and a clothing store, but I would dare to say that the fortitude I maintained in my mind-altered state was nothing short of heroic. With the strength of a dozen men, I flung the door to the Red Coach In open and was greeted by the stares of quite a number of what appeared to be daytime-drunk bruisers.
Pale, wide-eyed, and soaking wet, I played it cool, gave a tertiary nod and a deliberately unintelligible greeting whilst waddling toward the throne of salvation. As the last moments of intestinal fortitude waned I burst into the restroom and was thrown into one of life’s moments that play out in slow motion.
Inside the bathroom, I perceived the following: two men, one rolling a marijuana cigarette the size of a Casa Bonita enchilada, a single stall, an adjacent sink and countertop littered with cannabis and its associated paraphernalia, a tense atmosphere as though a disreputable act was taking place.
“Hey man, what's going on?" asked the mountainous individual aggressively stepping between myself and the exit. "Why you busting in here looking so serious?" At this time I reconsidered using the commode, as the thought of laying waste unto an occupied public restroom was downright unthinkable. "It's not right to bust in on a couple guys and then rush off,” said the mountain as he re-evaluated the soggy hangdog before him. "I was just looking for my friend but he's not here. Since I'm here, I guess I'll use the toilet,” I replied with all the calm I could muster.
Something about my sweaty pallor must have changed the mind of the brawny hulk, and his demeanor eased considerably. “Toilet’s free, looks like you could use it," said the man as his dexterous comrade finished crafting the aforementioned weed-joint. “Buena suerte, amigos,” said the jointman as he departed, leaving my bathroom mate behind with his handicraft.
With my head slunk forward, I shuffled my sodden feet into the stall and resigned to the coming apocalypse. Unphased by the awkwardness of the situation, the man launched into casual chit-chat. “Names B.P Bob Petty. The B stands for Big and the P, that’s for Pimpin’.”
In recognition that The Yelp prefers to uphold a family-friendly atmosphere, I feel as though it might be best if I express the event which transpired in language that is more suitable for proper company. And so, euphemistically speaking, we shall take a brief moment to discuss Mexico’s brush with volcanic events. The likes of which inspired Casa Bonita’s rocky decor.
In approximately AD 245-315 the plateau, which Mexico City currently resides, was thrust from the earth by a volcano known as Xitle. Thundering clouds of ash and tides of red-hot magma belched from the depths of the world in a moment of history that no mind could even begin to conceive. The heaving power of millions of tons of burning sludge and gas forever changed the landscape of the area, never to be the same. Much like the eruption of Xitle, the calamity which befell my body at this time was preceded by a series of seismic tremors that began rumbling within my abdomen.
With a short burst of hottened air, my internal Xitle released a brief test of its power and then seemed to compose itself for the main event. With a blast that shook the skies and earth alike, Xitle emptied its belly with the might of a thousand angels come to earth for the end of days. Torrents of ash, dust, and debris were scattered akimbo. Billowing clouds of noxious fumes permeated the atmosphere and magma crashed into the sea below. Deers and rabbits, squirrels and birds alike fled in all directions. Anything with sense enough to know that a deafening boom and raining boulders of fire is their cue to scatter did so.
“You know how I got these scars?” Asked B.P. Who appeared to be unphased by the occurrence. “Cancer. You’re talkin’ to at a six-time cancer survivor, my friend.” As one wave of tremblors subsided I did seem to recall a number of rough inch wide scars crisscrossing B.P.’s head like railroad tracks. “Yessir, six times, mostly in my head. Yep. Used to play pro ball but gave it up when I got cancerhead.”
While I do typically enjoy hearing the tales of those which happenstance brings my way, I could only muster a pinched “Sorry about that,” in response to B.P.’s affliction.
Time passed. The conflagration continued to find new and terrible ways to decimate the landscape. A lone figure stands amidst the scorched earth around Xitle with his shirt raised, apparently slapping his belly. “Yeah, I still got it though,” chuckled B.P. “I’m 52 and the ladies still love these cut-up-abs.” I remain silent, at least from my mouth, that is. B.P. didn’t seem to mind whether or not I replied to his prattle, and so I set myself to writing this review of the Beautiful House while the details remained fresh in my mind and the outcome rapidly left my behind.
Having given it’s all, Xitle sags into respite as some form of equilibrium has been achieved. Spent and weak I exited the stall to see B.P strike a match and light up. “Chicken or beef?” he asks knowingly. “Beef,” I reply. B.P. exhales and nods in a rare moment of internal contemplation. “Mighty good goin’ down though,” he adds. I nod in agreement.
“You get some of them sopapillas?” he asks, leaning hard into the long “L” sound. “I’m afraid not,” I reply. “Had to leave in a hurry.” “You’re lucky to be alive after that,” he adds. I nod in agreement while washing my hands for the second time. “You wanna smoke this with me?” “I think I’ll pass,” I respond. B.P. chuckles to himself, “You passed enough for two already.” We both laughed and I reached for the door, but before I can grasp the handle, it’s thrown wide maxing out the flexibility of its hinges.
Wide-eyed and desperate, a red-headed newbie comes to a full stop, in the entryway. “Hey man, what’s going on?” demands B.P. Forcing himself between the peaky-looking father of four that had pushed me in Black Bart's Cave and the door. B.P. Gives me a quick wink and I join in, “Yeah. Why you bustin’ in here looking so serious?”
I wink back.
I hope this review has been informative for you and your readers.
Sincerely,
JRH.
P.S. Casa Bonita, is a magical place. Go for the beef, and say hi to B.P. for me. 3 ¾ stars. Would recommend.
P.P.S. The Red Coach Inn, 5 stars.
