Getting Right Again at Darkhorse

Sunday drinking can be as much of a palliative as it is a worthwhile activity in its own right, and Bloody Marys, despite the massive amounts of salt, are the standard alcoholic treatment for over-consumption. Whoever invented them - and there are a couple theories - is a candidate for booze sainthood. If you could cut off one of the fingers on his dominant hand and wear it like a relic you'd probably never get a hangover again.

Darkhorse Tavern - the only real neighborhood bar on Washington, with the possible exception of Liberty Station - offers a strong Bloody Mary for $3.50 on Sundays. Be advised, though, that the bar doesn't open until 4 p.m., so you're going to be SOL if you need the cure earlier. Or you could make one yourself, or go somewhere else that has Bloody Marys, or beat your condition by watching that droopy-eyed, lecherous man-child Ben Roethlisberger until you break out in a cleansing hate-sweat.

(Football-related tangent: Earlier this year a friend served Arian Foster a Washington Apple shot at a bar on, well, Washington. It was around the start of the Texans' offseason, also known as the NFL playoffs.)

The sun had set by the time I made it to Darkhorse on Sunday. A friend and I ordered a couple Bloody Marys. They serve them short, which is all right with me. I don't need a pint glass's worth, no matter how much love and horseradish (wiki: "pure, never creamed") (that sounds filthy) goes into it. Speaking of, the Darkhorse's solid traditional version gave me heartburn, which indicates quality.

On the patio and at the long, dim bar, groups of people were talking. A friendly dog, not nearly as intimating as the horse called Taki that patrols the West Alabama Ice House, was making the rounds.

Darkhorse never felt like a meat market or a woo-girl/frat boy hangout or some unholy combination of the two, like Sawyer Park. (If there's a hell I bet it has valet parking.) People come to drink and to converse and eat toaster-oven pizza. Now that the weather's turned, the two tables on the back patio are bound to stay occupied by regulars. (As a bonus, the bathroom graffiti nearly puts that of Rudz to shame.) Given its neighbors to the west, Darkhorse is an outpost of sanity and a good place to postpone your hangover.

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