Free happy hour is the best reason to Panic
By Bill Gallo 
| September 3, 2009 | 11:01 AM
Looking to catch a cheap buzz in hard times?
Well, forget about those $4 glasses of happy-hour merlot in the high-toned bistros of Cherry Creek. Or the two-for-one drafts down at Dougherty’s. That early-morning “eye-opener” at the Roslyn — $3.50 for a shot and a beer? Waaaay overpriced.
Don’t let it get around, but the Lancer Lounge gives it away for free. Booze. Absolutely, bare-naked free.
“It’s been a great crowd-builder,” says Lancer proprietor Becky Conda.
Well, OK, a couple of restrictions do apply. Eager freeloaders — and they are legion — can take advantage of Conda’s largess only between 10 and 11 p.m. on Monday nights. Orders are limited to well drinks, house wine and draft beer (Bud). The hopeful rookie who asked for a Crown Royal on the rocks amid last week’s festivities was given a look by bartender Rick Jackson that said: You may be in heaven now, but the staircase only goes down.
Imbibers must behave. Which means no excessive shouting, weeping or genuflection. Two-fisted drinking is prohibited: Each customer is given a 10-ounce plastic cup, and woe unto him who misplaces it. Tipping is encouraged.
Otherwise, the drinks are free. No strings attached. For an hour a week. You can get lime in your gin-and-tonic, OJ in your screwdriver and otherwise indulge in all the lubricated civilities of saloon life. Conda calls her promotion “Panic Bar,” and if you’ve ever been in the Lancer at, say, 10:55 p.m. on a Monday night, you know precisely why.
All right then. As soon as you get me a scotch-and-soda, I’ll tell you where the place is.
Mmmmm. That’s good. Thanks. The Lancer Lounge is found at 233 E. Seventh Ave., wedged between two of chef/owner Frank Bonnano’s celebrated and pricey Capitol Hill restaurants — Mizuna and Bones. The Lancer’s noble knotty pine walls have been assaulted by decades of cigarette smoke and barstool philosophy (the latter’s still in vogue), and even when Panic Bar’s not in force at this humble neighborhood spot, it’s famous — notorious is more like it — for ultra-stiff drinks at a fair price.
Shopping for oddities? While 95 percent of Denver-area bars and restaurants began only recently to coax stingy dollars from their recession-thrashed customers with cut-rate cocktails and low-ball appetizer plates (witness upscale Morton’s: four prime steak sliders are five bucks), Panic Bar has been a feature at the Lancer for almost four years.
“It’s been a very good marketing tool,” Conda says. “The most frequent comment is: ‘Oh, you’re the place with the free drinks.’ People come back. It’s great word-of-mouth.”
Despite the throngs — most of them in their late 20s and early 30s — Conda says her weekly bar tab for the ultimate happy hour is only $80 to $90, a lot less than the cost of a print or broadcast advertising campaign. Conda usually works the door herself because she likes to keep an eye on things and because, as she says: “These kids don’t fool with grandma.”
It takes real commitment to come out at 10 o’clock on a Monday night, she says, and she respects that. Conda also knows that 10 p.m. on a Monday is not exactly rush hour in the saloon trade. If Panic Bar were at 5 p.m. Friday, she’d probably go broke.
The average per capita intake: three drinks.
Last Monday, architect J.D. Haas dropped by with friends, and they got going on tequila sunrises. Haas, who’s originally from Peoria, Ill., recently lost his job with a Denver firm, so the prospect of free booze held vivid appeal. But under questioning, Haas made a confession. He does most of his mood-alteration work around the corner at Govnr’s Park. He’d only been to the Lancer twice before, and there was no guarantee he’d be back.
“Whadda you drinking?” he said. “Whatever it is, the price is right.”
Among the 120 or so revelers who filled bar, poolroom and patio by 10:30 (a Rockies game had drifted into extra innings on two overhead TV screens), Vicki Burnside, 28, had a more, well, professional air than most. With two vodka sodas under her belt, the pretty brunette remained composed.
“I go to a lot of places,” she said. “LaLa’s. Govnr’s. Bender’s. Here. Yeah, the Panic Bar’s nice. Lots of good will. I love the place because of that. I also love the jukebox.”
At 10:58 p.m. last Monday, celebrants were lined up two- and three-deep at the mahogany — not desperate, exactly, but last-minute eager. Rick and co-mixologist Dominick Tobias were certainly on their game, hands spinning like hummingbirds’ wings over the bottles and the cups and the ice. Amid the frenzy, Vicki Burnside slipped through a seam in the humanity and straight to the rail, caught an all-important eye and quietly repeated her mantra: “Vodka soda, please.”
Here it came, tall and cool, just an instant before Dominick announced: “That’s it! Now please stick around and spend some money.”
Vicki flipped a dollar bill on the bar. She turned and, without a hint of panic in her step, vanished.
lancer lounge, nightclubs, nightlife, panic bar
