An Ode to Boodles

March 5, 2009 was a shocking day. Bozeman, Montana made national headlines with a gas explosion that rocked Main Street and took one life. Personally, this explosion destroyed a beloved instution, Boodles.

Boodles was, and hopefully will be again, the perfect bar. With dark wood panelling, luxuriously comfortable chairs and bar stools and romantically dimmed lighting, Boodles invoked the feel of an older, more relaxed time. Far away from the pounding beats of the uber hip London bars (and even the faux-hip of Boodles' neighbor Plonk), Boodles was a place that simply felt comfortable. I've sipped martinis dressed to the nines and downed Irish Car Bombs after a shift at the -C-, and I've always felt at home. One of my favorite Boodles times was on a slow Tuesday afternoon, with the Tuesday afternoon posse of Sam, Cara and David. It was the first nice day of the year, a balmy 60 degrees. We took the dogs for a run in the park, made a half-hearted attempt to have David adopt a cat and then found our way to Boodles at 2:30pm. There is nothing more luxurious than Cosmopolitans in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon.

Boodles had the best bartenders in town, willing to attempt just about anything and always on hand with a recommendation. At my goodbye party, when I moved back to Chicago in 2005, drink after dazzling drink arrived in front of me, unprompted, as Trevor and the Bartender sat scheming over the Playboy Bartender's book that Molly gave me earlier in the evening.

Add to this wonderfulness gorgeous food, a fabulous and lengthy wine list and a good selection of beers (although they took out the taps - herein lies their one error), and you have the perfect bar. Boodles had class.

Without attempting a cheesy Phoenix metaphor here, I'll only say that I do hope Boodles rises again to it's former glory. And soon. I'll be coming back to the Bozone this August and I'd love nothing more than to celebrate my wedding with a cosmo (and perhaps a few Car Bombs, as well...)