How far can $50 get you on a Saturday night on Main Street in Park City? As writers on humble budgets, my friend Klara and I decided to find out.
“What’s your ideal night out?” she asks me. We’re driving home from covering the JANS Winter Welcome gala, so we’re fresh off a free and fancy meal of salmon and beef, wine and coffee, expensive gowns and paddle raising with Olympians and their parents. A very Park City start to our investigation into Old Town nightlife.
The ideal night out, in my mind, is dinner, drinks and dancing, as well as a nightcap or breakfast the morning after to debrief on the night.
With dinner done, we stop by Walmart to buy a disposable camera, a necessary tool to capture the cherry on top of any night out: at least one unflattering, unforgettable photo.
We get home and get ready. Klara lends me a green, fuzzy jacket, and we pick over her sunglasses collection for suitable pairs. Then she pulls out a shot ski and opens the liquor cabinet for a bottle of Ouzo, a dry and licorice-like Greek aperitif I’ve never tried before. To my surprise the Ouzo is smooth, and the shot ski is easy to coordinate. No more pre-gaming. Here we go!
Our Lyft driver takes us to our first stop at the bottom of Main Street, O’Shucks White House (628 Park Ave.). It’s Saturday night in late October, still shoulder season, and the streets are somewhat predictably empty. “Do you want me to take you somewhere else?” our driver asks. Sweet, but we’re on a mission. “No,” I say, “we’re right where we’re meant to be.”
Inside, the tables are bare but the bar is full. We sit down, and Klara recognizes someone from the gala. I can’t hear their conversation over the noise of the bar and the TVs. What are we drinking? We start with the ’Shucks Old Fashioned ($12) because I love whiskey. I ask to take a picture of them together for the magazine, and the girl says yes and later pulls me aside to tell me her mom will kill her if she sees that she went out. I can’t help but laugh. Don’t worry, I say, just tell us where to go next. Tonight, the reliable O’Shucks is our launchpad.
The girl and her friends leave to smoke, and we leave, too. There’s a bar with a club vibe just next door, they tell us, and sure enough, beneath a Sotheby’s I’ve passed a dozen times is Downstairs (625 Main St.), a couple bouncers and a small sign the only clue that there’s anything there at all. We step down the stairs. Ropes divide private sections. It’s dark, but the upholstered walls flash with color. A few people are dancing, but most are sitting and taking the moment to talk while the beat winds up. The dancing’s good, but the drinks are $18, and we realize Downstairs may be a place to end the night rather than start it. On our way out, the stairs have a parting gift, each step offering a piece of advice for our night: “staychill,” “stayblessed,” “stayreal” and, finally, “staylit.” So true.
We walk up the street and decide to try the No Name Saloon, which a couple people have recommended and Klara says could be a favorite.
No Name is warm and kitschy, wears the ski town thing on its sleeve. Bric-à-brac abounds: a U.S. map made out of license plates, vintage neon Coca Cola signs and black-and-white photos of miners, plus TVs everywhere. We walk upstairs to an outdoor balcony area and are delighted to find decommissioned gondolas made into booths. Klara’s turn to choose a drink. We take a $10 vodka Sprite to a little corner of the balcony to sip and people watch.
We see a group of women we feel will treat us charitably and approach them. Klara is the newspaper’s ski reporter — she makes a living off of awkwardly approaching people on the slopes and asking them questions, so I wind her up and deploy her into the field. Flawlessly, she interrupts their whole deal and asks how their night’s going, if they wouldn’t mind telling us what they think of Park City nightlife.
“Main was alive last night, and tonight it’s, like, eerie,” one of them says. They’re celebrating one of their birthdays and came for the weekend. Apparently Friday was a better day for being out, but they’re still having fun tonight, and No Name is their winner of the weekend. “Perfect bar vibe,” one says. “You can get any drink you possibly want; you can get rowdy.” I ask them to take our picture, and after downing our drinks, it’s already time to move on. We’ve got $28 to go.
At about midnight we head to The Cabin (427 Main St.). There’s a band upstairs and a DJ downstairs, the bouncer says. We start with up, where Corey Mon is playing on stage. As we walk in and look around he ribs us. “Finally, they’re here! We can get started.” He plays a little riff. “Thanks for coming, ladies!” Anytime, Corey. The band plays funky, bluesy rock, and we decide the $18 coconut margarita is worth torpedoing our budget. We dance for a minute before heading down to see the DJ.
That’s when we see him: DJ SAUCI, in all his glory, and it seems we may have found the party. With long black hair covering his face and an all-black mesh top, he mixes Miley Cyrus’ “See You Again” into Cascada’s “Everytime We Touch,” and the girls in front of us turn to one another and clasp hands, singing as they lock eyes. The millennial pandering is hitting hard, and I am activated. I drink all the coconut margarita myself without thinking.
As if it couldn’t get any better, then comes “Mr. Brightside.” SAUCI whips his slung guitar around and rips a solo to accompany the club mix. The crowd goes wild. I can die happy. This DJ in his fishnet sleeves is making middle school Parker feel very fulfilled right now. I take a photo of a Mad Hatter and Elvis dancing on the balcony, and some boys take ours. They ask for our numbers, and that lecherous shouting in my ear means it’s time to go.
It’s about 12:30 a.m. We’ve got time for one more. We walk up the street to The Spur Bar & Grill (352 Main St.), which is the only place so far that I’ve been to before. There’s a downstairs, upstairs and back bar, which wasn’t open the last time I was here and has its own stage. Steven Bosco Band is playing, so we head back to listen and dance to country rock.
This is the kind of bar environment I expected would crowd the night, but as our last stop, it’s welcome. Seats and booths surround an island bar. The band plays a stage in the corner. The crowd is older, and they hoot and holler. The night’s end is drawing close, and everyone knows it. Now is the time for shots.
I’m learning a lot about Klara tonight, including that she doesn’t really seem like a shots girl. Too bad! We order well tequila for $10 each and lay it back. While she sputters, I’m delighted to see a Mezcal Sunset cocktail on the menu made of Wahaka Mezcal and Disaronno. Mezcal’s my favorite. I’ve seen more of it in Utah lately, but it’s still a treat to find. We’re over our $50, so I’ll have to come back another time.
We decide to end the night back at No Name Saloon, an over-budget vodka Sprite nightcap to celebrate the journey up Main. The liquor cabinets lock up at 1 a.m., and the house lights come on almost immediately. But we stay and chat for a while longer. It was a good night. A bar crawl can easily feel like a chore, but this one was fun. $50 may not get you far in Park City, but it got us far enough.
Our Lyft takes us home, and we have one more stupid shot of High West bourbon off the shot ski. The coffee with dinner takes its toll. We stay up until 6 a.m. and talk about everything. A stuffed ski patrol bear helps us eat Milk Duds and pizza. We debrief. We pass out, and in the morning we take one last unflattering selfie for the road.
Thanks, Park City.
See you next weekend!
xoxo
