Pat's Pub
By Carl Foster
For www.DFWNL.com
February 2012
Between the mammoth malls of Stonebriar and Vista Ridge runs HWY-121, which takes people past the southern border of a tiny, unassuming town called The Colony. Perhaps you have been pulled over there.
The people in this town have to leave it by many miles in order to do anything stylish: to sit down at a Starbucks, to go to a concert, even to buy the designer clothes for the job they have which is probably located outside The Colony. A recently built bowling alley is literally the only game in town.
But the people of The Colony have one thing to brag about. They don't have to leave town for liquor.
The Colony was a booze capital for quite some time, a disco-era speakeasy against uptight Texas liquor laws that opened up shop in the middle of nowhere.
There was even a house of ill-repute in The Colony, which disappeared with the arrival of the malls and the housing developers. It just went away overnight, torn down to make room for a Racetrac gas station-so the town could have four gas stations in a row on the main drag.
But in the way of bars, there are only a few in The Colony that have been, are, and will be for all time to come. Pat's Pub is one of these, located in the oldest shopping center in The Colony on Paige/Plano Parkway and South Colony Blvd.
It was once called O.B.'s decades ago, but it has been Pat's as far back as any of the regulars can recall.
Pat's has absorbed some essence of The Colony which the larger number tried to sweep away and pave over as the dark plains turned to well-lit neighborhoods and the elementary schools which service them. Those who did not leave took refuge from this flood of domesticity in a tiny, smoky room. So smoky.
Compare Pat's to what happens with wildlife as the developers keep building suburban neighborhoods in the sprawling farmlands north of Dallas: Soon enough there is maybe only five acres of untouched woods left within a maze of houses, and it is swarming with coyotes and feral cats. With that in mind, welcome to Pat's Pub.
In downtown Dallas, most people go out with friends on a Friday night. You go to a flashy bar and the room is congested with clumps of coworkers. The bray of polite laughter raises the general volume one needs to speak in order to be heard. Injecting yourself into one of these groups is harder than breaking into a bank through the mail-slot.
There is no polite laughter in Pat's pub. Yet starting a conversation at Pat's is remarkably easy.
These three dozen people from a town of 30,000 don't bar-hop in hordes. They show up one by one, with enough supplies to chain smoke for three hours, and they know some situation will eventually include them.
A good regular to any bar believes in self-reliance. The regulars sitting at the bar are with the whole room-or they are alone, depending on how you look at it.
They sit watching the TV while they wait for someone who wants to play darts or pool to show up. On Friday nights they get onstage and sing to the people: Some they have never seen before, and some who have been a few seats away for years.
Sitting at the bar, one sees an array of snacks hanging in bunches like a newsstand. Peanuts, crackers, chips, and the mandatory Slim Jim. In how many Dallas bars, I ask, can you buy a shot of Kentucky bourbon and a Slim Jim at the same time?
Dive bars have become so popular among lively young people today: dank, dark bars with one television and ash trays on every flat surface and extremely cheap drinks to alleviate one’s concerns of personal safety.
Pat’s Pub satisfies the dive bar seekers, but many of those inside have had their place staked for a couple of decades now. They are part of the spirit of this bar, and they are the ones you watch out for at 1 AM on a Sunday morning.
By Carl Foster
For www.DFWNL.com
February 2012
Between the mammoth malls of Stonebriar and Vista Ridge runs HWY-121, which takes people past the southern border of a tiny, unassuming town called The Colony. Perhaps you have been pulled over there.
The people in this town have to leave it by many miles in order to do anything stylish: to sit down at a Starbucks, to go to a concert, even to buy the designer clothes for the job they have which is probably located outside The Colony. A recently built bowling alley is literally the only game in town.
But the people of The Colony have one thing to brag about. They don't have to leave town for liquor.
The Colony was a booze capital for quite some time, a disco-era speakeasy against uptight Texas liquor laws that opened up shop in the middle of nowhere.
There was even a house of ill-repute in The Colony, which disappeared with the arrival of the malls and the housing developers. It just went away overnight, torn down to make room for a Racetrac gas station-so the town could have four gas stations in a row on the main drag.
But in the way of bars, there are only a few in The Colony that have been, are, and will be for all time to come. Pat's Pub is one of these, located in the oldest shopping center in The Colony on Paige/Plano Parkway and South Colony Blvd.
It was once called O.B.'s decades ago, but it has been Pat's as far back as any of the regulars can recall.
Pat's has absorbed some essence of The Colony which the larger number tried to sweep away and pave over as the dark plains turned to well-lit neighborhoods and the elementary schools which service them. Those who did not leave took refuge from this flood of domesticity in a tiny, smoky room. So smoky.
Compare Pat's to what happens with wildlife as the developers keep building suburban neighborhoods in the sprawling farmlands north of Dallas: Soon enough there is maybe only five acres of untouched woods left within a maze of houses, and it is swarming with coyotes and feral cats. With that in mind, welcome to Pat's Pub.
In downtown Dallas, most people go out with friends on a Friday night. You go to a flashy bar and the room is congested with clumps of coworkers. The bray of polite laughter raises the general volume one needs to speak in order to be heard. Injecting yourself into one of these groups is harder than breaking into a bank through the mail-slot.
There is no polite laughter in Pat's pub. Yet starting a conversation at Pat's is remarkably easy.
These three dozen people from a town of 30,000 don't bar-hop in hordes. They show up one by one, with enough supplies to chain smoke for three hours, and they know some situation will eventually include them.
A good regular to any bar believes in self-reliance. The regulars sitting at the bar are with the whole room-or they are alone, depending on how you look at it.
They sit watching the TV while they wait for someone who wants to play darts or pool to show up. On Friday nights they get onstage and sing to the people: Some they have never seen before, and some who have been a few seats away for years.
Sitting at the bar, one sees an array of snacks hanging in bunches like a newsstand. Peanuts, crackers, chips, and the mandatory Slim Jim. In how many Dallas bars, I ask, can you buy a shot of Kentucky bourbon and a Slim Jim at the same time?
Dive bars have become so popular among lively young people today: dank, dark bars with one television and ash trays on every flat surface and extremely cheap drinks to alleviate one’s concerns of personal safety.
Pat’s Pub satisfies the dive bar seekers, but many of those inside have had their place staked for a couple of decades now. They are part of the spirit of this bar, and they are the ones you watch out for at 1 AM on a Sunday morning.