June 6th, 1934

It is the time between Babe Ruth and Barry Bonds, the distance between a dirt road and a broadway highway, the different between a World War and War on Terrorism.

It is the time that four generations of our family have spent cultivating what was once a weed lot into a Denver institution.

Seventy years, we have been here, yet we're hardly changed for it all. While the world is a different place indeed, we at Bonnie Brae Tavern are still awash in our whitewash and turquoise vinyl, much the way we were when we opened our doors in 1934.

It was the same year tens of thousands of starving Okies headed west to escape the Dust Bowl, and for all its drudgery, the same year The Babe became the first baseball player to hit 700 home runs.

Far from all that, a Yankees' fan named Carl Dire had his own small dream. He eyed the empty lot next to the gas station he owned on University Boulevard. To the east lay sagebrush as far as the eye could see, a few dairy farms here and there. To the west, were the modest bungalows of Washington Park, a quiet neighborhood, steadfast in its support of Prohibition.

But Prohibition was over, and this orphaned son of Italian immigrants had just enough moxie to open a bar across the street from the home of the local Temperance Movement leader. Carl and his wife, Sue, named their tavern after the empty housing development surrounding them. "Bonnie Brae", a Gaelic phrase that means "pleasant hill", had gone bankrupt a few years earlier and would stand idle for a few more. Day and night they worked during the long, long Depression. They would put their young sons to sleep on a mattress in the back on their Model A, drive back to their home in North Denver in the wee hours of the night, turn around and come back a few hours later, day after day, until finally they could afford to build a tiny apartment above the restaurant.

It wasn't until the end of World War II that real prosperity came. The couple built a house across the parking lot from the tavern. They sent their sons, Mike and Hank, to college then put them to work in the family business. They doubled the size of the dining room and added an extravagant new item: Pizza.

As new roads and street signs and house sprouted around, you became our loyal customers and friends. You were a student at Denver University, or a gas station attendant next door, or a Polo Club millionaire down the street. We looked for you once a month, once a week, once a day: The hen-pecked husband who would mow his lawn then keep on pushing the mower all the way to our door, abandoning it outside for a seat at the bar and a cold beer. The cable television magnate who would trip $100 for a pizza cooked just right. The construction worker who ordered the same sausage and cheese sandwich so often we finally named it after him, may he rest in peace.

Now 70 years have come and gone, and you're still coming, not just for the food. The Food is a small part of it now. You come to propose marriage, to wait out power outages, to burn off steam after softball games, to grouse about the Broncos, to celebrate a job promotion, to mark a birthday, a birth, a death.

You have there for our family, too. After Carl died in 1982 you were there, drinking a shot of whiskey at his bar in his honor. You paid your respects to Sue in 2002, showering flowers and cards on the table where she took her meals twice a day, almost until the day she died. And for that, we thank you.

So please, sit down and put up your feet. Tell your waitress if you need us to turn up the volume on the game. Have some cheese sticks or a beer. Don't worry if the kids climb on the seats or slide under the table. And when your food arrives, take your time eating. Because we've got time. If you stay long enough, we may just name a sandwich after you.

Story by Angela Dire