It should also be said that I have a massive hard-on for dive bars. The seedier the better, in most circumstances. The Anchor is kind of on a level all its own, and has a reputation for being authentically divey. You won’t find any faux-retro metal signs for Coke or Budweiser that are now sold in every Target and Wal Mart across the country; no staff members wearing matching outfits and no scenic outdoor seating.
Instead, you'll find exactly what the perfect dive bar should be.
This is a face of excitement and love, courtesy of Jeanine.
The Anchor is a place where the food is ridiculously cheap and AMAZING (burgers, including their Galleybuster with 3 patties, 4.00), and the greasiest, most phenomenal fries on the planet. No chicken or fish or pasta and veggies; don't even bother asking. We've gotten to know Irene, the Grill Master of the Anchor, who we trust implicitly and wouldn't dare question what occurs in the "kitchen area." So far, so good. The only illness that has occurred after eating at The Anchor was purely alcohol-induced.
Beer pitchers are about 4 bucks, and the wait staff are blunt and a bit crabby if you don't immediately know what you want (don't ever try and order wine or beer in a 'pint' glass), and there are strange and nasty nautical items scattered from ceiling to floor and along every wall. Most stools at the bar have rips in them, and it's so dim inside you always assume the sun must've gone down, even at noon.
The Anchor is a place where for a better part of my last few years in Duluth, I spent every Thursday night with longtime best friends Jeanine, TJ and Morgan, monopolizing the jukebox and getting rowdy with the patrons. I have so many fond memories of bitter cold winter nights, sitting by the tiny fireplace at a big, notched wooden table listening to old U2 songs and basking in the beauty and simplicity of The Anchor. A bellyful of burger and an old school frosted beer mug filled with Michelob Golden Light; it doesn't get any better than that.
This was often followed by a very late start to work on Fridays, Jeanine and I worked together at the time and would often claim we had "bad fish." For some reason, they always bought it.
We visit the area 2-3 times a year, and every time, Friday nights are reserved for The Anchor. It's usually packed to the brim with it's minimal seating capacity, so Jeanine and I have gotten incredibly good at "hawking" for a table (otherwise known as hovering between bar and a group of people who are towards the end of their Anchor adventure).
I think Slim Goodbuzz said it best when he stated,
"The Anchor Bar is the love of my life. The beer selection is extensive, the food is excellent and both are cheaper than hell. And though all appearances indicate that it is a bar for thugs, there are no thugs there; the tough women behind the bar ran them out years ago. Fortunately, they grudgingly tolerate the hooligans and drunks, such as myself, who remain. Decorated in early pigsty, the place is dark and greasy-smelling, and is populated by the kind of people who just want to drink beer and act like real humans."
