Bill Hornstein
Google
The Boneyard Pub — Evel Knievel Would’ve Eaten Here, Then Jumped a Flaming Bus Full of Regret.
This place doesn’t serve food and drink—it launches it at you, full throttle, like Evel Knievel flying a Harley through a wall of dynamite and neon beer signs. Walk in and the first thing you see—inside the damn bar—are vintage motorcycles, gleaming like relics from another, louder religion. Machines that have lived. Leaked oil. Carried lunatics across state lines with nothing but bad intentions and the smell of gasoline.
Then come the chicken nachos, piled high like some edible stunt ramp—melty, massive, obscene in every beautiful way. It’s not dinner. It’s a challenge. A culinary high-wire act with no safety net, just molten cheese, smoked chicken, and your own crumbling sense of restraint. If you finish it solo, they should let you sign a helmet.
At the helm of this madness is Parker, the bartender, the operator, the enabler of your better instincts. Smooth as a snake oil salesman and twice as useful, Parker doesn’t just pour drinks—he sets the mood. He handed me a Crooked Pilsner so crisp it felt like a reset button for the nervous system. And before I could beg for another, he offered the sacred path: the growler to go.
Cold. Full. Glorious. That Crooked Pilsner growler left the building with me like a sidekick in a low-budget road movie, sweating in the passenger seat while I replayed every bad decision that led me to such fortune.
This is not a bar. It’s a launch pad. Five stars. Wear a helmet. Bring cash. Tip Parker like he just patched your wounds. And never—ever—underestimate the power of a full growler and a bar with motorcycles inside.