Pink Rose: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

“Did anyone talk to you yet?” asks the chestnut-haired bartender after I finally get her attention. No, no one did. Nor would any of the waitstaff address me for almost the entirety of my Saturday evening at Pink Rose (1300 NW Lovejoy St., 428-2165), a dark little nightspot tucked unceremoniously beneath Office Depot in the Pearl. Instead, I was smirked at by the gang of five bros in polo shirts huddled around the end of the uncomfortable U-shaped bar, knocking back shots of Patrón and straining to be heard over the din of a DJ doing a piss-poor job of mixing together ’70s soul classics. Rescuing the evening was the bar’s signature Rose Burger ($12, topped with bacon, Swiss, fried onion and a tangy Dijon aioli) and my amusement at watching patrons’ feeble attempts to work the sliding door to the bar’s sole restroom.