During my first trip to Salt Lake City, I wandered from my hotel room in search of a drink, found a modest pub, and went to order a beer or three. "Sir, this is a private club," the bouncer told me. I headed toward the door feeling dejected and confused. This certainly doesn't look like an exclusive joint.
At that point, the bouncer started laughing, realizing that I was the latest out-of-towner who was unaware of Utah's Mormon-inspired booze laws. He could sell me a temporary membership for five bucks, to which I happily obliged. I still have that membership card in a drawer somewhere.
