Bozeman, Montana's Bacchus Pub

Hotel Baxter opened in 1929 on Bozeman’s now avant-garde Main Street, and for nearly a century, it’s remained one of the city’s most unmistakable buildings. Until the summer of 2020, it was also the tallest, before being eclipsed by a hard-edged postmodern structure that looks like it was designed by someone who resents windows. But the Baxter still holds its ground. And tucked inside, on the ground floor, is Bacchus Pub—Bozeman’s first and only historic pub, and the first place I ever ate in town. It’s also the only one I’ve returned to regularly.

Bacchus has one of my favorite menus in Bozeman. The beer and wine lists are generous, the patio spills onto Main Street, and the interior feels like it was lifted from Medieval Europe and dropped gently into Montana. It’s one of those rare restaurants where I know I’ll find something to eat or drink, no matter my mood—and not be disappointed. I’ve ordered something different every time I’ve gone, but the Fish & Chips are my favorite. Crisped just seconds too long, maybe, but still perfect. The kind of dish you eat with your fingers, without apology.

The pub was originally the Baxter Coffee House, and the space hasn’t changed much since then. It’s one of the few parts of the hotel that hasn’t been renovated. The décor is strange and wonderful—hand-carved and painted monk heads peer down from the walls, their expressions frozen somewhere between scrutiny and existential dread. They’re easy to miss at first. But once you notice them, you can’t un-notice them. And if you’re lucky, they’ll distract you from the television, unless there’s a good game on. Then you’ll stare. And the monks will stare back.

I’ve always wondered who carved them. Was it someone on the build team, chisel in hand, making quiet decisions about facial expression and brow angle? Or did an artisan arrive with a leather satchel of tools and a vision, whispering, “I’ll take it from here, boys,” before leaving his mark?

I was on the patio not long ago, nursing a Pumpkin Ale and peeling into the Fish & Chips. The sun had dropped just low enough to cast my table in shade, and the temperature dipped enough to justify a jacket. I’d planned to arrive earlier, to catch the light animating that side of the street, but the seat came too late. Still, I stayed.

Crowds passed in both directions. Bozeman’s workforce is mostly remote now, and tourism never stops. I keep a running joke with myself: every time I try to turn at an intersection, there’s always one car leaving me waiting. It’s always true.

I sat there people-watching, sipping my ale, and previewing a life I’ve been slowly writing into existence—one of travel, dining, and reflection. I often think about the jobs I’ve held, the places I’ve lived, and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s all been leading somewhere. Not necessarily to Bacchus or Bozeman, but to the experience of being here. Of arriving without expectation and finding something worth remembering.

I imagine myself driving aimlessly, stumbling into a town, wandering until I find a place known mostly to locals. I wouldn’t be searching for anything in particular. Just an experience I couldn’t replicate. One I could write about.

You can get Fish & Chips just about anywhere. But how many places let you eat them under the watchful gaze of a carved monk, inquisitive at your every move?