It’s about 6:30 on a Thursday when I pull into the gravel lot off NW 10th, just west of where the street starts to feel more residential. The Finisher doesn’t announce itself much — a painted sign, a couple of picnic tables on a covered patio, a neon glow through the front window. I’ve driven past it a dozen times without stopping. That was a mistake.
Inside, it’s compact and dark in the comfortable way that good bars are dark. The ceiling is low. There’s a pool table taking up more than its share of the floor, two pinball machines against the far wall, and a jukebox that someone has apparently stocked with a very personal mix of 90s alt-rock and outlaw country. When I walk in, Tom Petty is playing. By the time I get my first drink, it’s switched to Waylon Jennings. Nobody seems to mind the whiplash.
The bartender moves quickly without being curt. I ask what’s on draft and she rattles off maybe eight or nine options — mostly regional stuff, a couple of nationals, one rotating tap from a smaller Oklahoma brewery. I go with a pint of something local and it’s cold and well-poured and costs me $5. That’s the going rate here. You’re not paying for ambiance; you’re paying for a beer.
The crowd skews mixed in the best way — construction workers, a couple that looks like they just came from dinner somewhere nicer, a guy in paint-spattered jeans who’s absolutely demolishing someone at pool. There’s no theme night, no DJ setup, no specialty cocktail menu laminated behind glass. The Finisher is just a bar, and it commits to that fully.
I end up spending a good hour at the pinball machines. They keep them maintained, which isn’t a given at a lot of neighborhood spots. One is an older Stern cabinet, the other something from the late 90s with a movie tie-in I can’t quite place. Quarters go fast. I don’t care.
The patio out back is worth knowing about if the weather cooperates. It’s fenced in, strung with lights, and there are more picnic tables and a couple of portable heaters for when October turns. People take their dogs back there. On a warm night it fills up steadily after 8 o’clock, though it never gets so crowded that you can’t hold a conversation.
Food is bar food — chips, maybe a couple of options depending on the night. Don’t come hungry expecting a full meal. There’s usually a food truck parked outside on weekends, and that’s your best bet if you need something substantial. The bar’s job is the drinks, and it does that job seriously.
The Finisher sits in a part of town that’s been changing slowly for a while now, with a few newer spots opening up nearby, but it doesn’t seem particularly concerned with any of that. The prices haven’t moved much, the regulars keep coming back, and the jukebox keeps doing its odd, pleasing thing. It’s an easy place to arrive at with one drink in mind and leave two hours later having talked to three strangers and lost six dollars in quarters. That’s the whole pitch, and it works.
