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The Tonga Hut/Tally Rand

8/31/2014

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Last Sunday we needed to get out of the house so we jumped in the Jeep and headed north on the 405.  The original idea was to bowl a few games at a sheisty alley somewhere in the Van Nuys area.  Our game has been faltering as we haven’t been banging enough pins lately.

Somewhere around The Getty Center, Alyssa mentioned a tiki bar in the valley, The Tonga Hut, which neither of us had been to.  We didn’t have to mull this over much.  She threw her bowling shoes in the back seat and we caught the 101 to circle back towards North Hollywood.
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Parking was a breeze and we ended up trolling Victory Blvd to kill some time until the bar opened at 4p.  I found myself at half-mast staring down a flaming sign across the street: Hot Rod Heaven USA BBQ Grill.  Unfortunately, with a phone that goes directly to voicemail, some cardboard in the window, and their only review posted in April of this year, it appears this place arrived quick and split quicker, which is a shame because I love me a rib.

Anyway, we were standing in front of the Tonga Hut when the deadbolt clicked open and admitted us as the first customers of the day.  Initial impression was that this place is incredibly dark.  Coming in off the street and with no point of reference, I spent the first 30 seconds taking large blind steps in the general direction of where I believed the bar to be.  We found it without tripping and after our eyes adjusted, found a nice cozy space with all the appropriate tiki trimmings.  There were a few hut-style booths, a lounge section near the front and ample bar seating.  There’s a juke but someone had hooked up a computer and was playing a good mix of classic exotica.  The bartender handed us a battered three-sided table sign with their drink menu comprised of the standard tropical drinks.  They have a full bar, including beer on tap, so everyone should be covered here if rum isn’t your kick. 
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As a newcomer, I asked the bartender how long this place has been around but zoned out after he went on a long tirade about The Tonga Hut versus Tiki Ti in Silverlake.  Midway through the rant he pointed to a woman he referred to as “Den Mother Sherri”.  We all waved at each other but we were never able to deduce if she was one of the owners or just a regular that snuck through the back door.

I should have known better, but I then proceeded to ask what he would have if he was sitting on my side of the bar.

“Well, you know, I’ve been mixing drinks for quite a while now so I have very refined palate.  I mean, were I sitting over there, I’d probably be having a Campari with…” blah, blah, blah.  
If you work at a bar like this, that question should invoke four possible replies:

1.    If you like sweet and fruity, go with…

2.    Not so sweet, go with…

3.    A little skunky, go with…

4.    I also make an excellent…
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Alyssa was kicking me in the shins by this point and we’d concluded to order a Mai Tai bowl after having a conversation aside from the one the bartender was having with himself, concurrently.  A bowl is usually a pretty safe bet for two as it typically comes in a cool vessel with some fire and long straws.  Alyssa had turned me on to them a handful of years ago at Hula’s in Santa Cruz and since then we’ve been having one when the occasion arises.  You find them in some strange places.  Natalee Thai and Fu’s Palace as prime examples on the Westside.

Although The Tonga Hut has its’ own signature tiki mugs, including a pretty bitchin’ clam shell bowl (see below), this is what we receive:

Yes, that’s some booze, ice and mint in a faux wood plastic bowl.  Yes, exactly the type of bowl you get your tortilla chips in at a Mexican restaurant. 
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I read on Yelp while we were there that they have a 200 drink menu and anyone able to consume these within a year gets their name carved in wood and added to the Loyal Order of the Drooling Bastard board.  I didn’t care to inquire on either count.  We bounced after one.

Afterwards, we went to The Tally Rand in Burbank.  Although a diner, the bar on the lower level was a nice place to chill.  The chicken noodle soup was delicious -- and look!  They even have a Huell Howser approved meal!
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The Cab Chase

8/30/2014

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As the last post involved Sacramento, it seems appropriate to share a story about a previous night out there that ended with a legit car chase.

We’d flown up from Los Angeles to spend Thanksgiving with Alyssa’s family, and as it was my first visit to Sacramento, I was itching to see the local bar scene.  Holidays are some of the best times to visit a bar as generally the only people slumped over the rail are diehard regulars (respectable citizens being home with their families or traveling) and the overall vibe in the room is typically mellow and friendly.  Sometimes you even get lucky and there’s a spread of once edible food sitting under a heat lamp on a folding table just in case you need a quick nosh…and aren’t all together too concerned about the cleanliness of the kitchen it came from.  
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After a giant meal and some time with the family, we bum a ride to Club Raven in east Sac around 10 o’clock.  A handful of reviews I’ve read online state this place is pretty cracking on some nights, but we were lucky enough to find it dim, chill and not so crowded.  Affectionately referred to as “The Dirty Bird” by regulars, it’s a long, narrow space with ample bar seating; a handful of TVs over the bar and an internet jukebox -- very clean and borderline classy.  The neon sign out front is a real standout.  

We plug the juke and settle in for a whiskey and beer.  Of the ten or so people in the place, the only oddity was a well-dressed man with an Indian accent drinking Jameson rocks at the end of the bar nearest the front door.  He had a tremendous amount of nervous energy, giving the impression of a man who understands the dangers of remaining idle in a tight space; an ingrained fear of being cornered with no chance of escape.  He would take a few sips, run outside to spend a few moments with his garish yellow Ferrari, return to order another, and repeat for the duration of our time there.  I suppose we all have demons we’re attempting to outrun but I got the feeling that his were rapidly closing in.  
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Satisfied at The Raven, we stepped out onto J Street and made it about 2 blocks before needing to make a stop to thaw out.  Neither of us had taken into consideration that it’s considerably colder in northern California than what we’re accustomed to in LA and hadn’t dressed appropriately for the weather.  The closest establishment with a light on was the appropriately named Limelight Cardroom on Alhambra Blvd.  We swung the door open and were blasted by the dry warmth of a fully functional heater.  We were also the only patrons.  Let it be known, I have no problem with this.  The bartender poured a handful of rounds and I think we left spending less than 20 bucks.  Word is, they have a stellar food menu (not available over the holiday as everybody took a nice long weekend, not that I could have shoved food in my face anyway).  On a trip to the bathroom I noticed gaming tables in the backroom.  Apparently you can pop into the Limelight Cardroom and satisfy your need to play competitive poker or Baccarat.  I can’t presume to gauge the legality of this setup, but if they offered blackjack, chances are you’d find me here on a regular basis.  

Warmed from the inside by vodka, we saunter back out onto J Street and head towards Folsom Blvd.  End goal: a nightcap at Cheaters.  
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I liked this place at first sight.  I mean, Jesus…their sign looks like an angry wet dust ball drunkenly swinging a Manhattan and the name implies a whole host of lascivious behavior just beyond the door.  I found myself wondering if this is where weary Sacramento housewives come for kicks and if, perhaps, there was a chance that Joey Greco would bust through the door with a camera crew and we’d get a show for the price of a cocktail.  Yelp’s Json H. sums up this joint perfectly by saying “this isn’t a place to be seen or hook up…”.  Yes, quite true, Json H.  This is a straightforward musty dive and the risk of having your dick fall off is so not worth it.  However, the drinks were cheap, the room was mellow, and I greatly enjoyed my time here.
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Being as responsible as possible, we wave down a cab and head for home.

This poor cab had certainly seen better days.  The combined weight of two passengers in the back seat was too much for the suspension to handle.  I could hear the tires rubbing on the wheel wells with every bump.  The heater was blasting to fight the night chill and as a bonus was circulating an aromatic blend of exhaust, burnt rubber, scorched wiring and something that smelled oddly of charred flesh.  Perhaps some small creature had cozied up under the hood recently to stay warm and was now one with the engine block.  I’ve seen this happen.  The cabbie, a gregarious gentleman of Middle Eastern descent, was wise enough to keep the speed under 30 to avoid shaking loose the few bolts keeping the vehicle street legal.
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We came to a stop at a light at Fair Oaks Blvd. and Howe Ave. and are chatting about how slow the driver’s evening has been when our heads are jolted back by a vehicle hitting us from the rear.  The car then turns slightly into the left turn lane and proceeds to, incredibly slowly, grind its way up the entire driver’s side of the cab, making that tooth vibrating metal on metal sound until eventually ripping the side view mirror off the cab and then sits, patiently waiting for the light to turn green; the driver facing forward as if nothing had happened.  The three of us sit there for a moment slack-jawed and completely flummoxed as to how someone could casually hit the only vehicle on the road within a five-mile radius and then completely ignore it.  I look over at the car two inches away and notice two small children in the backseat -- their mother (?) at the wheel.  The cabbie rolls down the window and starts shouting as the light turns green and she swings a screeching left.  

“I’m sorry, I have to follow her,” he says.

“No problem.  Let’s go!”

As earlier mentioned, this cab is in no way race worthy.  Within the first minute of the chase the interior is filled with enough noxious fumes to kill us and I was genuinely concerned that the tires didn’t stand a chance.  There was a strong possibility of a blowout and roll and the busted side mirror was tapping against the window like a telltale heart.

“Get her license plate number!” the driver shouted over his shoulder.  

“You bet.  Get a little closer!  You gotta speed up a bit.  Stay on her!”  I think by this point I was taken up by the excitement, had removed my seatbelt and was leaning over the front seat egging him on, cell phone in hand.  

Within five minutes, we’d reached a more populated part of town with considerably more vehicles on the road.  Our adversary had no problem swerving and cutting traffic to dodge us even with a couple of kids in the backseat.  The cabbie, more civic-minded, pulled back and drove safely while Alyssa and I tracked her moves and called her turns to our driver.  I’m fairly certain that after a few dodgy maneuvers she thought she’d shaken us and was home free but we eventually caught up with her, horn blazing.
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After another high-speed stretch she finally pulled into the parking lot of a minimarket, convinced that she wouldn’t lose us.  By the time we pulled in next to her, radiator steaming, she was already out of the car nonchalantly enquiring what our problem was.  “There’s no damage,” she says pointing towards the dented and scraped cab with its dangling mirror. 

The cabbie is literally on fire and shaking so Alyssa and I excuse ourselves, go to the minimarket for cash, some Pringles and something to drink and come back out to watch the show.  Finally the cabbie asks for some help because he doesn’t know what information to take from this lady’s insurance card.  I point out the pertinent information and also the fact that her insurance expired six months ago and he should probably call the cops (she mutters something under her breath), toss him some cash for the ride and give him my phone number incase he or the cab company need to reach me about this fiasco. 

Oddly enough, all the twists and turns end up dropping us very near to our final destination.  A lot of the time, life plays out and there’s no sense in fighting it.

The next day I receive this voicemail:
 It’s not every day that you’re wished a merry Christmas and a happy new year in November.  Fucking classic.
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Shady Lady, Tower Cafe, Lei Aloha

8/21/2014

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It’s always nice visiting your hometown…well, at least for a few minutes until you realize the weather sucks and you run into people you can't stand from high school and Chili’s is the finest dining in town; then you remember why you moved away in the first place.

 Sacramento was my home for the first eighteen years of my life. It’s interesting how much the town changes every time I stop in.  Luckily, all the dirty bars I fantasized about visiting as a child are still around and thriving. I remember as a youth, sitting in the passenger’s seat of my mom’s Lincoln Continental, driving past such mesmerizing locales as Pied Piper, Glass Turtle, Ernie's Interlude, and a plethora of appropriately-named establishments on Auburn Blvd, and kicking my toddler feet in joy. There's something majestic about a half-burnt-out neon sign from the 70s, inviting me to come in and drink my sorrows away.
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This visit, I unfortunately didn't see any of these fine establishments (sad face). When Chad is away, it's quite difficult to find someone willing to check out Sacramento's underbelly with me. I did, however, convince my mom to stop by Shady Lady, named one of Esquire's top bars in America for 2014.

The Shady Lady - A saloon-style bar that perfectly merges old-timey and modern aesthetic. A rich ruby red and onyx color scheme complements the brick and wood base, and an assortment of theme-appropriate photographs adorn the walls of this Downtown Sacramento gem. I love a good themed bar (um, have you seen my list of tiki bars?!), so I enjoyed my experience here.
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Because the Shady Lady has an extensive cocktail list, complete with seasonal options, I felt it was necessary to stray outside my standby screwdriver. I ordered the Spring Fling (lavender-infused vodka grapefruit) and my mom ordered the Blood and Sand (a bitter whiskey option, if I remember correctly). Definitely slow-sipping, hand-crafted cocktails, but they were fun for the occasion.

We didn't order food, but I took a peek at the menu. The brunch looks amazing and I kind of have a boner for the whiskey-cured lox situation.

Next stop on my visit, Tower Cafe.  It's not a bar, and it's certainly not dirty, but it's super-whimsical, they serve a killer Monte Cristo and best of all, they have a lovely list of cocktails. I went here with my folks before heading to the airport for my flight back to LA. I ordered the pomegranate-blood orange margarita.
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MMMMMMMM!!!

Probably the best flavored margarita I've ever had. Not too sweet, a little tart, and just right.

Back in town, Chad picks me up from LAX and we head over to a little hole-in-the-wall we spotted before my departure flight. It’s called Lei Aloha and looks pretty nondescript from the outside. Situated next door to a loud, hoppin’ sports bar, we have to dodge a mass of overly-cologned douchebags before we are able to make our way inside.
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Ahh, shelter. The first thing I notice upon entering is the familiar sound of The Spinners humming through the speakers. This prompts me to put a dollar into the juke box and select an Ambrosia song. And then a Gino Vanelli song. It just felt appropriate. No frills at Lei Aloha; it's a basic dive with a friendly bartender and regulars. A great place to grab a drink if you're killing time before a flight.

Not relevant, but we stopped by Target after Lei Aloha...
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Michelangelo \m/
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Lompoc

8/20/2014

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A while back my friend Max invited me up to Lompoc, CA for a weekend with his folks.  Dropping everything and going was a no brainer on four fronts:

1.    I’ve never been there

2.    It’s wine country

3.   Lompoc is home to Playboy magazine’s 6th best dive bar in the country

4.    I was told there was a strong possibility of his father drifting off mid-conversation and playing the banjo, and that sounded really entertaining

We tossed a couple of bags in the Honda and left early on a Saturday morning.  Along the way north we saw two members of a motorcycle club almost die in a screeching wreck on the 101 and I took a leak in a random porta potty on Santa Claus Lane (yes, this exists and it is littered with well kept outhouses, presumably for the use of its aging residents out for their afternoon stroll when the urge strikes) near Ventura.  I consider both of these a relief though for different reasons.
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Lompoc is a smallish town in Santa Barbara County near the Danish tourist trap of Solvang.  There is not a whole lot going on in these parts.  There are some modest homes, a mission (La Purisma Concepcion) and a prison (the most notable inmates include members of Nixon’s cabinet who served there for their varying degrees of perjury and shadiness).

One thing I learned quickly about the residents of Lompoc is that they are very eager to impart their knowledge on the filming locations of the movie Sideways.  Unbeknownst to me beforehand, the Academy Award winning Paul Giamatti film was shot in and around Lompoc.  This is clearly the greatest thing to happen to the area since they chased the last of the Indians out and built the first Tex-Mex restaurant.  I’d read the book and seen the movie years before – thought both were rather good – and then forced Alyssa to watch it, against her better judgment, when I got back to town.  Apparently I’d drank the Kool-Aid while I was up there as I was spouting things like “It’s a great movie!”, and then eventually, “Don’t worry…it’s about to get good”, until realizing at the end that it’s actually pretty bad and she was right all along.  Moral: a woman’s intuition is stronger than everything you think you know.

Anyway, Max’s family is incredibly inviting and the cold cut sandwiches were delicious, but by 9 that evening I was ready to see the local watering holes.
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Occasionally I make poor decisions, and as a shining example I should have known better than to trust Playboy for a dive bar recommendation.  There is a reason I haven’t picked up that magazine since I was about 12 years old - and only then because the Romanian family on my street had a looser (or more worldly) set of ethics and kept them in the bathroom. The publisher of a glossy, airbrushed, semi-nude publication is a bit removed from low-brow drinking culture, however, they’d recently paid a walking herpes sore named Lindsay Lohan a gang of cash to show her freckled tits so maybe they were attempting to cater more to the gutter set.

Jasper’s Saloon, one of Playboy’s esteemed dives, is just another bar where someone thought that nailing a bunch of junk from the neighborhood hoarder’s shed would give it character.  Although there was a pretty good mix of bearded prospector types, rednecks and clean cut folks, I was immediately soured by a DJ playing shitty dance music from his Mac Book in the corner by the door.  Upside: they offer free shuffleboard.  We decided to stay for a few drinks.
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Now, neither of us has read the user’s manual on this and are not totally clear on the rules of play, but sliding the puck thingy up and down the table and making fun of each other for presumably bad plays is good enough to add some form of activity to counteract idle beer consumption.

Shortly, two incredibly drunk women stumble up to let us know that we are now playing doubles with them.  The ringleader sends her friend to Max’s end of the table while she proceeds to explain to me her version of the rules through vodka fumes.  She began waving her wedding ring around and using my shoulder to stay vertical.  I think to myself:

1.    Which one of the drunken rednecks here is her husband?

2.    Which direction will he come at me from when he thinks I’m trying to pickup his beast of a wife and can I use the wall to cover my flank?

3.    Am I sober enough to win a fight with a drunken redneck in his bar with his buddies around?

I conclude that I will not be loosing a few teeth this evening when two other drunk women trip over to remind the ringleader that they promised their husbands that they’d be home early.  Apparently it’s Ladies Night, which started sometime around 10am.  One reached over and tugged on my beard while agreeing with the ringleader that, yes, Max is a great match for their friend even though she called him Chad and kept screaming “Max!” at me.  At this point, the stag mumbled something from the other end of the table that sounded like “I’m way too fucked up for this”, attempted to walk towards her friends, tumbled into a table full of drinks and lay moaning on the floor.  All four were summarily ejected.  Sometimes your problems work themselves out…
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We decide to walk across the street to the Wicked Shamrock.  Yep, this is more like it.  It’s peak bar time by now and this place is mellow: big space with an old bar, couple of pool tables and a juke.  No frills.  There are a handful of people banging balls on the table and the rest are slunk over the bar; elbows up, heads held low towards their drinks with grim determination.  The bartender (pregnant) never let a bottle dry before putting another in front of you.  We plugged the juke with some Dio and Zeppelin and watched the local crazy drink Sprite and order at least ten 50-cent bags of Cheetos while we swilled cheap Budweiser and argued about bands.  There are few things better than this.

Sufficiently buzzed and now eager for live music, we headed to Johnny’s Bar & Grill, the only live venue in town.  This place was packed.  About all I remember of this joint is that it was clean, there was Guinness on tap and they had a stage.  We were lucky enough to move in on a high top table in front of the stage just as some people were leaving.  The band that evening was a crappy greaser rockabilly combo with a lead singer that looked like a slightly more effeminate version of Michael Madsen’s portrayal of Tom Baker in The Doors.  Although we couldn’t stop laughing at the time, I think I left pissed off for some reason.
That night, back at the homestead, I slept on an air mattress in a room filled with creepy porcelain dolls and had horrible dreams.  I haven’t the slightest idea how that could have possibly happened…

Before heading back to Los Angeles on Sunday evening, Max’s mother gave me this pin:
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Yes, I think I do. 
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The Anza Inn

7/12/2014

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Chad and I are constantly on the hunt for a delicious crunchy taco. Pinches in Culver City is our favorite at the moment, but today we were in Redondo Beach when the craving hit.  A quick Google search indicated that Tom’s Tacos has the best crunchy tacos, so we high-tailed it over. Once we arrived, we noticed something even more mesmerizing next door….The Anza Inn.
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Unfortunately closed for remodeling, The Anza Inn looks like a wet dream: a nondescript dive bar/Thai restaurant hybrid located in a random strip mall in Torrance.  Yes, please!
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I WILL see you next week!

Xxx,
Alyssa
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Monk's Bar and Grill / Nig's

7/5/2014

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Every summer as a kid, we'd jump in the Oldsmobile and make the 60 mile drive to a wonderland called Wisconsin Dells. The Dells, and neighboring town Lake Delton, are sleepy little burgs tucked away in the pines along the Wisconsin river in south central Wisconsin with a population of around 5000 souls between them in the off season.

Come Memorial Day weekend, the area begins to swell as it becomes the Midwest's premiere vacation destination. In the 60s, developers decided this was the perfect location to create what essentially became a city-sized theme park. There are too many miniature golf courses and go-kart tracks to count; innumerable themed restaurants and resort communities. They've got bungee jumping, penny arcades, a Gyrotron, at least a half dozen Old Tyme photo joints, stage shows, ski shows, sky shows and even robot shows. Also, the area has the world's highest concentration of water parks (indoor and outdoor, including America's largest park, Noah's Ark). Not to mention it's Indian country, so you can throw tomahawks and spears at a multitude of native preservation attractions. This place was the apex for bored and restless Midwestern kids deeply in need of stimulation.
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The last time I was here, I was maybe 14 and not yet really able to look past the flashing lights and street barkers at what all the parents, who were bankrolling this whole thing, were most interested in: the bars.

As Andre and I were passing near the area, I forced him to detour so we could at least hit the Big Chief Go-Kart track (which we did...and it was fucking awesome!) and grab some lunch. It was a few weeks before "opening" weekend, so the town was pleasantly quiet.

Lunch at Monk's Bar & Grill: I throw my hands in the air, shrug my shoulders and say, "Eh, it's a sports bar". Admittedly, the burger was pretty damn good and it was the first time I tried deep fried pickles. If you can get over the blisters on the roof of your mouth from eating them, they're delicious. Also, they had Leinenkugal on tap, which is always fun to see. It's new and clean, but not my scene.
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Naturally, we needed Old Tyme photos so we stroll across the street. Jesus, these guys have this system perfected. I think the whole thing took a total of four and a half minutes and $47 later, BAM!, photos in hand, thank you very much, arm over shoulder and shoved cooly out the door with a pat on the butt. I felt a little dirty and used but look at how handsome these guys are!
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I look up from the sidewalk and see a sign erected, long before political correctness and concern for social mores, inviting me to have a swig with someone named Nig. Not one to refuse an invite of this caliber, I concede, and step up into a gorgeous bar in a building from the early 1900s when they still made them solid. This is a really great space: high ceilings, hardwood floors, wraparound bar and that pleasant smell of hundred year old cigar smoke so deep in the woodwork that, even with current smoke-free laws, you will never get rid of it.
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Midday local patrons bellied up to the bar in the classic stooped posture of the committed day drinker? Yes, and they were none too happy to see what appeared to be the first wave of tourists. I'm sure if you caught them in the middle of the winter when there's 10 feet of snow outside and a fair chance you may need to sleep at the bar as the blizzard won't let up, they'd be a jovial lot, but you could feel the tension in the room. Like the moment before the doors open at WalMart on Black Friday...everybody was a little spooked.

I presume the Nig in Nig's bar is an abbreviation for the name of the gentleman who opened this joint in the mid-40s, but most everything I've read online alludes to how offensive they find this place (this is admittedly misleading as you need to take in to account the type of person posting some of this stuff. One review I found made me laugh out loud. Should you ever meet Angela P from Plainfield, IL, please give her a cunt punt for me as she states, in part, "I had a cranberry vodka, he had a captain and coke. Drinks were fine. Then we ordered Jello shots. They were prepackaged, like pudding cups! And they tasted awful."). 
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The fact that they offer a camouflage shirt and hat combo above the bar with the logo and tagline does not help them, however, this place is a real slice of small town Main Street bar culture that does not appear to have changed much since they opened their doors back in the day. Most of these establishments have disappeared. Something like this would never fly in a place like Los Angeles. Just based on the name alone, by now it would have been shuttered and repurposed as something safe and inviting like Obligitory's Pub -- most likely subdivided to include a baby clothing boutique.

My point is, should you find yourself near Wisconsin Dells, make a pit stop at Nig's Bar and enjoy a cold, cheap beer while not taking yourself so seriously for a minute. You might find you enjoy it. I most certainly did.
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Premium Grain Belt Beer/Grand Falls Casino

6/29/2014

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In May, my friend Andre and I did a cross-country trip from his hometown of Detroit to Los Angeles. The idea was to poke along, driving no more than around 8 hours a day so we could enjoy the sites and not die when one of us falls asleep behind the wheel somewhere in Idaho.

Having woken up late in Madison, WI with a righteous hangover on Day 2, we made it as far as the border of Minnesota and South Dakota before deciding to stop for the night. If you've ever been to this part of the country, you know there are not a lot of options for lodging and late night entertainment. However, before losing cell reception 30 minutes earlier, we were able to locate an Indian casino just south of interstate 90 across the Iowa border. Given that we had spent the better part of our time in Detroit at casinos and their bars, it seemed like a safe bet. We exited county Highway 75 and cut south on a two lane back road that we hoped would get us there. 
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One may think that the convergence of three exciting states like Minnesota, South Dakota and Iowa (I'm sure referred to in local parlance by the news affiliates as the "tri-state" area) would create some sort of vortex proven to balance your chakras and give you a diamond cutter for a hard on. That would be wrong. There's nothing but miles of dark road, shacks with cars on cinder blocks and cornfields. Lots of cornfields

After 30 minutes off the freeway in pitch black with no cell service and a grim feeling we were completely lost, we finally started having The Discussion. Namely, who would take it up the ass after being run off the road by a pickup truck while the other ran for help. It was beginning to get heated when we drove over a hill and found the Grand Falls Casino sitting in the middle of a cornfield miles from civilization. No joke, in the middle of a cornfield.

At check-in I noticed the flyer for the upcoming casino events. If Engelbert Humperdinck is making the trek all the way out here, it can't be that bad. 

We dropped the bags in the room, hit the ATM, and sauntered up to the bar. 
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"Good evening. What can I get for you?"

"I'll have a Jack, neat and a beer, please," I tell the bartender who did not look the least bit happy to see customers at midnight on a Tuesday.

"It'll be one or the other. Maximum of one drink per person every 20 minutes."

Apparently there are drink restrictions at a casino in the middle of nowhere. Is this a fucking joke? How do they expect to rape and eventually murder me at craps or blackjack if they won't let me drink myself ballsy with my own money? Let's be honest: how many Indians limit their drinks to three an hour? 

...And how do they track that? I looked around the bar expecting to see at least a couple dozen digital kitchen timers counting down with post-its stuck to them describing the alcoholic they're moderating. Nothing but a crabby old man tapping his fingers, impatiently waiting for my order.

"Ok, ok," I say, "how about a double Jack?"

"Nope, one ounce liquor per drink."

"Really? How much do you put in a Martini?"

"I just told you: one ounce of liquor."

"Jesus Christ. Is it free?"

"8 bucks," he replies, not looking the least bit amused.

"Right then, I'll have a beer," I tell him, scanning the bottles on display. “A Grain Belt Premium."
I've never heard of Grain Belt Premium but, as it looks like generic local brew, I can safely assume that it will get me drunk quicker and cheaper than 8 dollar snorts of whiskey or vodka and will at least keep my hands busy when I want to fidget before belting out a line by REO Speedwagon (I only bring up the last bit because shortly before arriving at the Grand Falls casino, I'd had another one-sided conversation about how great REO Speedwagon is based on one song: ‘Take It On The Run’. I have only one ally in this argument, Max, whom you'll hear about via Lompoc).

3 dollars later I receive this:

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Had I not taken advantage of the casino's sluggish wifi to look this beer up, I would have figured it was bottled in a broom closet somewhere in the building with last night's swill bucket and dishwater. This shit's horrible. According to the website, it's brewed in St Paul, MN and is marketed as "The Friendly Beer". What the fuck does that even mean? Friendly like the fat girl at the bar with ashtray and sour beer breath that's eager to make out at the end of the night? Oh gee, thanks for the mouth herpes, Schell Brewing Company! That said, I still drank like 6 of them...

They do have a pretty cool hoodie on their website though.

I give Grain Belt Premium beer and the Grand Falls Casino a big limp one. 
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Purple Orchid

6/19/2014

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Although the post WWII tiki bar craze has died down a bit (Trader Vic's in Beverly Hills and the bastion of seven seas garishness, Bahooka in Rosemead, CA, have both padlocked their doors), there are still a few treasures around. In the past few months, Alyssa and I have both been swept up by the island spirit and have started viewing fruity rum cocktails and the bars that serve them as a great way to spend an afternoon (or weekend, as served up by the Ventiki Challenge).
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Tucked away just off the main drag in El Segundo, near LAX, you'll find a great spot called The Purple Orchid. The "PO", as it's know to regulars, is a decent sized space with all the proper trimmings: ample bar and table seating, some pool tables, a small stage, blowfish hanging from the ceiling and enough bamboo to build yourself a couple of huts on your favorite beach in Tahiti. Great attention to detail with hand painted trim and flickering tiki torches on the wall. There are giant wooden tiki idols for sale should you find yourself drunk enough to desperately need one in the passenger seat for the ride home. This place totters perfectly on the edge of sleeze and dive. 
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According to the bartender, it was a scuzzy biker bar until about 10 years ago before being converted to the Purple Orchid. Clearly its earlier life has soaked into the foundation. 

Versions of all the classic cocktails are available with the bonus of most being available as volcano bowls. Who doesn't like a big ol' volcano bowl?

We arrive shortly after opening around 2 o'clock, cozy up to the bar and order a Mai Tai volcano bowl. I don't pretend to be any kind of expert on tropical drinks but it was delicious: big, fruity and full of liquor. In the summer months they offer a version of the Mai Tai with fresh watermelon purée (my 2nd round) that's really quite good. 
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After a bit of effort and a phone call to the owner, the bartender finally gets some tunes on the stereo. Although there's an "old school" CD juke in the joint, I was just fine with the house playlist on a Sunday afternoon. It was a good mix of lounge, classic rock and a contemporary oddity thrown in for good measure. Kudos to Alyssa for figuring out it was Cake covering the Muppet Show classic Mahna Mahna without the use of Soundhound. Sacramento natives must all be vibrating on the same frequency...
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Word is that the place gets pretty packed on Friday and Saturday nights but the crowd on a weekend afternoon is pretty chill. A few old timers coming and going for a drink or two and only one crazy. Not bad.

They also have official Purple Orchid mugs for sale at 12 bucks a pop and some nifty Don Ho glassware. All told, The Purple Orchid is absolutely worth a trip to El Segundo. I hope to see you there.
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RIP Crestview Lanes

5/14/2014

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My mom is so gonna get it for not telling me Crestview Lanes closed down. And not even recently, like four years ago. This place was as divey as bowling alleys come. I used to come here with my grandma and brother all the time when I was a kid, so this loss definitely hits home.

The Crest Room: Um, just look at it. I never had a chance to legally drink here, but this would definitely be one of my hangouts today if I still lived in Sacramento, or if it were still open... I can't vouch for the drinks (I'm sure they were strong) or the prices (I'm sure they were fair), but I still feel it is necessary to commemorate this gem of an establishment.

Rest in peace, my friend.
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Power House

4/7/2014

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I need to stop drinking on school nights...

On Sunday, Chad surprised me by taking me to Power House, a dirty bar I've wanted to visit ever since I worked on Cahuenga. From the outside, Power House looks like a dive...and then you walk inside...mega dive.

We stop in for a quick drink before lunch, but soon one drink turns into four and that's when the weird shit went down.
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We park at the bar and order a round of drinks. The clientele consists of younger rocker dudes on our right and a guy with his Dachshund to our left. The bartender is looking all cute and streetwise in her newsboy cap. The walls are covered in vintage, garage sale art, and everything has the yellowish tinge of cigarette smoke. The bathroom is covered in graffiti and lacks a mirror, ala the Blue Lagoon in Santa Cruz.

Chad goes to the juke box to play some music and I start flipping through an issue of 'Girls and Corpses' that we bought at a nearby newsstand. I feel someone caress my arm and look up to find a smiling man who is not my boyfriend.

UMMMM.....
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He starts asking me questions in a thick Russian accent, which I can hardly articulate, so I redirect my attention to my phone. I know the Russian is still standing next to me, as I can feel his gaze and heavy breathing over my right shoulder. I keep looking over at a completely oblivious Chad, who is clearly enamored by the CD-style juke box. The bartender comes over to check on me, and shortly thereafter, Chad comes back and reclaims his bar stool. He doesn't at all seem weirded out by the smiling Russian dude two inches away from him.

The Russian is having a hard time standing, so Chad offers him his stool. The bartender rewards our good deed with a shot of Fireball.

After we leave, we run into the patron with the weiner dog. He shouts over at me, "That guy hitting on you was the weirdest thing I've ever seen"...

Oh, Hollywood.
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