Casanova Lounge Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

527 Valencia ~ WEBSITE ~ (415) 863-9328

4:15 pm Sunday 24 June 2007

Prologue: I’ve been here before, too. Paladin and I ducked in here after the Official Visit to Bar Tartine, so he could get a real drink (i.e. scotch). But I just noticed that Casanova Lounge is the third Bar in a row That Is Also A Cocktail Lounge. That is somewhat stunning, no? Well, I think it is. And I’ll be bringing my fresh perspective to this typically Mission-y dark (but red!), dive-ish (yet vaguely hipster-leaning) Bar this Saturday (or Sunday, as was the case)! So you know: cash only and no ATM on the premises, which means bring money.

To clarify: you will find me at Casanova Lounge at or around 4:15 pm Sunday 24 June. This way I can take advantage of their happy hour ($1.00 off all drinks) from 4 – 7, and maybe some of my new bartender friends can make it (what do you say, y’all?) While the recent cyber-chaos on this ridiculous blog has left me needing the kind of night on the town that will most definitely require the better part, if not all, of at least an entire Sunday during which to recuperate, I remember what a nice Sunday afternoon some of us whiled away at Ace’s at the beginning of this adventure, and I think that sort of mellow merriment is more what I should aim for. Sorry for the persistent uncertainty, but as Chica Cherry suggested, perhaps choosing a graduate school wiped out my decision-making abilities for the forseeable future.

Afterword: Well, it turns out that Casanova Lounge is more orange than red, which you can tell if you are there on a sunny afternoon like I was. Also, despite their website stating that they do not have an ATM on the premises, there is, in fact, an ATM inside the Bar itself, right next to the door. There’s even a window, where you can enjoy the sunny vista (unless a large biker is already perched at the high table there, waiting for his boyfriend). Casanova Lounge does have the jukebox they tout-muchly on their website (more about that in a bit) and they also have not one — but four — comfy leather sofas past the bar in the back, plus another one on a small stage, so it would be a good place to arrange to meet someone you wanted to cuddle up next to for some alcohol-feuled public displays of affection. Believe you me, as the minutes ticked past and Marquise Marie did not appear, ringing up Jonny-Georgia occurred to me more than once.

Yes, I was there to meet my long-lost friend the Marquise. I was so looking forward to our happy reunion, that I didn’t even mind when my initial survey of Casanova Lounge revealed the somewhat distressing fact that the place has no back exit. By which I mean, if one were there enjoying a Long Island Iced Tea and a police officer or two were to come in looking for someone to wrongly arrest and falsely imprison, one would have to hope that they would choose another patron to harass, because there would be no way to make a run for it, so to speak, without accomplishing the highly unlikely feat of getting past the cops and then out the front door. This purely hypothetical musing has prompted a new category: “The Bars Where One Can Hightail It Out the Back”. This category does not appear at present, because a category must have an applicable post before it shows up, but I will continue to seek such an important feature in subsequent establishments and let you know where I find it. (After all, this is the sort of thing some people might find very useful to know when deciding on a Bar.)

Anyway, I got to Casanova Lounge just after they opened, so the place was pretty empty (aforementioned biker notwithstanding). I sat at the bar, confirmed hooks (and an unpleasant amount of gum), and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea (entirely co-incidental to the previous mention of this drink, I assure you). The bartender mixed me something that was tasty enough, but bore little resemblance to a glass of several different alcohols mixed with just enough Coke to pass as a glass of iced tea — which is the pretty much the point of this particular cocktail — but it was a sunny day, I was meeting Marquise Marie, and I was at a Bar, so I didn’t let this bother me.

What did start to bother me was the funky way the bar area smelled. Now I know Casanova Lounge is basically a dive bar in the Mission, and it was Sunday so the place was bound to be showing some wear and tear from the wild weekend, but an unpleasant odor is not what I want to experience from any barstool. So I was kicking it on one of the couches when Marquise Marie finally arrived.

Truth be told, we were so giddy about catching up with each other, really, we could have been anywhere. Even when a pretty below-average dj unplugged the allegedly legendary jukebox and started playing his uninspired set, we didn’t care too much. Friendship trumps sloppy drinks and crappy music every time. We barely noticed the funky lights and painting of mostly naked women on the walls. I must say, though, Casanova Lounge is really not the best Bar in which to while away an afternoon — Sunday, sunny, or otherwise. Much better spots for that would be Ace’s, Bloom’s Saloon, or of course The Black Horse London Pub. But if you are in the Mission at night, with a thirst for something liquor-ish, the Casanova Lounge will suffice. Especially if you have in tow someone you’d like to canoodle and there’s couch space available when you pop your head in. Unless, of course, you are — or have reason to suspect you might potentially be caused to be — on the lam, given the lack of an exit via which you can hightail it out the back, should this be necessary.

Bathroom Biography:
The bars on the windows pretty much preclude them as emergency exits. Other than that, the adjective that is most fitting is “desultory”. While there are worse bathrooms in other Bars, these just don’t match the aesthetic of the front of the house. An effort at some sort of decoration really should be made.

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Catalyst Cocktails Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

312 Harriet ~ WEBSITE ~ (415) 621-1722

7:00 pm (& as sooner as possible, and as later as I can last!) Tuesday 3 July 2007

Prolouge: Being located as it is amidst sundry bail bonds businesses, and disturbingly close to the Hall of (In)Justice, this post for Catalyst Cocktails seems like a good place to tell you about a gem of pure genius I heard about on “The Colbert Report” (aka “The Best Show on Television” since Lame-ass Moonves at CBS cancelled “Jericho” – bastard! nice try, Les; don’t mess with “Jericho” fans!). Remember, Bars By The Book is firmly opposed to drunk driving. However, The Hostess is no big fan of parking tickets. And she especially dislikes forgetting where she parked her car … (which is not exactly as unlikely at one might think; after all, a classic film has even been made about this selfsame quandry). San Francisco needs this service! Gavin? You want my vote? Make this happen Gel-boy…

OK, so even those of us with real jobs don’t have to work on The 4th of July, so there is no excuse to miss out on this kickoff to the “It Sucks That The 4th of July Is On A Wednesday This Year” festivities. As an added incentive, if you come to Catalyst Cocktails during my Official Visit AND if you are wearing red, white, and blue (this means all three, and yes, underwear counts — but you will have to prove it), I will buy you a drink. Of course, this offer applies to Barflies only — so sign-up now if you aren’t listed over there on the left yet …

Afterword: How do you like this patriotic image? This is for all of y’all who keep asking me why there aren’t pictures on this ridiculous blog. OK, it’s not a photograph, but it is something to look at, and I happened to be typing this update on the 4th of July, so this particular graphic is/was especially a propos, and I am a huge a propos proponent (an “a propoponent”?), in case you didn’t know.

The image is also a bit ironical here given that the first thing I noticed on my way into Catalyst Cocktails was a sign on the door announcing that the Bar was closing at 10:30 that night. I was understandably a bit dismayed about this, as I was fully intending to stay at Catalyst Cocktails for a lot longer than the three-and-a-half hours it appeared that I had left. But Matt the owner (hi, Matt!) and Ray the cook (hi, Ray!) were there, so at least I had some friendly folks to chat with. Even though I hadn’t been to Catalyst Cocktails in forever, Matt remembered how to make a Smoky Mirror, and Ray remembered my name, which was nice.

{Backstory ensues…} You see, Catalyst Cocktails has been my de facto favorite bar since Soluna fell so far from grace (see: Breezy’s). I loved it from the first moment I walked in, sometime back in either the fall or winter of 2005. Just because I haven’t been there in forever does not mean that I stopped thinking about what a lovely spot to spend time Catalyst Cocktails is. Au contraire! But right around the same time that I discovered it, so did these nutjobs. Yes, precisely the same sort of folks who derailed Soluna, my old favorite bar, have been hanging out at my new favorite bar on a regular basis. The prospect of losing another favorite bar to these cult members has always worried me, so I suppose I have kept Catalyst Cocktails at arm’s length, so to speak. You know, just so I can pretend not to be devastated if history repeats itself, and all.

It gives me great pleasure to report that no one has ruined Catalyst Cocktails (at least not yet). It is still a charming and delightful Bar. It’s stylish (I say Art Deco, Paladin says 1950’s Modern — he is so contrary!) in a surprising way (given that it is located in an alley in the thick of bail bonds businesses) which somehow elevates the serious drinking that you can do there. Now, the drinks could be cheaper ($8.50 well and $10.00 otherwise is a bit on the steep side, especially if one has just bailed someone out of jail, but maybe Matt is trying to cater to overpaid cops and egregiously expensive lawyers), but they always have good music playing. There’s sometimes a dj, there’s a small dance floor in the back, there’s a couple of couches, there’s booths (there’s hooks!), and Ray makes The Best French Fries in San Francisco. Why-oh-why have I not been there in forever? More importantly, why weren’t you there?

The remnants of the sort of respectable people who gather for a (meaning one) drink after work before heading home to dinners containing all of the food groups and going to bed at a decent hour were just leaving as I arrived. So Matt and Ray and I had the place to ourselves long enough to get all caught up. Then two guys I took to be homeless (until one of them pulled out a cell phone much later on) came in. They seemed to be regulars, and are actually quite nice, homeless or not (I suppose they could be undercover cops, the sort of which are despatched in truly alarming numbers at various local street fairs lately). At least one of them is even a veteran, which was nicely in keeping with the patriotic tone I was trying to set with my red spaghetti-strap tee-sirt, white capri pants, and blue cardigan. (Hi, Jim and Brian!) But the cook, the owner, two old guys drinking PBR, and The Hostess is not exactly a party (although it might make for an interesting movie title), now is it? I realize that the 4th of July being on a Wednesday this year is sort of a drag, but that is precisely why I planned the Official Visit to the 18th Bar in The Book for the 4th of July Eve. I couldn’t understand why the place wasn’t packed. I mean, as Scotty had pointed out to me earlier in the day, we basically get two Fridays this week. Where was everyone? I was starting to get depressed. I was definitely disappointed. That’s when Ray, being the wise scholar that he is, suggested that I “summon” some company.

For the record, the first person I tried to summon was Chica Cherry. After all, what is an adopted sister for, if not to save you from drinking in a more or less empty bar (except perhaps for getting you tickets to see your new muse, Amy Winehouse, in September — I am sooo psyched — gracias, hermana!)? But Chica Cherry was not answering her phone — no doubt she was out doing something fabulous that she forgot to invite me to. Having tried to do the right and respectable thing (certain persons have been trying to tell me the 4th of July is a “family holiday” — I think just to upset me, but whatever), I realized that what I really could use after such a long, difficult week (yes, I realize it was only Tuesday, but trust me) was the affectionate attention of a charming southern gentleman, and it just so happens that I have one of them on speed dial…

I was actually surprised that Jonny-Georgia answered his phone, social butterfly that he has become. But he did, and I gave it to him straight: I was looking for someone to come into a basically deserted Bar, in pretty much the middle of nowhere, that was going to close at 10:00 (Matt and Ray had revised closing time in light of the largely absent crowd), just to keep me company. And the charming southern gentleman said he would “be right there”.

He got a little lost, but he didn’t give up, and Jonny-Georgia is nothing if not always worth the wait. We closed Catalyst Cocktails down and caught a cab (that was filling up at a gas station, which was novel) and headed for Ace’s, which I found out is just as much fun after dark as it is during the day, AND is the first Bar to be categorized as one of “The Bars Where One Can Hightail It Out the Back”. As an interesting (to me, at least) aside, I learned from Matt that an establishment with only one entrance/exit is only permitted to legally have 49 people in it a time as per the San Francisco fire code. This number is irrespective of the actual size of any particular place. One door means 49 persons, maximum, period. Of course, this is legally speaking, and there are a lot of “laws” that are really just reasons for the police to harass otherwise innocent citizens (just ask poor Paris Hilton), so make of this what you will.

Another thing I learned from Matt is that the key to a “real” Philly Cheesesteak is actually the bread, which can only be acquired in Philadelphia, and has something to do with the water there. There is, according to Matt, only one place in San Francisco that bothers to have bread flown in from Philadelphia (but even so, you apparently have to order “double meat” there for the authentic Philly Cheesesteak experience). Where is this place? I’m not going to tell you. This is the kind of illuminating information that one must be present at an Official Visit to glean. So, you missed out on this potentially useful (unless you are a vegetarian) tidbit. Plus, you missed enjoying The Best French Fries in San Francisco with me (unless your name is Jonny-Georgia), to say nothing of the fact that you missed out on me buying you a drink (if you were wearing red, white, and blue, that is). As for missing out on the charming company of Jonny-Georgia — and the spectacle he and I usually make of ourselves — in point of fact, I actually prefer to enjoy myself some Jonny-Georgia by myself thank you very much, and not at all shaken, but stirred — slowly, languidly even — if you know what I mean. As for Catalyst Cocktails — get thee there before it’s no longer an option! What do I mean by this cryptic comment? Let’s just say — again, for emphasis — you should have been there…

Bathroom Biography:
One, but wierdly enough I have never seen a line. On this visit, I thought there could have been more toilet paper actually in the dispensers, and less on the floor, but I’ve seen worse. I told Matt to change the lightbulb in there to a pink one, so that should ameliorate things in there.

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Chelsea Place Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

641 Bush ~ (415) 989-2524

6:00pm Friday 13 July 2007

Prologue: Not much in the way of Great Expectations for Chelsea Place. It’s apparently a dive Bar, so I probably won’t be wearing my tiara. But this seems like a good place to draw your attention to Bars By The Book first Official Footnote (look over on the left, below the calendar). The Footnotes section is for links I think are especially pertinent (the WordPress links are there by default, and I figured I might as well leave them there since they are hosting this ridiculous blog for free and all), and I am sure we can all agree that The Museum of the American Cocktail deserves some sort of honorable mention on Bars By The Book’s sidebar. Check it out! It’s a museum devoted to cocktails! What a fabulous institution — knowing that there is such a place makes me feel like there is hope for civilization after all. While the Gift Shoppe does not sell shot glasses, I’ll be keeping my eye on these fine folks. They are obviously on same page as I am, and now they’re on this page, too! Do come and join me at Chelsea Place — I’m hoping to have some good news about my morning at the DMV to celebrate (notwithstanding it being Friday the 13th and all).

Afterword: “A new low in Bars By The Book,” proclaimed Paladin (mind you, this was as he began his second scotch). I think he was being a little harsh. OK, so the place is basically a total dive, but it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.  And it’s got a contingent of regulars, so it’s obviously fine for some folks — menfolks only perhaps, judging from the demographics during The Official Visit, but if there can be “chick flicks” surely there can be “boy bars”.  Besides, it was a gloriously sunny afternoon and I had triumphed over the DMV (where there is some alarming Indian-outsourcing going on that certainly bears some serious scrutiny…). It was hard to be grumpy, even if I subsequently spent the rest of the day waiting for the trunk of my car to be fixed to the tune of just under $130.00, but I decided to consider that as a learning experience. I mean, did you know that a trunk even could break? I didn’t. Until today.  So now we all know: trunks of cars can in fact break (and if the car in question is a VW Jetta, apparently you can depend on this to occur).  Anyway, being out the trunk fixing funds and having used up a bunch of leave time from work, I was still not ready to condemn Chelsea Place as being appreciably worse than, say, The Annex.

Then again, the DMV success story and balmy weather might have been to blame for my uncharacteristic feeling of good will toward an overall admitedly pretty icky place. We probably wouldn’t have stuck around for a second round, but Chica Cherry was on her way, and getting another Bar credit for a Barfly seemed like a good enough reason to tough it out for a while longer. Even if the smokers in the door were causing the whole Bar to reek like cigarette smoke. To an unprecedented degree, even. Glancing at the door, it didn’t seem crowded enough with smokers to account for the amount of smokiness in the Bar. That’s when I realized an astonishing fact: people in the Bar were smoking. And not just one of them.  At least three, maybe more.  It was so smoky, it was hard to tell. And at least one very old person down at the end of the bar was smoking a cigar. I tell you, it was surreal…

I had to know how this was possible (you know how I am). I was careful to just seem innocently curious (as opposed to shocked, shocked and judgemental), and it seems as though that’s just the way it is at Chelsea Place.  A regular (whose name I failed to write down and so I cannot recall for you here)  gave me the scoop.  He also enlightened me as to the existence of a vast network of Korean-owned bars — Chelsea Place being one of them — spread all over San Francisco where petite Korean women tend bar and pour drinks for men like him who prefer to frequent these certain bars.  This man and his friends call their bar crawls among these establishments “doing the Ho Chi Minh Trail (which is pretty tragic considering that the Ho Chi Minh Trail refers to a network of trails through eastern Laos and Cambodia into South Vietnam and has nothing to do with Korea, but whatever).  I don’t know if smoking is somehow inexplicably permitted in those other Korean-owned bars, but I was beginning to get a sort of an unsettlingly racist, if not de facto lecherous, vibe from what’s-his-name, which was bumming me out because he seemed quite nice and friendly — if geographically challenged — otherwise.

I decided to get the bathroom inspection out of the way so we could beat it once Chica Cherry finally showed up and downed her qualifying drink. That’s when things got really interesting, and by interesting, I mean: disgusting. To begin with, in order to get to the restrooms, you have to wind your way down a precarious staircase straight out of the Winchester Mystery House.  Then, upon successfully negotiating the stairs, you find yourself confronted with the most desultory lavatories (I checked — the men’s is just as bad as the ladies’).  Cramped quarters, and the wierdly split toilet space from sink is bad enough.  But it’s the smell that is the real problem.  And I don’t mean the usual dive bar aroma of poorly maintained washrooms.  Chelsea Place’s bathrooms smell like the decaying remains of at least a hundred years of what is either rats — or cats that have eaten rats — that have died in the walls.  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, but the going up the stairs isn’t any than the coming down them…

What a relief it was to see Chica Cherry when I emerged from the subterrainian unpleasantness.  And what an unexpected delight to see she had shanghaied Dug the Slug into joining us (hi, Dug!).  Paladin couldn’t take it anymore and went a few doors down to investigate if it was worth moving our collective selves to the Tunnel Top, and Dug and Chica signed my copy of the petition to get John Rinald’s name on the ballot for mayor of our fair city while finishing their qualifying round. Then Chica Cherry snapped a couple of Official Pictures of Dug and I and we headed down the street, where Paladin was valliantly attempting to order us drinks through a crowd that was four deep at the bar in the Tunnel Top — which is not a Bar, it’s a Cocktail Lounge.  It’s also infinitley nicer than Chelsea Place, so if you find yourself in a thirsty mood and on the 600-block of Bush Street, you should definitley opt for the top of the tunnel.  We had a rollicking good time there, and I got a bunch of signatures on my petition, which apparently I enjoyed more than Mr. Rinaldi, who had to resort to paying to get his name on the ballot, after whining about how “hard” signature collection is, and whose campagin has since devolved into I’m not quite sure what, so Bars By The Book has withdrawn our endorsement of Mr. Rinaldi.  The Hostess is now planning to write in the name Paul Addis as the mayor of her choice in November and urges you to do so, too, because yes, she would rather have an arsonist in that office than either someone who would sleep with his best friend’s wife or someone who is only trying to get matching funds for his next performance. Call me contrary. I’ll take it as a compliment.

Bathroom Biography:
See above.  Enough said.

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Chieftain Irish Pub, The Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

198 5th ~ WEBSITE ~ (415) 615-0916

2:00pm Sunday 12 August 2007

Prologue: OK, it’s an Irish pub. Got it. Now, for something really thought-provoking, did you know that ladies’ nights at bars are technically illegal in California?!?!?! It is apparently true. Which does not, by any stretch of the imagination, make it proper. We need to get this ruling overturned and pronto! Thank goodness Bars By The Book has the brilliant legal cousel on retainer (Dewars, rocks) that we do. We’re taking this one to the Supreme Court, if necessary! Women couldn’t vote for centuries in this country, and now we can’t get cheap drinks purely on account of being female? That’s just plain wrong.

Come out and sip away this Sunday afternoon with me, won’t you? This Bars By The Book outing is going to be a celebration of being unmarried, as a couple of Barflies recently became legally un-hitched, so I am in even better company in my singleness than ever before. I further propose that any married people there buy the drinks for those who aren’t!  An unwedded bliss-fest — I like it!

Afterword:  The Official Visit to The Chieftan Irish Pub certainly called into question the wisdom of that “sipping away a Sunday afternoon” business.  Don’t get me wrong — I still consider that a pleasant enough prospect, and have actually pulled it off in practice more than once elsewhere.  The Chieftan Irish Pub experience, however, left a lot to be remembered…

The bargain-priced $3.00 Bloody Mary’s have something to do with this.  But really, The Hostess might as well  “blame it on Rio”  for all the good it would do to obscure the fact that any particular one of the various combinations of assorted alcohols she consumed that day was any more responsible than the others for the drunken state she wound up in.  The bottom line is that afternoon drinking should be structured around a little thing known as lunch.

The funny thing is, The Chieftan Irish Pub serves food.  Delicious food, from the look and smell of it.  They make something called “Cottage Pie” that is more or less the Irish spin on Shepard’s Pie which I do believe I shall go back to The Chieftan Irish Pub specifically to sample someday.  Nora Charles had a hamburger (how she stays so svelte is beyond me).  I can’t say for sure that other dishes weren’t ordered and shared by the Barflies.   I can say for sure that by the time any ‘Flies buzzed in, it was probably too late for The Hostess to be saved by a meal, no matter how tasty.

This is not to imply that I minded sitting at the bar by myself, waiting for familar faces to walk in the door.  Even though the afternoon was ridiculously gloriously sunny and downright hot and The Chieftan Irish Pub is noticeably devoid of windows, I was perfectly happy to sit and drink $3.00 Bloody Mary’s.  There were about as many customers as employees, for a grand total of either six or seven of us not enjoying the sunshine.  So at least I had company.  When I commented on the wonderful aroma of the Cottage Pie the guy on my right was served, the bartender (hi, Leslie!) explained to me what it was and offered me a menu.  Instead, I had another of her Bloody Mary’s and the guy on my left, who was also having a liquid lunch from the looks of things, introduced himself (hi, Jim!).   In other words, The Chieftan Irish Pub is a friendly sort of place.

At least, The Chieftan Irish Pub is a friendly sort of place when the owners have to go out of town for an emergency and a couple of the Pub’s regulars step up and volunteer to tend bar and keep the doors open.  Which is what turned out to be the case that afternoon.  And if Leslie and Dave (hi, Dave!) are typical of The Chieftan Irish Pub’s regulars, then it ought to be a friendly festival when it’s busy. 

I originally mistook Dave for the owner.  Or at least the manager.  It was probably his accent.  It turns out that he does electrical work for the owner, and is Leslie’s boyfriend, and the two of them spend lots of quality time at The Chieftan Irish Pub.  They introduced me to Tina — who is an actual employee (hi, Tina!) — and I decided it was time to tell my new acquaintences why I was there that day.  A round on the house (the first of many, I might add) ensued.

As did a long conversation about everything from the uinque merits of prior Bars to golf and how old The Hostess’ favorite professional golfer, John “The Lion” Daly,  is (Dave was right, I was wrong; more about the greatness of Mr. Daly later…).   I believe shots of Fernet were done.   One of the lovely female Barflies arrived, but I can’t even remember which one got there first.  Things were already devolving into a sun-drenched (the doors were wide open), strong-drink-soaked blur…

A word to the wise about the two doors at The Chieftan Irish Pub: if you think you might need to hightail it out of one of them, you better be sitting right next to it and the subject of your potential avoidance better come in the other one, have bad eyesight, and be very slow to realize you are there.  Granted, one door opens onto the corner and the other one leads to the street, but they are very close to each other and if you make it out of one, you’re not going to have much of a head start if your pursuer(s) sees you flee.  Also, if you take the precaution of carefully remembering how to get back to your car based one of these particular doors, you should probably make sure, if you storm out of the Bar blindly drunk, that you exit via the same particular door, or else you will most likely not find your car, even if you are, in fact, walking the correct number of blocks up and over, etc. 

To be clear: any storming out of The Chieftan Irish Pub, blindly drunk or otherwise, was not on account of anyone connected to the Bar.  It’s a great place, even without windows.  Leslie and Dave and Tina are fine folks, and I’m sure the other regular clientele are just as friendly.  They serve good food and the drinks are priced properly.   In fact, The Chieftan Irish Pub experience had me in such a fine mood that I beleived inviting Paladin to join our merry party was a good idea.  And let’s face it: Paladin is pretty lousy company in August.  Let’s just say his mind is elsewhere, and it is really probably better to avoid him altogether for the duration of the month.  It is definitely a bad idea to attempt to enjoy his company along with that of anyone else who has been similarly brainwashed to think that sleeping in a tent in a desert during dust storms and using Port-a-Potties for a week is “fun”. 

This all goes to show how alcohol does cloud one’s judgement, in addition to sometimes contributing to one’s wandering around quite lost in search of one’s car.  Of course, in the tradition of the “Happy Ending”, The Hostess was rescued from the streets of SOMA and did not drive herself anywhere that day.  In fact, records show she actually made it to work the following day, which is nothing short of amazing.   The photographic record suggests that I made it behind the Bar (which I always love, even if I sustain a toe injury) for a great shot with Leslie and Dave and Tina, and Dave took some pretty adorable Offical Photos before any storming happened, so ultimately the Offical Visit was a success and one more “C” was crossed off The List.

Bathroom Biography:
I don’t recall anything egregious about it, so it’s probably fine.  If I am mis-remembering something, please let me know and I’ll duly note it here.

 

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Cigar Bar and Grill Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

850 Montgomery ~ WEBSITE ~ (415) 398-0850

6:30pm Friday 14 August 2007

Prologue: In all honesty, The Hostess is not in the mood to party at present. Truth be told, she has been feeling rather blue lately, but stumbling around the Mystery Mansion leaving crumpled tissues and empty vodka bottles all over the place is getting old, and maybe drinking in public will do her some good. After all, at least she will have to get dressed…

The Cigar Bar and Grill seems as good a place as any to reluctantly re-enter society. If the place turns out to be as heinous crowd-wise as it well may, at least there are a dizzying variety of specialty cocktails to provide a couple of hours of distraction from, well, from whatever it would be better from which to be distracted.

While Friday seems a bit hasty (and an evening more likely to be heinous crowd-wise than next Tuesday, which I was considering), the above-mentioned gloom must not be permitted to last any longer. Who knows, maybe my new hero — Mr. Paul Addis (aka the only person I have ever heard intelligently discuss a certain subject) — will surprise me and show up and allow me to buy him a drink. Or six.   (UPDATE:OK, so in the time it has taken me to write this, it turns out that Mr. Addis is probably a certified nut-job with an arson habit, but The Hostess has a historic weakness for men whose sanity is questionable at best, as many a Barfly can attest.)

Anyone who wants to buy me a drink needs to show up early. There’s no telling how long I’ll be able to keep up the complete charade of a happy person. (Alcohol is ultimately a depressant, you know …) Forbidden topics of conversation will be fire, anything that happened in the state of Nevada recently, and anyone’s whereabouts for the last three weeks (of course, Mr. Addis can talk about anything he likes, as long as he lets me sit on his lap). Tell me this doesn’t sound like the recipe for too much fun to possibly miss!!!

Please note: Barflies who have been to, through, near, or around the hamlet of Gerlach, NV  in the last two (2) years are politely requested to refrain from attending this Official Visit. No offense, but The Hostess needs a break from “the community” for a while. An exception will be made for any Barfly (current or potential) who brings Paul Addis to meet me. (The Hostess has nothing against alleged nut-job arsonists, after all.)  Especially if said Barfly proceeds to buy my new friend Paul and I drinks…

Afterword: What can I say? I mean besides: my uncanny ability to foresee certain aspects of the future may or may not have anything to do with the fact that I am a Pisces…

Granted, I was not feeling at all sociable as I arrived at the Cigar Bar and Grill at the appointed hour (see above). But not even my anti-social mood could account for the heinous-beyond-even-my-own-pessimistic-expectations nature of the teeming masses I found there. I was only able to endure being on the premises on account of three factors:

1. I was feeling smug about being correct in pre-supposing that the crowd was going to be heinous.
2. Chica Cherry was on her way.
3. Jonny-Georgia was rumored to be joining us.

I tell you, though, these three mitigating factors notwithstanding, the crowd’s surreal heinousness was more than I could bear directly, so I headed to a secluded vantage point from which to survey it…

As it happens, the Cigar Bar and Grill is located on the ground floor of what is otherwise an office building with a courtyard. The Cigar Bar and Grill has completely taken over this outdoor space, but there are levels of inter-office terraces, at least one of which was accessible on the Official Visit. I found this perch furnished with comfortable outdoor furniture and made myself comfortable, thanking all the gods that I had been sure to B my own B to sustain me until a Barfly arrived to escort me through the throng below.

Because I sure as hell wasn’t going down there alone. It was beyond heinous. It was like a pathetic game of musical chairs, except there was no music, no one who had a chair was leaving it for anything, and too many ridiculous-looking young men were standing around in cliques holding lit cigars (note: I did not say smoking cigars) and stinking up the place. As if that weren’t enough, everyone was apparently screaming at the top of their lungs — the net effect being, of course, that no one could hear a word anyone else was saying and the raucous din was undoubtedly permanently injuring the eardrums of everyone present. (Note to people who speak in public places: if anyone besides the persons you are addressing can hear you, TONE IT DOWN, YOU LOUDMOUTHS!)

Chica Cherry arrived and repositioned me at a table just inside the door, the better to glimpse Jonny-Georgia as immediately as possible if he showed up.  Ever a dear, Chica Cherry even made her way through the three-deep hordes at the bar to procure us proper drinks.  This task proved just too much for me, so if you want to know about the hook situation at Cigar Bar and Grill, maybe ask Chica Cherry if she checked this out.  After drinking and screaming across the table in a largely vain attempt to hear each other, Jonny-Georgia did appear, and I’ll be damned if that boy’s movie-star smile doesn’t immediately ameliorate just about anything, including the din at the Cigar Bar and Grill. 

We had more drinks.  We hollered back and forth.  I heard a band tuning up, and we all decided it was time to go.  Jonny-Georgia had been regaling us with tales of something called “blackberry margaritas” which the Cigar Bar and Grill was lacking, and I was uncharacteristically intrigued by the unlikely-sounding concoction.

It was while Jonny-Georgia was gallantly hailing us a cab that I noticed the preposterousness of the Cigar Bar and Grill’s being one of The Bars That Promote Littering.  Get this: I actually saw persons — as in more than one — walking down the street, tossing cigarettes onto the sidewalk, and then entering the Cigar Bar and Grill, presumably to stand around holding lit cigars. 

It was absolutely and positively too much.  I’m quite sure I ranted and raved about this the whole time we were in the cab.  Fortunately, my outrage was no match for the surprisingly refreshing blackberry margarita concoction I subsequently found myself enjoying, Chica Cherry’s mysterious abdication of chaperonage duty notwithstanding…

Bathroom Biography:
You have to wander around and down some hallways to find them, but they are serviceable enough, and certainly a tranquil relief from the noise level in the Bar.

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Club Mari-S Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

1581 Webster ~ (415) 673-5636

6:00pm Friday 21 September 2007

Prologue: I bought a new, cute shirt.  I’m going to put it on and I’m going out.  I’ll start at Club Mari-S. Depending on how that goes, I’ll either stay put, or I’ll wander someplace else.  My plan is to stay out until I get a compliment on my new, cute shirt. Might take an hour.  Might take all night.  Fishing for compliments beats doing homework, especially on a Friday night.

The ban on “burners” will be lifted, on a trial basis for this Official Visit.  But I still don’t want to hear about “it”.  Any of “it”.  Period.  Any questions means you probably shouldn’t come (unless you bring Paul Addis with you).

Afterword:  I never thought I would be at a loss for words to describe an Official Visit.  Yet the only adjective that seems even halfway adequate as a descriptor of our experience at Club Mari-S is “epic”.   Chica Cherry and I agreed as we left that this Official Visit was not only “one for the books” — as the saying goes — but that it may well end up being the Best Official Visit in terms of hilarity (not to mention sheer tenacity).

The entrance to Club Mari-S is beyond nondescript.  It looks like a delivery side door for the brightly lit restaurant next door, which is where I actually went in my new, cute shirt.  While perhaps this had something to do with my moth-like attraction to wrongness in many things, it could also be explained by the fact that I was in the Japantown mall for the first time in my life and was a little overwhelmed by feeling as if I had wandered into some B-movie remake of Blade Runner starring Hello Kitty.

Thank heavens that Chica Cherry, local gal that she is, was not similarly bedazzled by Japanese signage.  She called me from the actual Club Mari-S and we met at the door where she gave me the news that the Bar was definitely “not open”.  Well, that was obviously utter nonsense, seeing as she had just come from inside of it, and the door was quite entirely unlocked.  As I was in no mood for defeat, I dragged Chica Cherry back inside to pay my Official Visit to Club Mari-S, even though she assured me there was no one inside to compliment me on my new, cute shirt.

One’s first impression of Club Mari-S must be that it is overwhelming green.  It is overwhelmingly green and suede.  It is also a karaoke bar (which was probably obvious once I mentioned it is in the Japantown mall, but there are many uncertainties that remain about Club Mari-S, so I want to provide as much explicit detail as possible).  It was also, at the time I stood there gaping at its green suedeness, completely devoid of customers.  But there was a bar, and bottles of liquor, and someone banging around in the back, so I decided to have a seat and see what happened (rather to Chica Cherry’s dismay, I think, but she did take the bar stool next to me). 

What happened was that a very young Asian boy came out of the back and looked awfully startled to see the two of us sitting at the bar.  In fact, he could have been more dismayed than Chica Cherry.  With the language barrier, it was hard to tell.  But no amount of dismay was going to dissuade The Hostess from crossing Club Mari-S off the list then and there.  I  had already determined that the place did not qualify for a re-visit.  (Is there anyone who looks good surrounded by green suede?  Even my new, cute shirt was suffering…)  So I pulled out a $20 bill and somehow convinced the boy to pour us two shots of vodka.  The money seemed to make the boy feel better, but the shots of warm vodka did nothing to comfort Chica Cherry.  “We are drinking shots?” she asked me, incredulously. 

“If you want Barfly credit, we are!” I cheerfully informed her.  And so we did.  (Chica Cherry has her eyes on the Fabulous Prize, I think.)  We thanked him in Japanese (Chica Cherry being sufficiently fluent in Japanese to make this happen).  And the Asian boy got caught up in the excitement and was further persuaded to take our picture before escorting us out (and locking the door securely behind us, I’m sure).  We laughed all the way to the Boom Boom Room, where Doug the Slug found us later and from whence he took us to an Asian restaurant up the street where we worked out the addition of Article 5 to Chapter 1, Part 3 of The Rules, just in case we ever manage to pull off another coup-de-closed-Bar.

The Hostess hopes that this account of the Official Visit to Club Mari-S inspires anyone pursuing a goal who is suddenly faced with a seemingly insurmountable obstacle.  Hell, even she found some solace by recalling this success story more than once over the course of the difficult fall that was to unfold.  After all, if a lady can get a drink in a Bar that is closed, surely she can (and in fact did) handle graduate school, a terrorist attack, and a federal felony charge with something approximating equanimity (more about all this later, of course…)

Bathroom Biography:
We ducked in on our way out.  It’s green and suede, too.  And immaculately clean, which may or may not typically be in direct proportion to the number (or lack thereof) of customers.

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Club Waziema Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

543 Divisadero ~ WEBSITE ~ (415) 346-6641

7:30pm Thursday 4 October 2007

Prologue: A certain artsy Barfly seems to think we can get from an art gallery opening in the Mission to Club Waziema in time for their happy hour, which ends at 8:00. I think this is a little optimistic, but don’t let that stop you from getting there early and enjoying whatever drink specials constitute happy hour at an Ethiopian restaurant. Feel free to save me a barstool.

Will a certain mayoral candidate nicknamed after a barnyard animal be there, you ask? Who knows? The man is no doubt very busy. He has been spending quality time with the current mayor’s hairdresser, for instance. All I can say for sure is that it seems the would-be mayor is (or was briefly) miffed that he didn’t have a chance to ply me with liquor and convince Bars By The Book to continue to endorse his candidacy. (See his comment at the end of the Chelsea Place post if you don’t believe me.) The Hostess hopes that she has scheduled this next Official Visit at a time and date when Mr. Rinaldi will be available. After all, the man says drinks are on him, and The Hostess has probably never turned down free drink in her life. Also, I discovered another opinion he and I share — we both think the re-done Union Square is tragic — and I do so enjoy drinking in the company of like-minded folks.

Political stumping or not, there will be Ethiopian food. Not to mention a whole weekend of sexy sailors strolling around town to kick off on a festive note. In fact, come to think of it, if you bring a sailor, I’ll buy you both a drink! (Note: this offer applies only to bonafide sailors in the United States — ok and the Ethiopian — Navy. People in sailor outfits from “the playa” should stay at home and rest up for Sunday.)

Afterword: Sorry to report: the sailor contingent was as absent as hooks (to say nothing of mayoral hopefuls) at Club Waziema on the occasion of the Official Visit. However, the details are hazy at best (by which I mean, there could have been sailors there that I just forgot about). And the Noble Notations are entirely indecipherable, save for one sentence, in quotations, written around an obviously hastily drawn sketch of a flower (a rose, perhaps?):

” You can either be mad at me for not liking you enough … or for not having any money — “

Why did I transcribe that? Was it a particularly ridiculous snatch of conversation I overheard? (As you may — or may not — know, The Hostess has very keen ears after spending decades maintaining the silence of tombs in various and sundry libraries.) What kind of a person would say such a thing? Under what egregious circumstances? What sort of tragedy was happening at Club Waziema while I was busy trying to settle with Paladin — ever the contrarian — whether Club Waziema is a Restaurant with a bar in it, or a Bar with a restaurant on the premises?!?

I remember this: the art gallery opening was rather splendid. We enjoyed amazing parking karma both in the Mission and at Club Waziema. The Ethiopian food was the best I have ever had (and I, myself, am surprised at how much Ethiopian food I have actually eaten, in retrospect), in that each part of every dish was distinguishable from the others in terms of color, texture, and generally being identifiable. The injera was to die for: like pillows woven from threads made of pussy willows. Truly.

I remember there weren’t enough waitstaffpersons to qualify Club Waziema as a restaurant, in any real sense of the word, really (there being exactly one, and the place has a lot of tables, most of which are located in a back room that is not within the sight line of the bar, where the alleged waitron spent most of her time, which had to be distracting from the experiences of the diners being ignored back there…). I remember that the so-called bartender sucked, frankly. I recall truly sub-standard service all around, honestly (drinks, when finally procured, were simply lousy). But I also recall having the distinct impression that the real problem with the evening was not the inept bartender (who could not even manage to comprehend the simple concept of vodka with a splash of club soda in it), nor the Bar vs. Restaurant dichotomy, but rather that there was something else amiss. I could feel it. Was it the underemployed and overweight company I was keeping? No, The Hostess is not so shallow as to let this combination of unimpressive traits suddenly bother her. Perhaps it had something to do with the dearth of sailors…

Alas, I cannot recall exactly what was off-kilter. Perhaps it was The Hostess’ Piscean prescience prickling her psyche. For it would be more than two months before I ventured to the next Bar. To be sure, graduate school interference bore some of the responsibility for this lapse (but that was to be expected). Yet looming ahead (although unbeknownst to me that night) was also the disconcerting downsizing of the staff at the Mystery Mansion to which attention would soon need to be directed (the chauffeur had to be let go, alas — it was between him and the maid, and she scrubs the bathrooms, so the choice was obvious, but still somehow agonizing). Immediately after which, The Hostess subsequently (and completely unexpectedly, I might add) had to defend America against a terrorist attack in November (very a la Mata Hari, minus — just barely — the execution part), which was take a tremendous toll on my mental and physical reserves (but was certainly worth it — after all, someone has to make sure the country stays safe for bar-hopping — you’re welcome). To say nothing of my later being falsely arrested by federal police in December and having to engage the services of a real lawyer (love ya’, Tony T.!). Did I somehow sense all this was about to befall me while I was contemplating ordering some more injera to go…?

But it doesn’t really matter what moonlight-driven, melancholy muddle caused this quest to lapse into languishment, does it? No, it does not. All you need to know is that if you can walk to Club Waziema and are in the mood for Ethiopian food (and you are not at all persnickety about efficient service or decent drinks), you might as well drop in and see what — if anything — happens to you in the next couple of months.

The Hostess does hope that random acts of terrorism don’t befall you, but if they do, take her advice and: let your chauffeur take a bullet for you, then hastily enroll in graduate school — given the stand-off between college campuses and the P2P copyright police, this is the safest place to remain relatively anonymous for a bit. You will have to trust no one and download nothing for a while, but you can get decent food (if not service, nor hooks) at Club Waziema in the interim.

Bathroom Biography:
One for each and as entirely unremarkable at the rest of the place. I dimly recollect Paladin saying there was something I should see in the men’s room, but it was constantly occupied thereafter, so I never got the chance to check whatever it was out. The service being what it isn’t, I’m not likely to go back just to poke my head into the men’s room, so if you do, please tell me what — if anything — I missed.

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Club 93 Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

93 9th St. ~ WEBSITE ~ (415) 621-6333

6:00pm Thursday 6 December 2007

Preamble:

Oh goody: “the holidays” are here… (The Hostess sighed on December 5th)

An orphan’s least favorite time of the year got off to an even worse than usual start this year (and last year was tough to beat, which you can read about at the bottom of the Various Marginalia page). I had grandly planned to get this bar crawl jump-started with “Hanukkah Happy Hours”. Yep, 8 Bars in 8 nights. Granted, this was an ambitious undertaking after so long, but I geared up for it. I not only re-arranged my workout schedule, I modified my alcohol intake to lower my tolerance thusly likewise lowering my upcoming Bar tabs (note the brilliant behind-the-scenes logic at work here).

However, like so many of the best laid plans, “Hanukkah Happy Hours” was led agley. I blame the resignation of Bars By The Book’s Jewish consultant for the fact that I thought Hanukkah starting on Wednesday meant that December 5 was the first night. Which is the night the happy hours were scheduled to start. Spending Tuesday at jury duty prevented my recalibrating the time-line to start that night. And being the stickler for strict religious observance that I am, I could hardly have something called “Hanukkah Happy Hours” that missed the crucial first night of the celebration, now could I?

“The 12 Nights of Cocktails” was considered. Briefly. I had my doubts about 8 Bars in 8 nights, so I had to conclude that a dozen was really going to be a bit much, financially and hepatotoxically. So — in a stroke of genius — I decided to split the difference and plan a 4 evening event henceforth known as “The Hostess’ Third Annual Holiday Lark”. (Twelve minus eight equals four. Work with me, people…)

That’s right: the next 4 Bars in 4 successive nights. Completely achievable. Totally do-able. Fail-safe, foolproof, and unflappably festive. Or not. We’ll see. Here’s the schedule:

1. 6:00pm Thursday 12/6: Club 93; 93 9th St. @ (Mission & Market, MAP) — We toast Hanukkah and wonder why there are so many different ways to spell it.
2. 5:30pm Friday 12/7: Coco’s Bar; 4541 Mission @ (Santa Rosa & Harrington, MAP) — We toast Christmas and wonder whence the idea of the flying reindeer originated.
3. 6:30pm Saturday 12/8: Costellos Four Deuces; 2319 Taraval @ (33rd Ave., MAP) — We toast Kwanza and wonder if this makes us Politically Correct.
4. 4:30pm Sunday 12/9: Cresta’s Twenty Two Eleven Club; 2211 Polk @ (Vallejo, MAP) — We toast the perennial underdog “Other”, but especially the pagans who started this holiday madness in the first place while innocently trying to concoct rituals that would bring back the sun.

As Tiny Tim says, “…bless us, everyone!”

 

Prologue: They take credit cards, how bad can the place be? I am personally going to try and get there early, before their alleged happy hour ends at 6:00.

Afterword: The weather outside was frightful but inside Club 93 was so delightful…really, all initial impressions to the contrary — the first of many “holiday miracles”, to be sure:

I was supposed to meet a guy named Bob at Club 93 that dark and stormy night. But that Bob decided the combination of driving from the geographic unfortunateness that is San Mateo, plus the increasingly inclement weather, divided by the sketchy neighborhood where Club 93 is located wasn’t his kind of math. I’d cast aspersions on that Bob, but he’s not really worth the effort.  Just imagine my surprise when the nice man I asked to take the Official Photo before it got too impossibly rainy turned out to be named…Bob! Henceforth known as Coincidence Bob, this Bob also happens to be the current President of the San Francisco Tavern Pool Association, which was having its board meeting at Club 93 that very evening.  (Heads up, ladies!  The Association needs females quite urgently.  Teams regularly must forfeit matches on account of not having the requisite girl in attendance, which means the odds of drinking for free and having men try to get your phone number must be pretty damn good…)  We chatted amicably for quite a while. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

“Who are you?” asked a woman who seemed to be loitering in the doorway to Club 93 as I tentatively attempted to enter the premises. Turns out she was trying to identify Pool Leaguers, rather than keep strangers out of the place, so I made it inside. Turns out she was also the bartender (hi, Coco!) for the first part of the evening, anyway. “Make Your Drunk Dials As Dirty As Your Martinis”, it said around the rim of my glass, which made me smile. That’s when I met Coincidence Bob and he agreed to take my picture.

“You aren’t from here, are you?” quipped an apparent regular Club 93 customer as we wrapped up the photo shoot.

“Actually, we both live here,” I retorted, feeling feisty at being presumed a tourist.

“Then you should know better than to use a camera like that on this street,” he said.

I think that chap was being overly harsh. Club 93 is on 9th St., which is three whole giant SOMA blocks away from the crack-head crevasse that is 6th St. And besides, the camera never has worked quite right since it fell off a fire escape in North Beach, and I could use an excuse to get a new one.  Either way, I didn’t feel like I was taking any risks on that stretch of sidewalk at the time, and so you shouldn’t be especially paranoid, either (and really, who knows what that chap was on?).

After all, I’d already sized up the joint. There’s a somewhat dilapidated (but allegedly functional) piano just inside the door. There are ceiling fans (which The Hostess loves, but for some reason they are only hanging over where the bartenders work at Club 93).  And there are 20 beers on tap — everything from PBR to Stella. Plus a pool table.  And a jukebox (more about this later). To say nothing of the “secret room” downstairs, which Coincidence Bob showed me. You probably won’t get the Grand Tour, so you’ll have to settle for my minimalist revelation thereof: it contains a periwinkle blue pool table. (Admit it, don’t you occasionally wish you were me?!?)

Upon the conclusion of my Grand Tour, what to my wondering eyes should appear but none other than Ms Olive! “Men Are Like Martinis, the Stiffer the Better” it said around the rim of my next glass, and I must confess, we drank a toast to my days of being at the mercy of the availability of a certain little blue pill being over — good riddance (& Happy Hanukkah, of course, to that particular piece of work)!

It seemed like we were waiting for something, but the weather was getting worse and Ms Olive was being cagey. We passed some pleasant time learning about a drink called Chocolate Cake, which is consumed thusly: you dredge a lemon in sugar, bite the lemon, shoot a combination of Frangelica and vanilla vodka…and the whole thing allegedly tastes like a slice of chocolate cake in your mouth (unless you throw up, I guess). Club 93 lacking at least half of the necessary ingredients, we did not get to put this hypothesis to the test, but The Hostess remains firmly intrigued.

At long last, Ms Olive could finally stop anxiously checking her cell phone, because Chica Cherry showed up with my Hanukkah surprise present — Mama Pearl! — on her arm (not to mention, more chocolate coins than any of us would ever be able to eat). And I’ll be damned if “We Are Family” didn’t immediately start playing on the (obviously Jewish) jukebox at right then and there. We sang, we drank, we danced, we had a shift change (hi, Kobe!), and we drank some more. The Tavern Pool Associates finished their meeting and we mingled. I met a woman named Cassandra (according to my notes) with a great sense of style, when I complimented her on her snazzy threads and she complimented me on my new coat, which I really thought made me look sort of like a cow — its being black and white — but this notion was unanimously dispelled (got to love drunk people’s aesthetic!).

Alas, it came to be time for us to go. But we had started the dreaded holiday season off on the right foot, that much was certain. We had braved a skeezy street corner, met a slew of nice new folks, and inarguably experienced Club 93 to its fullest extent. Later on — as we were inexplicably getting kicked out of a cab while dropping Mama Pearl off (which is a whole other story, obviously) — I was positively seized by the holiday spirit and I had to remark, ‘ere the cab drove out of sight,

“Happy Hanukkah to all,

And to all, a good night!“

It was really a more magical beginning to the (at that time) half-hearted Holiday Lark than a Dickensian Orphan like The Hostess could even imagine. It was more of a miracle than that oil lasting eight nights back in ye Olde Testament tymes. In fact, the next morning, I was actually not despondent upon awakening, for a change. Could have been the vodka. Might have been the jukebox. But I think it was the stellar company aided and abetted by some Club 93 mojo. I wouldn’t necessarily plan another evening around it, but if I were in the neighborhood, I’d definitely drop by Club 93 for another round.

Bathroom Biography:
Ms Olive went first.  Her review was not glowing.  She proclaimed it a “den of dismay” (and while I duly noted this, I did have to ask her the following evening to help me translate my transcription).  I didn’t think the facilities were that bad at all.  I’ve seen much worse and so could you.  If you’ve gotten past the ambiance of the neighborhood, the bathroom is not going to scare you. 

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Coco’s Bar Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

4541 Mission ~ (415) 334-6863

5:30pm Friday 7 December 2007

Prologue: Is this Bar in Twin Peaks, or is it in Daly City? Since I have never heard of any of this Bar’s cross streets, there’s only one way to find out for sure, apparently, and it ain’t “the internets”. This might be a gay Bar. This might be a Mexican Bar. This might be a gay, Mexican Bar. Grab your umbrella and let’s go hablamos some espanol like the person who answered the phone when I called to see if they would be open for business. I may need some serious backup on this one, so I hope one or more of you intrepid Barflies steps up to this mysterious plate with me. I’m heading there straight from work, so by all means let me know if you’d like me to swing by and pick you up on my way in order to help me look for a parking space and/or masquerade as a member of my illusionary “security detail”.

Afterword: Wow. Let me just say this about our Christmas celebration at Coco’s Bar: it’s a damn shame that My New Hero couldn’t have been there. Wait ’til you hear the whole story…

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Costellos Four Deuces Wednesday, Dec 27 2006

2319 Taraval ~ (415)731-2164 566-9122

6:30pm Saturday 8 December 2007

Prologue: Unless I’m mistaken, this marks a new direction for Bars By The Book. Have we ventured West of Divisadero before? Well, we’ve certainly never been within (admitedly somewhat pushing the envelope of) strolling distance of the Great Highway before, so there’s the value-added possibility of a tipsy moonlit walk on the beach (weather and footwear permitting). Plus, this oddly-named Bar is also a Cocktail Lounge, so it’ll be like stabbing two olives with one toothpick (or something). I will personally be fresh from the salon (because, after all, nothing fosters the elusive “holiday spirit” like spending an obscene amount of money on one’s coiffure), so do your hair and do make your way Westward for what will be, at least, a fetching Official Picture. Just be sure to bring cash, because Costellos Four Deuces does not take credit cards, and who knows how far away the closest ATM will be that far out in the Avenues?

Afterword:  Leave it to The Hostess to walk into a Bar and plop down on a stool in between the owner and his cousin.  And leave it to Bars By The Book to assure you that it won’t be the last time I pay a visit to Costellos Four Deuces.  This place could make one consider moving this far out in the Avenues, just so it could be one’s neighborhood Bar.  When you hear the whole story (coming soon!), you’ll want to travel out there yourself to check it out…

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