3149 22nd ~ (415) 647-5774

Prologue: 1:00am (at the latest & probably way more like 12:15-ish if I am not running late): El Trebol Bar No. 3 — I might wind up being named the next Ambassador to Venezuela … or I might not make it out of this Bar alive. The skinny on the internet has me uncharacteristically unnerved about this Bar, and I hope that my own experience here reinforces my dubiousness about yelpers’ opinions (by which I mean: “masses-schmasses”

and live to tell the tale (somewhat rather eventually), of course.

Afterword: As the evening was balmy (or we were too drunk to notice otherwise), our bunch of Barflies decided to stroll from El Tin Tan to El Trebol Bar No. 3, so it was a good thing I had decided to wear my sensible 2-inch Hightail-It Heels instead of the 3&1/2-inch Catch-Me-Come-Kill-Me ones I’ve been wearing lately.

Stumbling into El Trebol Bar No. 3 would have been a sobering experience, if we had been less collectively wasted.  Big Easy summed it up succinctly:

El Trebol: I’ve never been frisked as completely as I was trying to get in to this bar, even when I was tapped for a secondary search by TSA because their machine sniffed out bomb residue or accelerants on my clothes. Men’s room had vending machines for condoms, cock rings and french ticklers – SCORE!!

Kevin Banks was right behind me in his first attempt at getting in the door and I was beyond a little upset when he got turned away for having some sort of contraband on him (the rogue!).  But he got in shortly thereafter and I could move on to the more important issue of making my way to restroom, which meant my traversing another Bar full of people staring at us, and this time in a less-friendly  manner than the merely noticeable one we experienced at El Tin Tan.  There is no dance floor at El Trebol Bar No. 3, so my mind raced as to how we would manage to win over this tough crowd…

Holly-Anne and Jessica were holed up in the bathroom and would not let me in.  As it happens, they had the foresight to visit the facilities together, which is necessary at El Trebol Bar No. 3, due to the disconcerting fact that the door to the ladies’ room does not have any lock on it whatsoever and is far enough away from the toilet to prohibit any lone visitor from barricading herself in.

However, while waiting to discover the horrors of the bathroom at El Trebol Bar No. 3, The Hostess did make the acquaintance of two men perched at the back of the Bar who appeared to be more or less in charge of whatever might or might not be permitted to happen on the premises that particular evening (/morning, which it was by then).  I believe this was a most fortunate event.  While I was somewhat taken aback when they first said to me, “You and your friends will be perfectly safe here,” (I kid you not),  by the 15th or 16th time that the security guard — who definitely seemed to have been assigned to ensure our safety — repeated this sentiment to me, I was beginning to find it endearing…

The Hostess made it into and out of the bathroom (thank you, science, for Purell).  Our security detail had procured us some tables.  There was even a waitress (which I found surprising, given the overall environment totally not seeming like a place that would have table service).  Holly-Anne decided she wanted to play pool (since there was no dance floor, I suppose) and so she and I entertained everyone with a round of Girl Pool (no calling shots and lots of gratuitous leaning over the pool table), which  I am pleased to say that I almost won (damn that 8-ball!).

Would I recommend you visit El Trebol Bar No. 3?  No, I would not.  The lighting is fluorescent, the security is scary (in that it’s necessary, not that it isn’t reassuring), and the bathrooms are disgusting (Jessica Rabbit took my camera into the mens’ room and got some shots that confirm this is the fact across the gender board).  (And yes, I did just say, “Jessica Rabbit took my camera into the mens’ room…“)  But if you go anyway, will you check for hooks and get back to me on that?

Am I glad that I went to El Trebol Bar No. 3?  Absolutely.  But only on account of the fantastic company I had.  We were just like a mini version of a United Nations delegation, only more intoxicated.  And better looking.

Thanks to a cast of true characters (in order of appearance):  Kevin Banks (my dapper date for the Spree), Jessica Rabbit (who enlisted 3 new Barflies, to say nothing of her heroics in getting the photos from the mens’ room at El Trebol Bar No. 3), Holly-Anne (my new favorite Official Photo photographer, and who I’ll challenge to Girl Pool any time), Hooker Bait (who is obviously a really good sport, and also a fine escort down Valencia St.), Salawesome (who more than lives up to his Barfly name, and is very fun to dance with), Big Easy (who is angling for the “Barfly Who Travelled The Farthest Distance” award, and who helped The Hostess stick to the Spree schedule), and Dottie P. (who not only came all the way from the East Bay, but who rustled up those free drink coupons — well done, D.!).

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