OMFG. The last two days here (S.F.) have been nothing short of being in food & drink heaven!! On Friday I met T for our tikki bar hopping date. We began the evening at Trader Vic's. This particular branch of the legendary home of the Mai Tai had the requisite Polynesian ornaments - colourful pufferfish lamps, bamboo fish traps, carved wood tikki gods, and straw hut details. The thing is, though, everything was arranged too precisely, the way that the sober Republicans enjoying apres work cocktails there would want it. What a pity, considering they, of all people, could use a good bit of irreverence in their uptight lives. The Queen's Park Swizzle I ordered, unfortunately, was unexpectantely very, very potent, and that set my stomach to adversity for the rest of the evening.
T is extraordinary! He has what I'd call a very character-rich face, framing striking close set crystal blue eyes. At around 6'2" he has a commanding stature but what you'd notice most is how he carries himself with that frame; it's as if he's in a perpetual shrug and you're eventually charmed. And his voice relaxes you as well. I imagine his voice being at home amongst the 1950s beatniks of North Beach, though he would be one who prefers to stay in the background and let Ginsburg and Kerouac suck up the limelight.
His most potent feature, however, is his deviant and twisted sense of humour, and that evidently carries into - or does it actually fuel? - the independent films he makes. Being in his company, you'd need to acclimate to discern whether he's direct and upfront or if he's pulling your leg with a poker face. I'll indulge myself and state that my quick wit matched him in that department. We went along like old friends then, with me giving him a taste of his own dark and tangy medicine.
From Trader Vic's we hustled onto a streetcar towards the Embarcadero, jumped off, and hurried uphill to North Beach, and we barely just made happy hour (two for one) at the Bamboo Hut, where the space itself was good but the reputed crowd left much to be desired (mostly frat types and princesses from Marina). I forgot the name of the drink I ordered but it came in a ceramic coconut with a wedge of pineapple and the requisite little paper umbrella. Critikki's review was right, the concoction came off as sickly sweet. The highlight, however, was the story T told me about the misadventure he and his best friend J had at another bar, Hank's, inside the Hotel Figueroa in downtown Los Angeles, and involving a drunk delusional mod type who constantly publically declared he was not gay, a rather seedy and slick backed hair cad, and the automaton-like old lady bartender who served all four of them drinks.
That T's story was the main feature in the Bamboo Hut was ironic, naturally, considering he doesn't work there nor is a regular. I then asked, "You hungry?", and suggested we trek up nearby to Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store Cafe....
T is extraordinary! He has what I'd call a very character-rich face, framing striking close set crystal blue eyes. At around 6'2" he has a commanding stature but what you'd notice most is how he carries himself with that frame; it's as if he's in a perpetual shrug and you're eventually charmed. And his voice relaxes you as well. I imagine his voice being at home amongst the 1950s beatniks of North Beach, though he would be one who prefers to stay in the background and let Ginsburg and Kerouac suck up the limelight.
His most potent feature, however, is his deviant and twisted sense of humour, and that evidently carries into - or does it actually fuel? - the independent films he makes. Being in his company, you'd need to acclimate to discern whether he's direct and upfront or if he's pulling your leg with a poker face. I'll indulge myself and state that my quick wit matched him in that department. We went along like old friends then, with me giving him a taste of his own dark and tangy medicine.
From Trader Vic's we hustled onto a streetcar towards the Embarcadero, jumped off, and hurried uphill to North Beach, and we barely just made happy hour (two for one) at the Bamboo Hut, where the space itself was good but the reputed crowd left much to be desired (mostly frat types and princesses from Marina). I forgot the name of the drink I ordered but it came in a ceramic coconut with a wedge of pineapple and the requisite little paper umbrella. Critikki's review was right, the concoction came off as sickly sweet. The highlight, however, was the story T told me about the misadventure he and his best friend J had at another bar, Hank's, inside the Hotel Figueroa in downtown Los Angeles, and involving a drunk delusional mod type who constantly publically declared he was not gay, a rather seedy and slick backed hair cad, and the automaton-like old lady bartender who served all four of them drinks.
That T's story was the main feature in the Bamboo Hut was ironic, naturally, considering he doesn't work there nor is a regular. I then asked, "You hungry?", and suggested we trek up nearby to Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store Cafe....
Posts
2 comments:
sigh. got your postcard and yes, i need to move out west...
How fun! I do like his voice though. I agree with that description.
Post a Comment