Honolulu Weekly

The Hideaway / The Hideaway may not have been the first bar I went to when I first returned to the Islands after being on the mainland for two decades, but it was close. My roommates, knowing I was low on funds and still struggling for cash despite working four jobs, introduced me to their power hour, where domestic beers and wells were a dollar for an hour. They weren’t much more after that hour ended, either.

If that’s all there was to the place, it would hardly be worth mentioning besides the recommendation for when you’re broke. But of course, The Hideaway is more than just a bar, memorable because that’s really all it is. There are no bands, there’s no room for dancing, it doesn’t have many conveniently-placed televisions for sporting events, and if you show up in a tie, people are going to sit away from you if possible, lest you be a narc, or a Mormon.

What they do have is a sense of community, probably more so than any of the more than 100 bars I’ve personally reviewed in this column. Sitting amongst the throngs of patrons after a month, ranging from industry workers to members of the oldest profession (and a few of the oldest professionals), there was nothing that could surprise the staff, all of whom take the time to get to know their clientele. Depending on the time of day, one of the bartenders, from Reverend Ron Savoy in the morning to Jonathon Hernaez at closing time, could answer, “Oh, that’s just Dean” when somebody asked who the guy was who was either reading a book in the corner or playfully burying his face in some girl’s cleavage (the odd thing is those actions were usually inverse depending on the lateness of the hour).

A quick run through of reviews on [Yelp.com], shows the loyalty people have for this place. The few people who rate it low show their own prejudices immediately, complaining about scary people or the “gritty” atmosphere, and it’s fine that they won’t be back—they won’t be missed. Some complained about the distinct possibility of getting beat up, but they missed the point. Unlike life in general, where people are more than willing to stab you in the back, the patrons here have no problem stabbing you in the front—with a screwdriver—and if it happens, you probably deserve it.

I first wrote about The Hideaway in February 2006, the fifth bar I reviewed for this paper. In the three years that followed, it wasn’t uncommon for me to leave the place I was reviewing to return to The Hideaway to go through my notes, sometimes writing the entire review out by hand by the dim light at the bar. That says something. As the years and reviews went by, patrons would talk to me about my writing, people who freely admitted they didn’t read any of the papers on the island. They weren’t faking, either, referencing specific passages I had written, or heaping praise to the point of embarrassment. They were as proud of me as I was to be part of them.

My tenure with the paper and this column ends with this one, another casualty of a poor economy and the age of downsizing. I’ve had a lot of fun with the column, going to new places all over the island, some great, some not. Now that it’s over I can concentrate on the places that I truly like, so if you’re looking to find me, The Hideaway is your safest bet.

And this time, it’s not just because of the sudden loss of income.