Kaimuki
We got our starting-point right–Waialae/Kaimuki is a great wind-up spot, with down-home establishments old and new. Granted, we were a bit early, but that’s mostly because I did some weird alcoholic algebra that resulted in the determination that starting at 4pm would somehow allow me a chance to get in shape before the evening really got rolling. It makes no sense, I know.
Big City Diner was mostly empty at that hour–as empty as I’ve ever seen it, though that’s not much a surprise: If you’re hanging out at a family diner with a full bar at 3:45 in the afternoon, either you don’t have a real job or you’re kidding yourself. Or you’re a reporter, which sort of marries the two I think. I managed to make my first two mistakes of the evening (afternooning?) here, as it turned out. One was ordering a delicious but incredibly sweet POG-tini as my first drink (Mitchell had one also–I think we were trying to prove our local-boy credentials or something). The other was attempting to flirt with our server with a fake-self-depracating line about how I’m so old that I still have one of the blue rainbow driver’s licences–she said, “Yeah, I have that one, too.” Oops.
We were too early for Top of the Hill, where the bathrooms smell cleaner than the rest of the establishment, but a nice surprise awaited us at the bar at 12th Avenue Grill. By the time we rolled up to Manoa Garden on the UH campus for a little Dead Guy, I was feeling confident.
–R.C.
Margot Seeto
“Can you cover my bar shift on Thursday? I have to go to an event for work…What event is it? Oh…it’s a bar crawl. It’s for work. Really. Really. Yes, we’ll try to stop by as part of our crawl.”
And with that, I was locked in to participating in the 2009 Honolulu Weekly Bar Crawl. For work. Yes, excitement was in the air. But just as in the days preceding the 12-egg omelette eating challenge I once took, I felt mostly anxiety in the days leading up to the big event. Sixteen bars?! Dear Lord. I had just completed a bar crawl in August, but this was going to be the mother of them all. If we finished, that is. With ambitious plans and hopes of staying awake, we left the office at 3:30 in the afternoon and didn’t plan to stop until we were kicked out of our final destination at 2am.
To make things easier, classifieds account executive extraordinaire Lance Motogawa magically secured Jay’s Limousine to take us around for the first few hours of the crawl. It wasn’t so much the aspect of rolling through in a big-ass, gas-guzzling car as it was about not having to wait for cabs. OK it was a little about rolling out in the limo. Hey, I never did it for prom, OK? So into the limo we piled. Our driver, Jeff, seemed laid-back and cool. After fiddling with the radio and TV for a bit and staring at the glassware that lined one side of the interior, we arrived in our first neighborhood stop: Kaimuki.
Being a little too gung-ho about starting early, our first planned stop at 12th Avenue Grill didn’t quite work out. Not open ’til 5:30? On to Big City Diner! With a relaxing atmosphere before the dinner rush, we leisurely ordered our drinks. The ladies ordered Big City Diner’s golden ale and had blue notebooks. The dudes ordered fruity cocktails and had pink notebooks. Who knew we were so into breaking social constructions of gender? The best part of all–the treasure chest by the front door! I thought everyone was pulling my leg when they said there was a toy-filled box of freebies at the front of the diner. “It’s not just for kids?” Ever so cautiously, I went over and peeked inside, ready to be berated by a server. Before my eyes lay fake tattoos, dinosaur stamps, cartoon pencils and more. After agonizing for longer than any adult should have, a pencil with a bunch of toad heads, purple swirls and the phrase in capital letters, “TOADALLY AWESOME!” was the winner.
“What did you order?” I asked Ragnar back at the table. “I don’t know,” he replied. We hadn’t even started drinking yet.
While we waited for our libations, three of us sported the tattoos. Mitchell: some kittens with balls of yarn. Ragnar: the word “love” with some hippie decorations around it. Me: a bloody eyeball ripped from its socket. Then Adrienne stamped us with her magenta triceratops stamp like we were up in the club.
As relaxing as our first stop was, time and more booze were calling. With 12th Avenue Grill still closed, we decided to check out town. As we timidly wandered in, we were told that that its doors were also closed until 5:30. Ragnar had the idea to walk to José’s. On the way, we passed Top of the Hill. Yes! Longtime neighborhood bar. Complete with pool tables, karaoke and pupu, as well as a shamrock advertising “Fry Mandoo” and a chained-off area with pool sticks and a sign that read, “Please don’t use personal stiks.” Marvelling at the bar’s possession of peach-flavored Stoli, I ordered that with soda. But there was no soda. So I ordered it with water. The bathroom’s sole role of toilet paper looked like it was previously dipped into the bowl and then dried. But at least there were paper towels. Aside from the bathroom, Top of the Hill deserves its spot.
According to our schedule, we were supposed to head to the University, but Ragnar insisted that we make our final Kaimuki stop at 12th Avenue Grill. We were lucky enough to be there on a day during the establishment’s new Craft Bar, a happy hour filled with affordable food and drinks. Sharing a blue cheese bacon angus burger, stuffed calamari and escargot in puff pastry over blue cheese butter (off the daily specials menu) was a highlight of the night. And I’m not even talking about the booze. A refreshing lemon mint martini fulfilled the alcohol quota, then we were off.
I went to college in a dry town. There was one pub on campus with a beer and wine license, though after I turned 21, I hardly even went there, because I was broke. On top of it, my college was for women only. So imagine my delight at the prospect of hanging out at Manoa Garden. The coed college experience I never had (or really wanted, mind you), complete with giant plastic cups of affordable Dead Guy Ale, open mics flush with emotional acoustic guitar players (and beatboxer Jason Tom both hosting and providing rhythmic interludes) and sloppily dressed dudes with blood running down their arms from who knows what. I loved it. It’s one of the best places in town to people watch while drinking great beer. And it closes early enough to force you to wreak mayhem elsewhere. Manoa Garden, you just found yourself a new regular. Thank goodness I can still pass for a student.
As sad as we were to skip Anna Bannana’s for the University area portion of the bar crawl, the darkness fell and we had to move on to Waikiki. Lewers Lounge inside the Halekulani Hotel was just as dark and jazzy as advertised, which would have been nice if I wasn’t ready to pass out. I blamed the giant Dead Guy. An attempt at drinking Irish coffee failed–I was attracted to the caffeine part, but it was more like a glass of hot whiskey with a splash of coffee and creamy shit. But that could have just been my drunken perception. A surprise order of a foie gras sandwich, samosas and coconut-crusted shrimp aided in a slow-but-sure crawl revival. The serene-slash-jaded expressions of the jazz players were somehow amusing in the swanky lounge filled with happy tourists in aloha wear. And us.
