Tiki Bar Dreams
I am dying to have a tiki bar. It doesn’t fit into my house currently - so every once in a while I’ll pull up a few elements to make it seem “tiki-bar-ish.” But what I really want is the real deal. I want the gaudy tiki statues, the grass cloth walls, custom swizzle sticks and a record player blasting Jimmy Buffett. I want shelves crowded with a collection of tiki mugs. I want a terrible bar name inscribed on napkins and matchbooks. I want it to smell like coconuts and sunscreen.
Image borrowed from Kiel James Patrick’s Instagram account @kjp
I can’t wait until the day I can shake up a fruity cocktail from behind the bamboo bar. The counter will be slightly sticky because it’s been splashed on so many times that no amount of wiping will get it entirely un-sticky. But we won’t care. We’ll continue to shake drinks full of pineapple juice and coconut cream and continue to let them drip all over as we pull out the giant pieces of pineapple that hold little drops of the cocktail on the ends. I’ll make crab rangoon and coconut shrimp to serve instead of dinner because every meal is better when you’re sitting on top of a rattan stool.
We’ll listen to Jimmy Buffett on repeat and dance while wearing leis, floating dresses, and goofy shirts. I’ll light tiki torches lining the path leading to the bar. We’ll find a vintage tiki god to guard the entrance so there’s no bad ju-ju.
I’ve started collecting the mugs already - I’m knee deep in quirky glassware. I already have the perfect name. I just need a location. A place to pop on a rattan barstool and fill the top of a glass with slices of pineapple, tiny umbrellas, and wedges of lime.
