One of the sleazy charms of Southern California is the sheer preponderance of dated, slightly tacky mid-20th century houses of entertainment strung like cheap pearls along the major thoroughfares. The rapid growth and development of the 1950s has many legacies, but one of the most enjoyable are these living time capsules. I'm a sucker for Americana, especially postwar / Cold War populist architecture - L.A. coffee shops, family diners, tiki lounges, roadside motels, mall prototypes. And dive bars. I love a good dive bar.
West Coast dive bars are a much different breed than East Coast dive bars, which present a woolier brand of seediness - the reek of old cigars and the urine-sticky floors. California dive bars display a different face- the transitory-Charles Bukowski-old Vegas kind of tattiness. Where the drinks are cheap and the service is cheaper. And where the mahogany booths blot out the ever-present exterior sunshine.
I'm no expert when it comes to dive bars, but when some friends stopped by in Ocean Beach last night and suggested checking out a local joint, I was game, especially as the venue was a place I'd walked by countless times, perhaps daily, since moving to the area three years ago, but had never gone into. The Pacific Shores bar (or PAC Shores, as it's also confusingly called) is one of many bars found along Newport Avenue, but it differs from the vast majority (hello Sunshine Company, hello Tony's) by catering less to bikers and unrepentant hippies and more to original California types and the retro crowd. I mean, this place has a gigantic faux scallop shell hanging over the bar itself, and glowing-pastel renderings of ocean life (complete with winking mermaid) on the walls. They have an old-fashioned telephone booth tucked into the corner that has no telephone inside. They have a jukebox that my friend had heard raves about, although it wasn't playing when we visited. Instead, a radio was blasting the Foo Fighters, to the possible consternation of the five other patrons inside, all retirees, one on oxygen. By the time the Clash started banging out "Clampdown," the radio had been turned so low we were keeping our voices down so as not to bother those around us.
We ordered three drinks (one beer, two mixed), and paid $9.50 total. I've paid close to double that for a decent martini at The Pearl on Rosecrans. True, they had nothing on draft, and when I asked the bartender if she knew how to make a Bronx Cocktail, she looked at me as if I'd brought up something rude from her past. "Is it in the book?" she asked. Well, not sure which book we're referring to, but it is listed as an International Bartender's Association (IBA) Official Cocktail, which means it sure as hell's in somebody's book. Needless to say, I didn't get a Bronx Cocktail, especially after the bartender told another patron what I had asked for, and the lady made some crack about how this was San Diego, not New York. (Come on, folks. I realize this is the West Coast and all, but The Bronx Cocktail is an icon!) I settled for a drambuie on the rocks (scotch whiskey with herbs and honey - one of Scotland's major contributions to food culture) and nursed it with an appropriately surly attitude
At one point, the older gentleman next to us upended his dish of salted nuts, sending glass shards and almond scraps across the bartop. You know it's a dive when the dude on oxygen starts smashing up the place.
$3 strong drinks, giant scallop shells, black mood lighting, mixed clientle - and quiet during the week. What more could you ask of a dive bar?
West Coast dive bars are a much different breed than East Coast dive bars, which present a woolier brand of seediness - the reek of old cigars and the urine-sticky floors. California dive bars display a different face- the transitory-Charles Bukowski-old Vegas kind of tattiness. Where the drinks are cheap and the service is cheaper. And where the mahogany booths blot out the ever-present exterior sunshine.
I'm no expert when it comes to dive bars, but when some friends stopped by in Ocean Beach last night and suggested checking out a local joint, I was game, especially as the venue was a place I'd walked by countless times, perhaps daily, since moving to the area three years ago, but had never gone into. The Pacific Shores bar (or PAC Shores, as it's also confusingly called) is one of many bars found along Newport Avenue, but it differs from the vast majority (hello Sunshine Company, hello Tony's) by catering less to bikers and unrepentant hippies and more to original California types and the retro crowd. I mean, this place has a gigantic faux scallop shell hanging over the bar itself, and glowing-pastel renderings of ocean life (complete with winking mermaid) on the walls. They have an old-fashioned telephone booth tucked into the corner that has no telephone inside. They have a jukebox that my friend had heard raves about, although it wasn't playing when we visited. Instead, a radio was blasting the Foo Fighters, to the possible consternation of the five other patrons inside, all retirees, one on oxygen. By the time the Clash started banging out "Clampdown," the radio had been turned so low we were keeping our voices down so as not to bother those around us.
We ordered three drinks (one beer, two mixed), and paid $9.50 total. I've paid close to double that for a decent martini at The Pearl on Rosecrans. True, they had nothing on draft, and when I asked the bartender if she knew how to make a Bronx Cocktail, she looked at me as if I'd brought up something rude from her past. "Is it in the book?" she asked. Well, not sure which book we're referring to, but it is listed as an International Bartender's Association (IBA) Official Cocktail, which means it sure as hell's in somebody's book. Needless to say, I didn't get a Bronx Cocktail, especially after the bartender told another patron what I had asked for, and the lady made some crack about how this was San Diego, not New York. (Come on, folks. I realize this is the West Coast and all, but The Bronx Cocktail is an icon!) I settled for a drambuie on the rocks (scotch whiskey with herbs and honey - one of Scotland's major contributions to food culture) and nursed it with an appropriately surly attitude
At one point, the older gentleman next to us upended his dish of salted nuts, sending glass shards and almond scraps across the bartop. You know it's a dive when the dude on oxygen starts smashing up the place.
$3 strong drinks, giant scallop shells, black mood lighting, mixed clientle - and quiet during the week. What more could you ask of a dive bar?
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