There’s a point in every bartender’s life when all the gin, whiskey, and agave spirits lose their luster. When every cocktail made with something other than a cane spirit is just a sweet and sour watery turd. “Gone bamboo” was an old fiction novel written by Anthony Bourdain, the term describes cooks and chefs who become so enamored with Asian flavors that they can no longer stay within the confines of classic French, Italian, and Spanish cuisine. No, the fish sauces, and weird fermented items, strange textures, the membrane searing spices of Asia, call them.

Denise, Brian, and I discussed this last night. How boring lame-os love their classic green salads with the vinegar dressing in a world where the green papaya salad exists. A dish that hits so many notes–umami, sour, sweet, spicy, crunchy, salty, bitter–it’s like being punched in the face with flavors.

This happens to bartenders too, but it veers toward tiki drinks. No coincidence that tiki season just passed us here in Southern California and now we’re left with the strange infinite brightness of citrus beaming at us. As fun as it is, we much prefer the tropical end of the cocktail spectrum with the crazy flavors.

There’s now a tiki section on the seasonal side of the menu. Just two drinks for the moment, but there’s potential for more. They seem to be selling quite well. Perhaps the citizens of Santa Monica thirst for rum, maybe it’s up to us to provide them with adequate fuel to uncover their hidden lust.

Rum, ah rum, goddamit. I remember my first mai tai quite vividly. It was in the late 90s in Fort Lauderdale, FL. Walking on the beach with my girl, she in one of those things you wrap around your waist, serape? No. Sarong? Yeah, I think so. A string bikini top complemented the look. My skinny bare chested ass alongside her. The sun shining. The breeze in the palms. All the good stuff. Half naked people everywhere for good and bad. And there it was, a bar right on the beach. A miracle of miracles. A goddam oasis, a hallucination. I had never seen anything like it before, nor had I ever dreamed something like it could ever exist. A bar nestled under a canvas canopy and a copse of swaying palms.

We sat, kicked our sandals off. I dug my toes into the hot sand. The bartender approached and asked what we wanted. I had no idea. Just 22 years old, every follicle of hair still in place, a wee lad, kitchen worker, college drop out, totally clueless, even more confused about life than I am now which seems impossible. We told him to surprise us and he performed the whole act right there in front of us. Two tall plastic cups. Many quick swipes of juices and bottles of rum, then ice and a neon red maraschino cherry alongside a straw. But before he served them, a topper. A splash of the dark.

The first sip was a revelation. Total madness. Nothing better. Gazing out across the magnificent, sparkling ocean, the rum trickling in. Looking over at my girl, feet in the sand. The breeze. The flesh everywhere. We got nice and tanked and went back to the room, stripped ourselves down, the burden of clothes too heavy.

Fast forward to another tropical location, a different girl. Puerto Rico’s Vieques Island, a bar called Saint Voodoo’s Mar Azul. Right there on the water. Dark and cool inside. A giant behind the bar. Victor. Oh yes, I remember him. His massive, scarred hands free pouring multiple rum bottles into a blender. An artiste of the cane spirit. The way he dipped his scoop into the well and shucked the ice in. How he deftly maneuvered the machine and how each pour of his specialty, the piña colada, was perfect. The brain freeze. The same walk back to the hotel. Sun high. Drunk in the afternoon like lords. Pouring over one another’s young bodies in a cramped hotel room.

The tiki gods, they shine on us all.

Let’s say hello to them. Kane (war), Ku (light and life), Lono (fertility and peace), and Kanaloa (sea). Why are they always grimacing? Who knows? Sometimes they laugh. They know exactly what the demon rum unleashes within us.

And so I dream of a not so distant future. My approaching wedding and honeymoon. Lazy mornings. Of my saucy blonde babe and I hand in hand on some distant seashore. Feet bare in the blistering sand. The salt brine drying in our hair. On the horizon, a small beach bar. A short walk up a hill where I feign a stumble so I can stay behind on purpose and watch her ass bobble. We sit, elbows propped, with a view of the ocean, waves roaring.

There they are, the bottles, liquids inside beckoning. The rum inside the glass gleaming, winking at us. Lono himself perched up there somewhere with a wide smile across his face.