PREFACE

My interest in mixed drinks came at an early age.  For my 4th birthday, I was given a Mr. MIXIT, a handy mixing gizmo manufactured by the Ideal Toy Company. The instructions were very clear: 

“Pump handle down–release pressure, Allow handle to rise by itself.  DO NOT PULL HANDLE UP.”  

Hey, I could handle that! By pumping the plastic derby hat thusly, a plastic blade would spin and agitate the liquid contents. I started out with milk and chocolate syrup and viola, chocolate milk.  Later I added a sliced ripe banana to the combo and lo and behold, a drink mixer was born! For here on out, the sky is the limit!

And I kept on mixing. As a senior in high school, I created a South Seas concoction of Bourbon, pineapple juice and a splash of lime juice. In college my cocktail of choice was something I called a Mighty Chinook made with Rum, Southern Comfort, grapefruit soda, and lime juice. Don’t knock it. Give it a try, you might like it. 

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I worked in a couple of popular night clubs. I mistakenly envisioned vague modern versions of the classic spots of days gone by, images gathered, no doubt, from classic movies or old photos. Boy, how times had changed. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Long gone were the days of classic neon signage, dazzling interiors and patrons dressing to impress.  

One of the clubs was on La Cienega Boulevard, at the tail end of Los Angeles’ Restaurant Row, and still living on its faded glory as a Disco Palace from the 1970s. It was now going “upscale” by reinventing itself as the epicenter for Female Mud Wrestling. Any display of glamour there was strictly smoke and mirrors. Not a dime had been spent on maintenance or repairs since it opened, and when the lights came up after closing, you needed a calculator to count the mystery stains on the carpet and upholstery. Yet, despite the grunge, there was always a long line to get in. I once wrestled with a woman high on PCP there, but that’s another story.  

At another club on the Sunset Strip and even though the little, old sun-withered man who owned it certainly remembered the glory days of a more glamorous Sunset Strip, his attempt to emulate one was a thinly veiled façade. Frankly, it wasn’t entirely his fault; like I said; the simple truth was that the times had changed. We may have worn tuxedos as our work uniforms (100% Polyester) but the whole place seemed like just a front for whispered, hush-hush deals of a dubious nature and “professional” escorts. It took me a while to catch on, but eventually I did. “Hey, what are all these beautiful young women doing with all these ugly old men?  …Oh…I get it...” In fact, the entire time I worked there, the venue seemed to be a front for undetermined nefarious activities. It was as if there was some unspoken secret that was known to everyone but me.

Some of the regulars had that hardened look of international gangsters, the kind with more hair on their back than on their head, and wearing lots and lots of gold. Occasionally a former B list celebrity would wander in, their name withheld out of respect. One night the maître d’ phoned in sick. They hastily asked me to take his place. Now I had to memorize the restaurant seating chart in a half hour. Long story short, it did not go well. I, naturally, saw the humor in it all. Unfortunately, no one else did.

However, it was my experiences, good and bad, working these clubs that I was able to observe the role of bartender up close and witness everything that comes with being a good one. After all, the bartender is the most valuable position in almost every drinking establishment. That’s where most of the profit comes from.

These and other glamour-less club experiences made me even more interested in the “what was” rather than the “what is”. And so, little by little, I began my quest to learn all about Hollywood’s legendary watering holes of yore.